_Queens at_ KUNGAHÄLLA
_Queens at_ KUNGAHÄLLA
_On the_ SITE _of the Great_ KUNGAHÄLLA
Should a stranger who had heard about the old city of Kungahälla ever
visit the site on the northern river where it once lay, he would
assuredly be much surprised. He would ask himself whether churches and
fortifications could melt away like snow, or if the earth had opened and
swallowed them up. He stands on a spot where formerly there was a mighty
city, and he cannot find a street or a landing-stage. He sees neither
ruins nor traces of devastating fires; he only sees a country seat,
surrounded by green trees and red outbuildings. He sees nothing but
broad meadows and fields, where the plough does its work year after year
without being hindered either by brick foundations or old pavements.
He would probably first of all go down to the river. He would not expect
to see anything of the great ships that went to the Baltic ports or to
distant Spain, but he would in all likelihood think that he might find
traces of the old ship-yards, of the large boat-houses and
landing-stages. He presumes that he will find some of the old kilns
where they used to refine salt; he will see the worn-out pavement on the
main street that led to the harbour. He will inquire about the German
pier and the Swedish pier; he would like to see the Weeping Bridge where
the women of Kungahälla took leave of their husbands and sons when they
went to distant lands, but when he comes down to the river's edge he
sees nothing but a forest of waving reeds. He sees a road full of holes
leading down to the ferry; he sees a couple of common barges and a
little flat-bottomed ferryboat that is taking a peasant cart over to
Hisingen, but no big ships come gliding up the river. He does not even
see any dark hulls lying and rotting at the bottom of the river.
As he does not find anything remarkable down at the harbour, he will
probably begin to look for the celebrated Convent Hill. He expects to
see traces of the palisading and ramparts which in olden days surrounded
it. He is hoping to see the ruins of the high walls and the long
cloisters. He says to himself that anyhow there must be ruins of that
magnificent church where the cross was kept--that miracle-working cross
which had been brought from Jerusalem. He thinks of the number of
monuments covering the holy hills which rise over other ancient cities,
and his heart begins to beat with glad expectation. But when he comes to
the old Convent Hill which rises above the fields, he finds nothing but
clusters of murmuring trees; he finds neither walls, nor towers, nor
gables perforated with pointed arched windows. Garden seats and benches
he will find under the shadow of the trees, but no cloisters decorated
with pillars, no hewn gravestones.
Well, if he has not found anything here, he will in any case try to
find the old King's Hall. He thinks about the large halls from which
Kungahälla is supposed to have derived its name. It might be that there
was something left of the timber--a yard thick--that formed the walls,
or of the deep cellars under the great hall where the Norwegian kings
celebrated their banquets. He thinks of the smooth green courtyard of
the King's Hall, where the kings used to ride their silver-shod
chargers, and where the queens used to milk the golden-horned cows. He
thinks of the lofty ladies' bower; of the brewing-room, with its large
boilers; of the huge kitchen, where half an ox at a time was placed in
the pot, and where a whole hog was roasted on the spit. He thinks of the
serfs' house, of the falcon's cages, of the great pantries--house by
house all round the courtyard, moss-grown with age, decorated with
dragons' heads. Of such a number of buildings there must be some traces
left, he thinks.
But should he then inquire for the old King's Hall, he will be taken to
a modern country-house, with glass veranda and conservatories. The
King's seat has vanished, and with it all the drinking-horns, inlaid
with silver, and the shields, covered with skin. One cannot even show
him the well-kept courtyard, with its short, close grass, and with
narrow paths of black earth. He sees strawberry-beds and hedges of
rose-trees; he sees happy children and young girls dancing under apple
and pear trees. But he does not see strong men wrestling, or knights
playing at ball.
Perhaps he asks about the great oak on the Market Place, beneath which
the Kings sat in judgment, and where the twelve stones of judgment were
set up. Or about the long street, which was said to be seven miles long!
Or about the rich merchants' houses, separated by dark lanes, each
having its own landing-stage and boathouse down by the river. Or about
the Marie Church in the Market Place, where the seamen brought their
offerings of small, full-rigged ships, and the sorrowful, small silver
hearts.
But there is nothing left to show him of all these things. Cows and
sheep graze where the long street used to be. Rye and barley grow on the
Market Place, and stables and barns stand where people used to flock
round the tempting market-stalls.
How can he help feeling disappointed? Is there not a single thing to be
found, he says, not a single relic left? And he thinks perhaps that they
have been deceiving him. The great Kungahälla can never have stood here,
he says. It must have stood in some other place.
Then they take him down to the riverside, and show him a roughly-hewn
stone block, and they scrape away the silver-gray lichen, so that he can
see there are some figures hewn in the stone. He will not be able to
understand what they represent; they will be as incomprehensible to him
as the spots in the moon. But they will assure him that they represent a
ship and an elk, and that they were cut in the stone in the olden days
to commemorate the foundation of the city.
And should he still not be able to understand, they will tell him what
is the meaning of the inscription on the stone.
_The Forest_ QUEEN
Marcus Antonius Poppius was a Roman merchant of high standing. He traded
with distant lands; and from the harbour at Ostia he sent well-equipped
triremas to Spain, to Britain, and even to the north coast of Germany.
Fortune favoured him, and he amassed immense riches, which he hoped to
leave as an inheritance to his only son. Unfortunately, this only son
had not inherited his father's ability. This happens, unfortunately, all
the world over. A rich man's only son. Need one say more? It is, and
always will be, the same story.
One would almost think that the gods give rich men these incorrigible
idlers, these dull, pale, languid fools of sons, to show man what
unutterable folly it is to amass riches. When will the eyes of mankind
be opened? When will men listen to the warning voice of the gods?
Young Silvius Antonius Poppius, at the age of twenty, had already tried
all the pleasures of life. He was also fond of letting people see that
he was tired of them; but in spite of that, one did not notice any
diminution in the eagerness with which he sought them. On the contrary,
he was quite in despair when a singularly persistent ill-luck began to
pursue him, and to interfere with all his pleasures. His Numidian horses
fell lame the day before the great chariot race of the year; his
illicit love affairs were found out; his cleverest cook died from
malaria. This was more than enough to crush a man whose strength had not
been hardened by exertion and toil. Young Poppius felt so unhappy that
he made up his mind to take his own life. He seemed to think that this
was the only way in which he could cheat the God of Misfortune who
pursued him and made his life a burden.
One can understand that an unhappy creature commits suicide in order to
escape the persecution of man; but only a fool like Silvius Antonius
could think of adopting such means to flee from the gods. One recalls
involuntarily the story of the man who, to escape from the lion, sprang
right into its open jaws.
Young Silvius was much too effeminate to choose a bloody death. Neither
had he any inclination to die from a painful poison. After careful
consideration, he resolved to die the gentle death of the waves.
But when he went down to the Tiber to drown himself he could not make up
his mind to give his body to the dirty, sluggish water of the river. For
a long time he stood undecided, staring into the stream. Then he was
seized by the magic charm which lies dreamily over a river. He felt that
great, holy longing which fills these never-resting wanderers of nature;
he would see the sea.
'I will die in the clear blue sea, through which the sun's rays
penetrate right to the bottom,' said Silvius Antonius. 'My body shall
rest upon a couch of pink coral. The foamy waves which I set in motion
when I sink into the deep shall be snow-white and fresh; they shall not
be like the sooty froth which lies quivering at the river-side.'
He immediately hurried home, had his horses harnessed and drove to
Ostia. He knew that one of his father's ships was lying in the harbour
ready to sail. Young Poppius drove his horses at a furious pace, and he
succeeded in getting on board just as the anchor was being weighed. Of
course he did not think it necessary to take any baggage with him. He
did not even trouble to ask the skipper for what place the craft was
bound. To the sea they were going, in any case--that was enough for him.
Nor was it very long before the young suicide reached the goal of his
desire. The trirema passed the mouth of the Tiber, and the Mediterranean
lay before Silvius Antonius, its sparkling waves bathed in sun. Its
beauty made Silvius Antonius believe in the poet's assertion that the
swelling ocean is but a thin veil which covers the most beautiful world.
He felt bound to believe that he who boldly makes his way through this
cover will immediately reach the sea-god's palace of pearls. The young
man congratulated himself that he had chosen this manner of death. And
one could scarcely call it that; it was impossible to believe that this
beautiful water could kill. It was only the shortest road to a land
where pleasure is not a delusion, leaving nothing but distaste and
loathing. He could only with difficulty suppress his eagerness. But the
whole deck was full of sailors. Even Silvius could understand that if he
now sprang into the sea the consequence would simply be that one of his
father's sailors would quickly spring overboard and fish him out.
As soon as the sails were set and the oarsmen were well in swing, the
skipper came up to him and saluted him with the greatest politeness.
'You intend, then, to go with me to Germany, my Silvius?' he said. 'You
do me great honour.'
Young Poppius suddenly remembered that this man used never to return
from a voyage without bringing him some curious thing or other from the
barbarous countries he had visited. Sometimes it was a couple of pieces
of wood with which the savages made fire; sometimes it was the black
horn of an ox, which they used as a drinking-vessel; sometimes a
necklace of bear's teeth, which had been a great chief's mark of
distinction.
The good man beamed with joy at having his master's son on board his
ship. He saw in it a new proof of the wisdom of old Poppius, in sending
his son to distant lands, instead of letting him waste more time amongst
the effeminate young Roman idlers.
Young Poppius did not wish to undeceive him. He was afraid that if he
disclosed his intention the skipper would at once turn back with him.
'Verily, Galenus,' he said, 'I would gladly accompany you on this
voyage, but I fear I must ask you to put me ashore at Bajæ. I made up my
mind too late. I have neither clothes nor money.'
But Galenus assured him that that need was soon remedied. Was he not
upon his father's well-appointed vessel? He should not want for
anything--neither warm fur tunic when the weather was cold, or light
Syrian clothing of the kind that seamen wear when they cruise in fair
weather in the friendly seas between the islands.
* * * * *
Three months after their departure from Ostia, Galenus's trirema rowed
in amongst a cluster of rocky islands. Neither the skipper nor any of
his crew were quite clear as to where they really were, but they were
glad to take shelter for a time from the storms that raged on the open
sea.
One could almost think that Silvius Antonius was right in his belief
that some deity persecuted him. No one on the ship had ever before
experienced such a voyage. The luckless sailors said to each other that
they had not had fair weather for two days since they left Ostia. The
one storm had followed upon the other. They had undergone the most
terrible sufferings. They had suffered hunger and thirst, whilst they,
day and night, exhausted and almost fainting from want of sleep, had had
to manage sails and oars. The fact of the seamen being unable to trade
had added to their despondency. How could they approach the coast and
display their wares on the shore to effect an exchange in such weather?
On the contrary, every time they saw the coast appear through the
obstinate heavy mist that surrounded them, they had been compelled to
put out to sea again for fear of the foam-decked rocks. One night, when
they struck on a rock, they had been obliged to throw the half of their
cargo into the sea. And as for the other half, they dared not think
about it, as they feared it was completely spoiled by the breakers
which had rolled over the ship.
Certain it was that Silvius Antonius had proved himself not to be lucky
at sea either. Silvius Antonius was still living; he had not drowned
himself. It is difficult to say why he prolonged an existence which
could not be of any more pleasure to him now than when he first made up
his mind to cut it short. Perhaps he had hoped that the sea would have
taken possession of him without he himself doing anything to bring it
about. Perhaps his love for the sea had passed away during its bursts of
anger; perhaps he had resolved to die in the opal-green perfumed water
of his bath.
But had Galenus and his men known why the young man had come on board,
they would assuredly have bitterly complained that he had not carried
out his intention, for they were all convinced that it was his presence
which had called forth their misfortunes. Many a dark night Galenus had
feared that the sailors would throw him into the sea. More than one of
them related that in the terrible stormy nights he had seen dark hands
stretching out of the water, grasping after the ship. And they did not
think it was necessary to cast lots to find out who it was that these
hands wanted to draw down into the deep. Both the skipper and the crew
did Silvius Antonius the special honour to think that it was for his
sake these storms rent the air and scourged the sea.
If Silvius during this time had behaved like a man, if he had taken his
share of their work and anxiety, then perhaps some of his companions
might have had pity upon him as a being who had brought upon himself the
wrath of the gods. But the young man had not understood how to win their
sympathy. He had only thought of seeking shelter for himself from the
wind, and of sending them to fetch furs and rugs from the stores for his
protection from the cold.
But for the moment all complaints over his presence had ceased. As soon
as the storm had succeeded in driving the trirema into the quiet waters
between the islands, its rage was spent. It behaved like a sheep-dog
that becomes silent and keeps quiet as soon as it sees the sheep on the
right way to the fold. The heavy clouds disappeared from the sky; the
sun shone. For the first time during the voyage the sailors felt the
joys of summer spreading over Nature.
Upon these storm-beaten men the sunshine and the warmth had almost an
intoxicating effect. Instead of longing for rest and sleep, they became
as merry as happy children in the morning. They expected they would find
a large continent behind all these rocks and boulders. They hoped to
find people, and--who could tell?--on this foreign coast, which had
probably never before been visited by a Roman ship, their wares would no
doubt find a ready sale. In that case they might after all do some good
business, and bring back with them skins of bear and elk, and large
quantities of white wax and golden amber.
Whilst the trirema slowly made its way between the rocks, which grew
higher and higher and richer with verdure and trees, the crew made haste
to decorate it so that it could attract the attention of the
barbarians. The ship, which, even without any decoration, was a
beautiful specimen of human handiwork, soon rivalled in splendour the
most gorgeous bird. Recently tossed about by storms and ravaged by
tempests, it now bore on its topmast a golden sceptre and sails striped
with purple. In the bows a resplendent figure of Neptune was raised, and
in the stern a tent of many-coloured silken carpets. And do not think
the sailors neglected to hang the sides of the ship with rugs, the
fringes of which trailed in the water, or to wind the long oars of the
ship with golden ribbons. Neither did the crew of the ship wear the
clothes they had worn during the voyage, and which the sea and the storm
had done their best to destroy. They arrayed themselves in white
garments, wound purple scarves round their waists, and placed glittering
bands in their hair.
Even Silvius Antonius roused himself from his apathy. It was as if he
was glad of having at last found something to do which he thoroughly
understood. He was shaved, had his hair trimmed, and his whole person
rubbed over with fragrant scents. Then he put on a flowing robe, hung a
mantle over his shoulders, and chose from the large casket of jewels
which Galenus opened for him rings and bracelets, necklaces, and a
golden belt. When he was ready he flung aside the purple curtains of the
silken tent, and laid himself on a couch in the opening of the tent in
order to be seen by the people on the shore.
During these preparations the sea became narrower and narrower, and the
sailors discovered that they were entering the mouth of a river. The
water was fresh, and there was land on both sides. The trirema glided
slowly onwards up the sparkling river. The weather was brilliant, and
the whole of nature was gloriously peaceful. And how the magnificent
merchantman enlivened the great solitude!
On both sides of the river primeval forests, high and thick, met their
view. Pine-trees grew right to the water's edge. The river in its
eternal course had washed away the earth from the roots, and the hearts
of the seamen were moved with solemn awe at the sight, not only of these
venerable trees, but even more by that of the naked roots, which
resembled the mighty limbs of a giant. 'Here,' they thought, 'man will
never succeed in planting corn; here the ground will never be cleared
for the building of a city, or even a farmstead. For miles round the
earth is woven through with this network of roots, hard as steel. This
alone is sufficient to make the dominion of the forest everlasting and
unchangeable.'
Along the river the trees grew so close, and their branches were so
entangled, that they formed firm, impenetrable walls. These walls of
prickly firs were so strong and high that no fortified city need wish
for stronger defences. But here and there there was, all the same, an
opening in this wall of firs. It was the paths the wild beasts had made
on their way to the river to drink. Through these openings the strangers
could obtain a glimpse of the interior of the forest. They had never
seen anything like it. In sunless twilight there grew trees with trunks
of greater circumference than the gate-towers on the walls of Rome.
There was a multitude of trees, fighting with each other for light and
air. Trees strove and struggled, trees were crippled and weighed down by
other trees. Trees took root in the branches of other trees. Trees
strove and fought as if they had been human beings.
But if man or beast moved in this world of trees they must have other
modes of making their way than those which the Romans knew, for from the
ground right up to the top of the forest was a network of stiff bare
branches. From these branches fluttered long tangles of gray lichen,
transforming the trees into weird beings with hair and beard. And
beneath them the ground was covered with rotten and rotting trunks, and
one's feet would have sunk into the decayed wood as into melting snow.
The forest sent forth a fragrance which had a drowsy effect upon the men
on board the ship. It was the strong odour of resin and wild honey that
blended with the sickly smell from the decayed wood, and from
innumerable gigantic red and yellow mushrooms.
There was no doubt something awe-inspiring in all this, but it was also
elevating to see nature in all its power before man had yet interfered
with its dominion. It was not long before one of the sailors began to
sing a hymn to the God of the Forest, and involuntarily the whole crew
joined in. They had quite given up all thought of meeting human beings
in this forest-world. Their hearts were filled with pious thoughts;
they thought of the forest god and his nymphs. They said to themselves
that when Pan was driven from the woods of Hellas he must have taken
refuge here in the far north. With pious songs they entered his kingdom.
Every time there was a pause in the song they heard a gentle music from
the forest. The tops of the fir-trees, vibrating in the noonday heat,
sang and played. The sailors often discontinued their song in order to
listen, if Pan was not playing upon his flute.
The oarsmen rowed slower and slower. The sailors gazed searchingly into
the golden-green and black-violet water flowing under the fir-trees.
They peered between the tall reeds which quivered and rustled in the
wash of the ship. They were in such a state of expectation that they
started at the sight of the white water-lilies that shone in the dark
water between the reeds.
And again they sang the song, 'Pan, thou ruler of the forest!' They had
given up all thoughts of trading. They felt that they stood at the
entrance to the dwelling of the gods. All earthly cares had left them.
Then, all of a sudden, at the outlet of one of the tracks, there stood
an elk, a royal deer with broad forehead and a forest of antlers on its
horns.
There was a breathless silence on the trirema. They stemmed the oars to
slacken speed. Silvius Antonius arose from his purple couch.
All eyes were fixed upon the elk. They thought they could discern that
it carried something on its back, but the darkness of the forest and
the drooping branches made it impossible to see distinctly.
The huge animal stood for a long time and scented the air, with its
muzzle turned towards the trirema. At last it seemed to understand that
there was no danger. It made a step towards the water. Behind the broad
horns one could now discern more distinctly something light and white.
They wondered if the elk carried on its back a harvest of wild roses.
The crew gently plied their oars. The trirema drew nearer to the animal,
which gradually moved towards the edge of the reeds.
The elk strode slowly into the water, put down its feet carefully, so as
not to be caught by the roots at the bottom. Behind the horns one could
now distinctly see the face of a maiden, surrounded by fair hair. The
elk carried on its back one of those nymphs whom they had been
expectantly awaiting, and whom they felt sure would be found in this
primeval world.
A holy enthusiasm filled the men on the trirema. One of them, who hailed
from Sicily, remembered a song which he had heard in his youth, when he
played on the flowery plains around Syracuse. He began to sing softly:
'Nymph, amongst flowers born, Arethusa by name,
Thou who in sheltered wood wanders, white like the moon.'
And when the weather-beaten men understood the words, they tried to
subdue the storm-like roar in their voices in order to sing:
'Nymph, amongst flowers born, Arethusa by name.'
They steered the ship nearer and nearer the reeds. They did not heed
that it had already once or twice touched the bottom.
But the young forest maiden sat and played hide-and-seek between the
horns. One moment she hid herself, the next she peeped out. She did not
stop the elk; she drove it further into the river.
When the elk had gone some little distance, she stroked it to make it
stop. Then she bent down and gathered two or three water-lilies. The men
on the ship looked a little foolishly at each other. The nymph had,
then, come solely for the purpose of plucking the white water-lilies
that rocked on the waters of the river. She had not come for the sake of
the Roman seamen.
Then Silvius Antonius drew a ring from off his finger, sent up a shout
that made the nymph look up, and threw her the ring. She stretched out
her hand and caught it. Her eyes sparkled. She stretched out her hands
for more. Silvius Antonius again threw a ring.
Then she flung the water-lilies back into the river and drove the elk
further into the water. Now and again she stopped, but then a ring came
flying from Silvius Antonius, and enticed her further.
All at once she overcame her hesitation. The colour rose in her cheeks.
She came nearer to the ship without it being necessary to tempt her. The
water was already up to the shoulders of the elk. She came right under
the side of the vessel.
The sailors hung over the gunwales to help the beautiful nymph, should
she wish to go on board the trirema.
But she saw only Silvius Antonius, as he stood there, decked with pearls
and rings, and fair as the sunrise. And when the young Roman saw that
the eyes of the nymph were fastened upon him, he leant over even further
than the others. They cried to him that he should take care, lest he
should lose his balance and fall into the sea. But this warning came too
late. It is not known whether the nymph, with a quick movement, drew
Silvius Antonius to her, or how it really happened, but before anyone
thought of grasping him, he was overboard.
All the same, there was no danger of Silvius Antonius drowning. The
nymph stretched forth her lovely arms and caught him in them. He hardly
touched the surface of the water. At the same moment her steed turned,
rushed through the water, and disappeared in the forest. And loudly rang
the laugh of the wild rider as she carried off Silvius Antonius.
Galenus and his men stood for a moment horror-stricken. Then some of the
men involuntarily threw off their clothes to swim to the shore; but
Galenus stopped them.
'Without doubt this is the will of the gods,' he said. 'Now we see the
reason why they have brought Silvius Antonius Poppius through a thousand
storms to this unknown land. Let us be glad that we have been an
instrument in their hands; and let us not seek to hinder their will.'
The seamen obediently took their oars and rowed down the river, softly
singing to their even stroke the song of Arethusa's flight.
* * * * *
When one has finished this story, surely the stranger must be able to
understand the inscription on the old stone. He must be able to see both
the elk with its many-antlered horns, and the trirema with its long
oars. One does not expect that he shall be able to see Silvius Antonius
Poppius and the beautiful queen of the primeval forest, for in order to
see them he must have the eyes of the relaters of fairy-tales of bygone
days. He will understand that the inscription hales from the young Roman
himself, and that this also applies to the whole of the old story.
Silvius Antonius has handed it down to his descendants word for word. He
knew that it would gladden their hearts to know that they sprang from
the world-famed Romans.
But the stranger, of course, need not believe that any of Pan's nymphs
have wandered here by the river's side. He understands quite well that a
tribe of wild men have wandered about in the primeval forest, and that
the rider of the elk was the daughter of the King who ruled over these
people; and that the maiden who carried off Silvius Antonius would only
rob him of his jewels, and that she did not at all think of Silvius
Antonius himself, scarcely knew, perhaps, that he was a human being like
herself. And the stranger can also understand that the name of Silvius
Antonius would have been forgotten long ago in this country had he
remained the fool he was. He will hear how misfortune and want roused
the young Roman, so that from being the despised slave of the wild men
he became their King. It was he who attacked the forest with fire and
steel. He erected the first firmly-timbered house. He built vessels and
planted corn. He laid the foundation of the power and glory of great
Kungahälla.
And when the stranger hears this, he looks around the country with a
more contented glance than before. For even if the site of the city has
been turned into fields and meadows, and even if the river no longer
boasts of busy craft, still, this is the ground that has enabled him to
breathe the air of the land of dreams, and shown him visions of bygone
days.