_The_ PEACE _of_ GOD
_The_ PEACE _of_ GOD
Once upon a time there was an old farmhouse. It was Christmas-eve, the
sky was heavy with snow, and the north wind was biting. It was just that
time in the afternoon when everybody was busy finishing their work
before they went to the bath-house to have their Christmas bath. There
they had made such a fire that the flames went right up the chimney, and
sparks and soot were whirled about by the wind, and fell down on the
snow-decked roofs of the outhouses. And as the flames appeared above the
chimney of the bath-house, and rose like a fiery pillar above the farm,
everyone suddenly felt that Christmas was at hand. The girl that was
scrubbing the entrance floor began to hum, although the water was
freezing in the bucket beside her. The men in the wood-shed who were
cutting Christmas logs began to cut two at a time, and swung their axes
as merrily as if log-cutting were a mere pastime.
An old woman came out of the pantry with a large pile of cakes in her
arms. She went slowly across the yard into the large red-painted
dwelling-house, and carried them carefully into the best room, and put
them down on the long seat. Then she spread the tablecloth on the table,
and arranged the cakes in heaps, a large and a small cake in each heap.
She was a singularly ugly old woman, with reddish hair, heavy drooping
eyelids, and with a peculiar strained look about the mouth and chin, as
if the muscles were too short. But being Christmas-eve, there was such a
joy and peace over her that one did not notice how ugly she was.
But there was one person on the farm who was not happy, and that was the
girl who was tying up the whisks made of birch twigs that were to be
used for the baths. She sat near the fireplace, and had a whole armful
of fine birch twigs lying beside her on the floor, but the withes with
which she was to bind the twigs would not keep knotted. The best room
had a narrow, low window, with small panes, and through them the light
from the bath-house shone into the room, playing on the floor and
gilding the birch twigs. But the higher the fire burned the more unhappy
was the girl. She knew that the whisks would fall to pieces as soon as
one touched them, and that she would never hear the last of it until the
next Christmas fire was lighted.
Just as she sat there bemoaning herself, the person of whom she was most
afraid came into the room. It was her master, Ingmar Ingmarson. He was
sure to have been to the bath-house to see if the stove was hot enough,
and now he wanted to see how the whisks were getting on. He was old, was
Ingmar Ingmarson, and he was fond of everything old, and just because
people were beginning to leave off bathing in the bath-houses and being
whipped with birch twigs, he made a great point of having it done on his
farm, and having it done properly.
Ingmar Ingmarson wore an old coat of sheep's-skin, skin trousers, and
shoes smeared over with pitch. He was dirty and unshaven, slow in all
his movements, and came in so softly that one might very well have
mistaken him for a beggar. His features resembled his wife's features
and his ugliness resembled his wife's ugliness, for they were relations,
and from the time the girl first began to notice anything she had
learned to feel a wholesome reverence for anybody who looked like that;
for it was a great thing to belong to the old family of the Ingmars,
which had always been the first in the village. But the highest to which
a man could attain was to be Ingmar Ingmarson himself, and be the
richest, the wisest, and the mightiest in the whole parish.
Ingmar Ingmarson went up to the girl, took one of the whisks, and swung
it in the air. It immediately fell to pieces; one of the twigs landed on
the Christmas table, another on the big four-poster.
'I say, my girl,' said old Ingmar, laughing, 'do you think one uses that
kind of whisk when one takes a bath at the Ingmar's, or are you very
tender, my girl?'
When the girl saw that her master did not take it more seriously than
that, she took heart, and answered that she could certainly make whisks
that would not go to pieces if she could get proper withes to bind them
with.
'Then I suppose I must try to get some for you, my girl,' said old
Ingmar, for he was in a real Christmas humour.
He went out of the room, stepped over the girl who was scouring the
floor, and remained standing on the doorstep, to see if there were
anyone about whom he could send to the birch-wood for some withes. The
farm hands were still busy cutting Yule logs; his son came out of the
barn with the Christmas sheaf; his two sons-in-law were putting the
carts into the shed so that the yard could be tidy for the Christmas
festival. None of them had time to leave their work.
The old man then quietly made up his mind to go himself. He went across
the yard as if he were going into the cowshed, looked cautiously round
to make sure no one noticed him, and stole along outside the barn where
there was a fairly good road to the wood. The old man thought it was
better not to let anyone know where he was going, for either his son or
his sons-in-law might then have begged him to remain at home, and old
people like to have their own way.
He went down the road, across the fields, through the small pine-forest
into the birch-wood. Here he left the road, and waded in the snow to
find some young birches.
About the same time the wind at last accomplished what it had been busy
with the whole day: it tore the snow from the clouds, and now came
rushing through the wood with a long train of snow after it.
Ingmar Ingmarson had just stooped down and cut off a birch twig, when
the wind came tearing along laden with snow. Just as the old man was
getting up the wind blew a whole heap of snow in his face. His eyes were
full of snow, and the wind whirled so violently around him that he was
obliged to turn round once or twice.
The whole misfortune, no doubt, arose from Ingmar Ingmarson being so
old. In his young days a snowstorm would certainly not have made him
dizzy. But now everything danced round him as if he had joined in a
Christmas polka, and when he wanted to go home he went in the wrong
direction. He went straight into the large pine-forest behind the
birch-wood instead of going towards the fields.
It soon grew dark, and the storm continued to howl and whirl around him
amongst the young trees on the outskirts of the forest. The old man saw
quite well that he was walking amongst fir-trees, but he did not
understand that this was wrong, for there were also fir-trees on the
other side of the birch-wood nearest the farm. But by-and-by he got so
far into the forest that everything was quiet and still--one could not
feel the storm, and the trees were high with thick stems--then he found
out that he had mistaken the road, and would turn back.
He became excited and upset at the thought that he _could_ lose his way,
and as he stood there in the midst of the pathless wood he was not
sufficiently clear-headed to know in which direction to turn. He first
went to the one side and then to the other. At last it occurred to him
to retrace his way in his own footprints, but darkness came on, and he
could no longer follow them. The trees around him grew higher and
higher. Whichever way he went, it was evident to him that he got further
and further into the forest.
It was like witchcraft and sorcery, he thought, that he should be
running about the woods like this all the evening and be too late for
the bathing. He turned his cap and rebound his garter, but his head was
no clearer. It had become quite dark, and he began to think that he
would have to remain the whole night in the woods.
He leant against a tree, stood still for a little, and tried to collect
his thoughts. He knew this forest so well, and had walked in it so much,
that he ought to know every single tree. As a boy he had gone there and
tended sheep. He had gone there and laid snares for the birds. In his
young days he had helped to fell trees there. He had seen old trees cut
down and new ones grow up. At last he thought he had an idea where he
was, and fancied if he went that and that way he must come upon the
right road; but all the same, he only went deeper and deeper into the
forest.
Once he felt smooth, firm ground under his feet, and knew from that,
that he had at last come to some road. He tried now to follow this, for
a road, he thought, was bound to lead to some place or other; but then
the road ended at an open space in the forest, and there the snowstorm
had it all its own way; there was neither road nor path, only drifts and
loose snow. Then the old man's courage failed him; he felt like some
poor creature destined to die a lonely death in the wilderness.
He began to grow tired of dragging himself through the snow, and time
after time he sat down on a stone to rest; but as soon as he sat down he
felt he was on the point of falling asleep, and he knew he would be
frozen to death if he did fall asleep, therefore he tried to walk and
walk; that was the only thing that could save him. But all at once he
could not resist the inclination to sit down. He thought if he could
only rest, it did not matter if it did cost him his life.
It was so delightful to sit down that the thought of death did not in
the least frighten him. He felt a kind of happiness at the thought that
when he was dead the account of his whole life would be read aloud in
the church. He thought of how beautifully the old Dean had spoken about
his father, and how something equally beautiful would be sure to be said
about him. The Dean would say that he had owned the oldest farm in the
district, and he would speak about the honour it was to belong to such a
distinguished family, and then something would be said about
responsibility. Of course there was responsibility in the matter; that
he had always known. One must endure to the very last when one was an
Ingmar.
The thought rushed through him that it was not befitting for him to be
found frozen to death in the wild forest. He would not have that handed
down to posterity; and he stood up again and began to walk. He had been
sitting so long that masses of snow fell from his fur coat when he
moved. But soon he sat down again and began to dream.
The thought of death now came quite gently to him. He thought about the
whole of the funeral and all the honour they would show his dead body.
He could see the table laid for the great funeral feast in the large
room on the first floor, the Dean and his wife in the seats of honour,
the Justice of the Peace, with the white frill spread over his narrow
chest; the Major's wife in full dress, with a low silk bodice, and her
neck covered with pearls and gold; he saw all the best rooms draped in
white--white sheets before the windows, white over the furniture;
branches of fir strewn the whole way from the entrance-hall to the
church; house-cleaning and butchering, brewing and baking for a
fortnight before the funeral; the corpse on a bier in the inmost room;
smoke from the newly-lighted fires in the rooms; the whole house crowded
with guests; singing over the body whilst the lid of the coffin was
being screwed on; silver plates on the coffin; twenty loads of wood
burned in a fortnight; the whole village busy cooking food to take to
the funeral; all the tall hats newly ironed; all the corn-brandy from
the autumn drunk up during the funeral feast; all the roads crowded with
people as at fair-time.
Again the old man started up. He had heard them sitting and talking
about him during the feast.
'But how did he manage to go and get frozen to death?' asked the Justice
of the Peace. 'What could he have been doing in the large forest?'
And the Captain would say that it was probably from Christmas ale and
corn-brandy. And that roused him again. The Ingmars had never been
drunkards. It should never be said of him that he was muddled in his
last moments. And he began again to walk and walk; but he was so tired
that he could scarcely stand on his legs. It was quite clear to him now
that he had got far into the forest, for there were no paths anywhere,
but many large rocks, of which he knew there were none lower down. His
foot caught between two stones, so that he had difficulty in getting it
out, and he stood and moaned. He was quite done for.
Suddenly he fell over a heap of fagots. He fell softly on to the snow
and branches, so he was not hurt, but he did not take the trouble to get
up again. He had no other desire in the world than to sleep. He pushed
the fagots to one side and crept under them as if they were a rug; but
when he pushed himself under the branches he felt that underneath there
was something warm and soft. This must be a bear, he thought.
He felt the animal move, and heard it sniff; but he lay still. The bear
might eat him if it liked, he thought. He had not strength enough to
move a single step to get out of its way.
But it seemed as if the bear did not want to harm anyone who sought its
protection on such a night as this. It moved a little further into its
lair, as if to make room for its visitor, and directly afterwards it
slept again with even, snorting breath.
* * * * *
In the meantime there was but scanty Christmas joy in the old farm of
the Ingmars. The whole of Christmas-eve they were looking for Ingmar
Ingmarson. First they went all over the dwelling-house and all the
outhouses. They searched high and low, from loft to cellar. Then they
went to the neighbouring farms and inquired for Ingmar Ingmarson.
As they did not find him, his sons and his sons-in-law went into the
fields and roads. They used the torches which should have lighted the
way for people going to early service on Christmas morning in the search
for him. The terrible snowstorm had hidden all traces, and the howling
of the wind drowned the sound of their voices when they called and
shouted. They were out and about until long after midnight, but then
they saw that it was useless to continue the search, and that they must
wait until daylight to find the old man.
At the first pale streak of dawn everybody was up at Ingmar's farm, and
the men stood about the yard ready to set out for the wood. But before
they started the old housewife came and called them into the best room.
She told them to sit down on the long benches; she herself sat down by
the Christmas table with the Bible in front of her and began to read.
She tried her best to find something suitable for the occasion, and
chose the story of the man who was travelling from Jerusalem to Jericho,
and fell among thieves.
She read slowly and monotonously about the unfortunate man who was
succoured by the good Samaritan. Her sons and sons-in-law, her daughters
and daughters-in-law, sat around her on the benches. They all resembled
her and each other, big and clumsy, with plain, old-fashioned faces, for
they all belonged to the old race of the Ingmars. They had all reddish
hair, freckled skin, and light-blue eyes with white eyelashes. They
might be different enough from each other in some ways, but they had all
a stern look about the mouth, dull eyes, and heavy movements, as if
everything were a trouble to them. But one could see that they all,
every one of them, belonged to the first people in the neighbourhood,
and that they knew themselves to be better than other people.
All the sons and daughters of the house of Ingmar sighed deeply during
the reading of the Bible. They wondered if some good Samaritan had found
the master of the house and taken care of him, for all the Ingmars felt
as if they had lost part of their own soul when a misfortune happened to
anyone belonging to the family.
The old woman read and read, and came to the question: 'Who was
neighbour unto him that fell amongst thieves?' But before she had read
the answer the door opened and old Ingmar came into the room.
'Mother, here is father,' said one of the daughters; and the answer,
that the man's neighbour was he who had shown mercy unto him, was never
read.
* * * * *
Later in the day the housewife sat again in the same place, and read her
Bible. She was alone; the women had gone to church, and the men were
bear-hunting in the forest. As soon as Ingmar Ingmarson had eaten and
drunk, he took his sons with him and went out to the forest; for it is
every man's duty to kill a bear wherever and whenever he comes across
one. It does not do to spare a bear, for sooner or later it will get a
taste for flesh, and then it will spare neither man nor beast.
But after they were gone a great feeling of fear came over the old
housewife, and she began to read her Bible. She read the lesson for the
day, which was also the text for the Pastor's sermon; but she did not
get further than this: 'Peace on earth, goodwill towards men.' She
remained sitting and staring at these words with her dull eyes, now and
again sighing deeply. She did not read any further, but she repeated
time after time in her slow, drawling voice, 'Peace on earth, goodwill
towards men.'
The eldest son came into the room just as she was going to repeat the
words afresh.
'Mother!' he said softly.
She heard him, but did not take her eyes from the book whilst she asked:
'Are you not with the others in the forest?'
'Yes,' said he, still more softly, 'I have been there.'
'Come to the table,' she said, 'so that I can see you.'
He came nearer, but when she looked at him she saw that he was
trembling. He had to press his hands hard against the edge of the table
in order to keep them still.
'Have you got the bear?' she asked again.
He could not answer; he only shook his head.
The old woman got up and did what she had not done since her son was a
child. She went up to him, laid her hand on his arm, and drew him to the
bench. She sat down beside him and took his hand in hers.
'Tell me now what has happened, my boy.'
The young man recognised the caress which had comforted him in bygone
days when he had been in trouble and unhappy, and he was so overcome
that he began to weep.
'I suppose it is something about father?' she said.
'It is worse than that,' the son sobbed. 'Worse than that?'
The young man cried more and more violently; he did not know how to
control his voice. At last he lifted his rough hand, with the broad
fingers, and pointed to what she had just read: 'Peace on earth. . . .'
'Is it anything about that?' she asked.
'Yes,' he answered.
'Is it anything about the peace of Christmas?'
'Yes.'
'You wished to do an evil deed this morning?'
'Yes.'
'And God has punished us?'
'God has punished us.'
So at last she was told how it had happened. They had with some trouble
found the lair of the bear, and when they had got near enough to see the
heap of fagots, they stopped in order to load their guns. But before
they were ready the bear rushed out of its lair straight against them.
It went neither to the right nor to the left, but straight for old
Ingmar Ingmarson, and struck him a blow on the top of the head that
felled him to the ground as if he had been struck by lightning. It did
not attack any of the others, but rushed past them into the forest.
* * * * *
In the afternoon Ingmar Ingmarson's wife and son drove to the Dean's
house to announce his death. The son was spokesman, and the old
housewife sat and listened with a face as immovable as a stone figure.
The Dean sat in his easy-chair near his writing-table. He had entered
the death in the register. He had done it rather slowly; he wanted time
to consider what he should say to the widow and the son, for this was,
indeed, an unusual case. The son had frankly told him how it had all
happened, but the Dean was anxious to know how they themselves looked at
it. They were peculiar people, the Ingmars.
When the Dean had closed the book, the son said:
'We wanted to tell you, sir, that we do not wish any account of father's
life to be read in church.'
The Dean pushed his spectacles over his forehead and looked searchingly
at the old woman. She sat just as immovable as before. She only crumpled
the handkerchief a little which she held in her hand.
'We wish to have him buried on a week day,' continued the son.
'Indeed!' said the Dean.
He could hardly believe his own ears. Old Ingmar Ingmarson to be buried
without anyone taking any notice of it! The congregation not to stand on
railings and mounds in order to see the display when he was being
carried to the grave!
'There will not be any funeral feast. We have let the neighbours know
that they need not think of preparing anything for the funeral.'
'Indeed, indeed!' said the Dean again.
He could think of nothing else to say. He knew quite well what it meant
for such people to forego the funeral feast. He had seen both widows and
fatherless comforted by giving a splendid funeral feast.
'There will be no funeral procession, only I and my brothers.'
The Dean looked almost appealingly at the old woman. Could she really be
a party to all this? He asked himself if it could be her wishes to which
the son had given expression. She was sitting there and allowing herself
to be robbed of what must be dearer to her than gold and silver.
'We will not have the bells rung, or any silver plates on the coffin.
Mother and I wish it to be done in this way, but we tell you all this,
sir, in order to hear, sir, if you think we are wronging father.'
Now the old woman spoke:
'We should like to hear if your Reverence thinks we are doing father a
wrong.'
The Dean remained silent, and the old woman continued, more eagerly:
'I must tell your Reverence that if my husband had sinned against the
King or the authorities, or if I had been obliged to cut him down from
the gallows, he should all the same have had an honourable funeral, as
his father before him, for the Ingmars are not afraid of anyone, and
they need not go out of their way for anybody. But at Christmas God has
made peace between man and beast, and the poor beast kept God's
commandment, whilst we broke it, and therefore we now suffer God's
punishment; and it is not becoming for us to show any ostentatious
display.'
The Dean rose and went up to the old woman.
'What you say is right,' he said, 'and you shall follow the dictates of
your own conscience.' And involuntarily he added, perhaps most to
himself: 'The Ingmars are a grand family.'
The old woman straightened herself a little at these words. At that
moment the Dean saw in her the symbol of her whole race. He understood
what it was that had made these heavy, silent people, century after
century, the leaders of the whole parish.
'It behooves the Ingmars to set the people a good example,' she said.
'It behooves us to show that we humble ourselves before God.'
_From a Swedish_ HOMESTEAD