IX_From a Swedish homestead

_The_ INSCRIPTION _on the_ GRAVE

Nowadays no one ever takes any notice of the little cross standing in

the corner of Svartsjö Churchyard. People on their way to and from

church go past it without giving it a glance. This is not so very

wonderful, because it is so low and small that clover and bluebells grow

right up to the arms of the cross, and timothy-grass to the very top of

it. Neither does anyone think of reading the inscription which stands on

the cross. The white letters are almost entirely washed out by the rain,

and it never occurs to anyone to try and decipher what is still left,

and try to make it out. But so it has not always been. The little cross

in its time has been the cause of much surprise and curiosity. There was

a time when not a person put his foot inside Svartsjö Churchyard without

going up to look at it. And when one of the old people from those days

now happens to see it, a whole story comes back to him of people and

events that have been long forgotten. He sees before him the whole of

Svartsjö parish in the lethargic sleep of winter, covered by even white

snow, quite a yard deep, so that it is impossible to discern road or

pathway, or to know where one is going. It is almost as necessary to

have a compass here as at sea. There is no difference between sea and

shore. The roughest ground is as even as the field which in the autumn

yielded such a harvest of oats. The charcoal-burner living near the

great bogs might imagine himself possessed of as much cultivated land as

the richest peasant.

The roads have left their secure course between the gray fences, and are

running at random across the meadows and along the river. Even on one's

own farm one may lose one's way, and suddenly discover that on one's way

to the well one has walked over the spirea-hedge and round the little

rose-bed.

But nowhere is it so impossible to find one's way as in the churchyard.

In the first place, the stone wall which separates it from the pastor's

field is entirely buried under the snow, so with that it is all one; and

secondly, the churchyard itself is only a simple large, white plain,

where not even the smallest unevenness in the snow-cover betrays the

many small mounds and tufts of the garden of the dead.

On most of the graves are iron crosses, from which hang small, thin

hearts of tin, which the summer wind sets in motion. These little hearts

are now all hidden under the snow, and cannot tinkle their sad songs of

sorrow and longing.

People who work in the towns have brought back with them to their dead

wreaths with flowers of beads and leaves of painted tin; and these

wreaths are so highly treasured that they are kept in small glass cases

on the graves. But now all this is hidden and buried under the snow, and

the grave that possesses such an ornament is in no way more remarkable

than any of the other graves.

One or two lilac bushes raise their heads above the snow-cover, but

their little stiff branches look so alike, that it is impossible to tell

one from the other, and they are of no use whatever to anyone trying to

find his way in the churchyard. Old women who are in the habit of going

on Sundays to visit their graves can only get a little way down the main

walk on account of the snow. There they stand, trying to make out where

their own grave lies--is it near that bush, or that?--and they begin to

long for the snow to melt. It is as if the one for whom they are

sorrowing has gone so far away from them, now that they cannot see the

spot where he lies.

There are also a few large gravestones and crosses that are higher than

the snow, but they are not many; and as these are also covered with

snow, they cannot be distinguished either.

There is only one pathway kept clear in the churchyard. It is the one

leading from the entrance to the small mortuary. When anyone is to be

buried the coffin is carried into the mortuary, and there the pastor

reads the service and casts the earth upon the coffin. It is impossible

to place the coffin in the ground as long as such a winter lasts. It

must remain standing in the mortuary until God sees fit to thaw the

earth, and the ground can be digged and made ready.

* * * * *

Just when the winter was at its hardest, and the churchyard quite

inaccessible, a child died at Sander's, the ironmaster at Lerum

ironworks.

The ironworks at Lerum were large, and Sander, the ironmaster, was a

great man in that part of the country. He had recently had a family

grave made in the churchyard--a splendid grave, the position of which

one could not easily forget, although the snow had laid its thick carpet

over it. It was surrounded by heavy, hewn stones, with a massive chain

between them, and in the middle of the grave stood a huge granite block,

with their name inscribed upon it. There was only the one word 'Sander,'

engraved in large letters, but it could be seen over the whole

churchyard. But now that the child was dead, and was to be buried, the

ironmaster said to his wife:

'I will not allow this child to lie in my grave.'

One can picture them both at that moment. It was in their dining-room at

Lerum. The ironmaster was sitting at the breakfast-table alone, as was

his wont. His wife, Ebba Sander, was sitting in a rocking-chair at the

window, from where she had a wide view of the lake, with its small

islands covered with birches.

She had been weeping, but when her husband said this, her eyes became

immediately dry. Her little figure seemed to shrink from fear, and she

began to tremble.

'What do you say? What are you saying?' she asked, and her voice sounded

as if she were shivering from cold.

'I object to it,' he said. 'My father and my mother lie there, and the

name "Sander" stands on the stone. I will not allow that child to lie

there.'

'Oh,' she said, still trembling, 'is that what you have been thinking

about? I always did think that some day you would have your revenge.'

He threw down his serviette, rose from the table, and stood before her,

broad and big. It was not his intention to assert his will with many

words, but she could see, as he stood there, that nothing could make him

change his mind. Stern, immovable, obstinate he was from top to toe.

'I will not revenge myself,' he said, 'only I will not have it.'

'You speak as if it were only a question of removing him from one bed to

the other,' she said. 'He is dead. It does not matter to him where he

lies, I suppose; but for me it is ruin, you know.'

'I have also thought of that,' he said, 'but I cannot.'

When two people have been married, and have lived together for some

years, they do not require many words to understand one another. She

knew it would be quite useless to try and move him.

'Why did you forgive me, then?' she said, wringing her hands. 'Why did

you let me stay with you as your wife and promise to forgive me?'

He knew that he would not do her any harm. It was not his fault that he

had now reached the limit of his forbearance.

'Say to people what you like,' he said; 'I shall not say anything. You

can say, if you like, that there is water in the vault, or that there is

only room for father and mother and you and me.'

'And you imagine that they will believe that!'

'Well, you must manage that as best you can.'

He was not angry; she knew that he was not. It was only as he said: on

that point he could not give way.

She went further into the room, put her hands at the back of her head,

and sat gazing out of the window without saying anything. The terrible

thing is that so much happens to one in life over which one has no

control, and, above all, that something may spring up within one's self

over which one is entirely powerless. Some years ago, when she was

already a staid married woman, love came to her; and what a love--so

violent that it was quite impossible for her to resist.

Was not the feeling which now mastered her husband--was not that, after

all, a desire to be revenged?

He had never been angry with her. He forgave her at once when she came

and confessed her sin.

'You have been out of your senses,' he said, and allowed her to remain

with him at Lerum as if nothing had happened.

But although it is easy enough to say one forgives, it may be hard to do

so, especially for one whose mind is slow and heavy, who ponders over

but never forgets or gives vent to his feelings. Whatever he may say,

and however much he may have made up his mind, something is always left

within his heart which gnaws and longs to be satisfied with someone

else's suffering. She had always had a strange feeling that it would

have been better for her if he had been so enraged that he had struck

her. Then, perhaps, things could have come right between them. All these

years he had been morose and irritable, and she had become frightened.

She was like a horse between the traces. She knew that behind her was

one who held a whip over her, even if he did not use it; and now he had

used it. He had not been able to refrain any longer. And now it was all

over with her.

Those who were about her said they had never seen such sorrow as hers.

She seemed to be petrified. The whole time before the funeral it was as

if there were no real life in her. One could not tell if she heard what

was said to her, if she had any idea who was speaking to her. She did

not eat; it was as if she felt no hunger. She went out in the bitterest

cold; she did not feel it. But it was not grief that petrified her--it

was fear.

It never struck her for a moment to stay at home on the day of the

funeral. She must go to the churchyard, she must walk in the funeral

procession--must go there, feeling that all who were present expected

that the body would be laid in the family vault of the Sanders. She

thought she would sink into the ground at all the surprise and scorn

which would rise up against her when the grave-digger, who headed the

procession, led the way to an out-of-the-way grave. An outburst of

astonishment would be heard from everybody, although it was a funeral

procession: 'Why is the child not going to be buried in the Sanders'

family vault?' Thoughts would go back to the vague rumours which were

once circulated about her. 'There must have been something in them,

after all,' people will whisper to each other. And before the mourners

left the churchyard she would be condemned and lost. The only thing for

her to do was to be present herself. She would go there with a quiet

face, as if everything was as it ought to be. Then, perhaps, they might

believe what she said to explain the matter. . . .

Her husband went with her to the church; he had looked after everything,

invited people, ordered the coffin, and arranged who should be the

bearers. He was kind and good now that he had got his own way.

It was on a Sunday. The service was over, and the mourners had assembled

outside the porch, where the coffin was standing. The bearers had placed

the white bands over their shoulders; all people of any position had

joined in the procession, as did also many of the congregation. She had

a feeling as if they had all gathered together in order to accompany a

criminal to the scaffold.

How they would all look at her when they came back from the funeral! She

was there to prepare them for what was to happen, but she had not been

able to utter a single word. She felt quite unable to speak quietly and

sensibly. There was only one thing she wanted: to scream and moan so

violently and loudly that it could be heard all over the churchyard; and

she had to bite her lips so as not to cry out.

The bells commenced to ring in the tower, and the procession began to

move. Now all these people would find it out without the slightest

preparation. Oh, why had she not spoken in time? She had to restrain

herself to the utmost from shouting out and telling them that they must

not go to the grave with the dead child. Those who are dead are dead and

gone. Why should her whole life be spoiled for the sake of this dead

child? They could put him in the earth, where they liked, only not in

the churchyard. She had a confused idea that she would frighten them

away from the churchyard; it was risky to go there; it was

plague-smitten; there were marks of a wolf in the snow; she would

frighten them as one frightens children.

She did not know where they had digged the child's grave. She would know

soon enough, she thought; and when the procession entered the

churchyard, she glanced around the snow-covered ground to see where

there was a new grave; but she saw neither path nor grave--nothing but

the white snow. And the procession advanced towards the small mortuary.

As many as possibly could pressed into the building and saw the earth

cast on to the coffin. There was no question whatever about this or that

grave. No one found out that the little one which was now laid to rest

was never to be taken to the family vault.

Had she but thought of that, had she not forgotten everything else in

her fear and terror, then she need not have been afraid, not for a

single moment.

'In the spring,' she thought, 'when the coffin has to be placed in the

ground, there will probably be no one there except the grave-digger;

everybody will think that the child is lying in the Sanders' vault.' And

she felt that she was saved.

She sank down sobbing violently. People looked at her with sympathy.

'How terribly she felt it!' they said. But she herself knew that she

cried like one who has escaped from a mortal danger.

A day or two after the funeral she was sitting in the twilight in her

accustomed place in the dining-room, and as it grew darker she caught

herself waiting and longing. She sat and listened for the child; that

was the time when he always used to come in and play with her. Why did

he not come that day? Then she started. 'Oh, he is dead, he is dead!'

The next day she sat again in the twilight, and longed for him, and day

by day this longing grew. It grew as the light does in the springtime,

until at last it filled all the hours both of day and night.

It almost goes without saying that a child like hers was more loved

after death than whilst it was living. While it was living its mother

had thought of nothing but regaining the trust and the love of her

husband. And for him the child could never be a source of happiness. It

was necessary to keep it away from him as much as possible; and the

child had often felt he was in the way.

She, who had failed in and neglected her duty, would show her husband

that she was worth something after all. She was always about in the

kitchen and in the weaving-room. Where could there be any room, then,

for the little boy?

But now, afterwards, she remembered how his eyes could beg and beseech.

In the evening he liked so much to have her sitting at his bedside. He

said he was afraid to lie in the dark; but now it struck her that that

had probably only been an excuse to get her to stay with him. She

remembered how he lay and tried not to fall asleep. Now she knew that he

kept himself awake in order that he might lie a little longer and feel

his hand in hers. He had been a shrewd little fellow, young as he was.

He had exerted all his little brain to find out how he could get a

little share of her love. It is incomprehensible that children can love

so deeply. She never understood it whilst he was alive.

It was really first now that she had begun to love the child. It was

first now that she was really impressed by his beauty. She would sit and

dream of his big, strange eyes. He had never been robust and ruddy like

most children, but delicate and slender. But how sweet he had been! He

seemed to her now as something wonderfully beautiful--more and more

beautiful for every day that went. Children were indeed the best of all

in this world. To think that there were little beings stretching out

their hands to everybody, and thinking good of all; that never ask if a

face be plain or pretty, but are equally willing to kiss either, loving

equally old and young, rich and poor. And yet they were real little

people.

For every day that went she was drawn nearer and nearer to the child.

She wished that the child had been still alive; but, on the other hand,

she was not sure that in that case she would have been drawn so near to

it. At times she was quite in despair at the thought that she had not

done more for the child whilst he was alive. That was probably why he

had been taken from her, she thought.

But it was not often that she sorrowed like this. Earlier in life she

had always been afraid lest some great sorrow should overtake her, but

now it seemed to her that sorrow was not what she had then thought it to

be. Sorrow was only to live over and over again through something which

was no more. Sorrow in her case was to become familiar with her child's

whole being, and to seek to understand him. And that sorrow had made her

life so rich.

What she was most afraid of now was that time would take him from her

and wipe out the memory of him. She had no picture of him; perhaps his

features little by little would fade for her. She sat every day and

tried to think how he looked. 'Do I see him exactly as he was?' she

said.

Week by week, as the winter wore away, she began to long for the time

when he would be taken from the mortuary and buried in the ground, so

that she could go to his grave and speak with him. He should lie towards

the west, that was the most beautiful, and she would deck the grave with

roses. There should also be a hedge round the grave, and a seat where

she could sit often and often. People would perhaps wonder at it; but

they were not to know that her child did not lie in the family grave;

and they were sure to think it strange that she placed flowers on an

unknown grave and sat there for hours. What could she say to explain it?

Sometimes she thought that she could, perhaps, do it in this way: First

she would go to the big grave and place a large bouquet of flowers on

it, and remain sitting there for some time, and afterwards she would

steal away to the little grave; and he would be sure to be content with

the little flower she would secretly give him. But even if he were

satisfied with the one little flower, could she be? Could she really

come quite near to him in this way? Would he not notice that she was

ashamed of him? Would he not understand what a disgrace his birth had

been to her? No, she would have to protect him from that. He must only

think that the joy of having possessed him weighed against all the rest.

At last the winter was giving way. One could see the spring was coming.

The snow-cover began to melt, and the earth to peep out. It would still

be a week or two before the ground was thawed, but it would not be long

now before the dead could be taken away from the mortuary. And she

longed--she longed so exceedingly for it.

Could she still picture to herself how he looked? She tried every day;

but it was easier when it was winter. Now, when the spring was coming,

it seemed as if he faded away from her. She was filled with despair. If

she were only soon able to sit by his grave and be near to him again,

then she would be able to see him again, to love him. Would he never be

laid in his little grave? She must be able to see him again, see him

through her whole life; she had no one else to love.

At last all her fears and scruples vanished before this great longing.

She loved, she loved; she could not live without the dead! She knew now

that she could not consider anybody or anything but him--him alone. And

when the spring came in earnest, when mounds and graves once again

appeared all over the churchyard, when the little hearts of the iron

crosses again began to tinkle in the wind, and the beaded wreaths to

sparkle in their glass cases, and when the earth at last was ready to

receive the little coffin, she had ready a black cross to place on his

grave. On the cross from arm to arm was written in plain white letters,

'HERE RESTS MY CHILD,'

and underneath, on the stem of the cross, stood her name.

She did not mind that the whole world would know how she had sinned.

Other things were of no consequence to her; all she thought about was

that she would now be able to pray at the grave of her child.

_From a Swedish_ HOMESTEAD

_The_ BROTHERS

It is very possible that I am mistaken, but it seems to me that an

astonishing number of people die this year. I have a feeling that I

cannot go down the street without meeting a hearse. One cannot help

thinking about all those who are carried to the churchyard. I always

feel as if it were so sad for the dead who have to be buried in towns. I

can hear how they moan in their coffins. Some complain that they have

not had plumes on the hearse; some count up the wreaths, and are not

satisfied; and then there are some who have only been followed by two or

three carriages, and who are hurt by it.

The dead ought never to know and experience such things; but people in

towns do not at all understand how they ought to honour those who have

entered into eternal rest.

When I really think over it I do not know any place where they

understand it better than at home in Svartsjö. If you die in the parish

of Svartsjö you know you will have a coffin like that of everyone

else--an honest black coffin which is like the coffins in which the

country judge and the local magistrate were buried a year or two ago.

For the same joiner makes all the coffins, and he has only one pattern;

the one is made neither better nor worse than the other. And you know

also, for you have seen it so many times, that you will be carried to

the church on a waggon which has been painted black for the occasion.

You need not trouble yourself at all about any plumes. And you know that

the whole village will follow you to the church, and that they will

drive as slowly and as solemnly for you as for a landed proprietor.

But you will have no occasion to feel annoyed because you have not

enough wreaths, for they do not place a single flower on the coffin; it

shall stand out black and shining, and nothing must cover it; and it is

not necessary for you to think whether you will have a sufficiently

large number of people to follow you, for those who live in your town

will be sure to follow you, every one. Nor will you be obliged to lie

and listen if there is lamenting and weeping around your coffin. They

never weep over the dead when they stand on the church hill outside

Svartsjö Church. No, they weep as little over a strong young fellow who

falls a prey to death just as he is beginning to provide for his old

people as they will for you. You will be placed on a couple of black

trestles outside the door of the parish room, and a whole crowd of

people will gradually gather round you, and all the women will have

handkerchiefs in their hands. But no one will cry; all the handkerchiefs

will be kept tightly rolled up; not one will be applied to the eyes. You

need not speculate as to whether people will shed as many tears over you

as they would over others. They would cry if it were the proper thing,

but it is not the proper thing.

You can understand that if there were much sorrowing over one grave, it

would not look well for those over whom no one sorrowed. They know what

they were about at Svartsjö. They do as it has been the custom to do

there for many hundred years. But whilst you stand there, on the church

hill, you are a great and important personage, although you receive

neither flowers nor tears. No one comes to church without asking who you

are, and then they go quietly up to you and stand and gaze at you; and

it never occurs to anyone to wound the dead by pitying him. No one says

anything but that it is well for him that it is all over.

It is not at all as it is in a town, where you can be buried any day. At

Svartsjö you must be buried on a Sunday, so that you can have the whole

parish around you. There you will have standing near your coffin both

the girl with whom you danced at the last midsummer night's festival and

the man with whom you exchanged horses at the last fair. You will have

the schoolmaster who took so much trouble with you when you were a

little lad, and who had forgotten you, although you remembered him so

well; and you will have the old Member of Parliament who never before

thought it worth his while to bow to you. This is not as in a town,

where people hardly turn round when you are carried past. When they

bring the long bands and place them under the coffin, there is not one

who does not watch the proceedings.

You cannot imagine what a churchwarden we have at Svartsjö. He is an old

soldier, and he looks like a Field-Marshal. He has short white hair and

twisted moustaches, and a pointed imperial; he is slim and tall and

straight, with a light and firm step. On Sundays he wears a

well-brushed frock-coat of fine cloth. He really looks a very fine old

gentleman, and it is he who walks at the head of the procession. Then

comes the verger. Not that the verger is to be compared with the

churchwarden. It is more than probable that his Sunday hat is too large

and old-fashioned; as likely as not he is awkward--but when is a verger

not awkward?

Then you come next in your coffin, with the six bearers, and then follow

the clergyman and the clerk and the Town Council and the whole parish.

All the congregation will follow you to the churchyard, you may be sure

of that. But I will tell you something: All those who follow you look so

small and poor. They are not fine town's-people, you know--only plain,

simple Svartsjö folk. There is only one who is great and important, and

that is you in your coffin--you who are dead.

The others the next day will have to resume their heavy and toilsome

work. They will have to live in poor old cottages and wear old, patched

clothes; the others will always be plagued and worried, and dragged down

and humbled by poverty.

Those who follow you to your grave become far more sad by looking at the

living than by thinking of you who are dead. You need not look any more

at the velvet collar of your coat to see if it is not getting worn at

the edges; you need not make a special fold of your silk handkerchief to

hide that it is beginning to fray; you will never more be compelled to

ask the village shopkeeper to let you have goods on credit; you will

not find out that your strength is failing; you will not have to wait

for the day when you must go on the parish.

While they are following you to the grave everyone will be thinking that

it is best to be dead--better to soar heavenwards, carried on the white

clouds of the morning--than to be always experiencing life's manifold

troubles. When they come to the wall of the churchyard, where the grave

has been made, the bands are exchanged for strong ropes, and people get

on to the loose earth and lower you down. And when this has been done

the clerk advances to the grave and begins to sing: 'I walk towards

death.'

He sings the hymn quite alone; neither the clergyman nor any of the

congregation help him. But the clerk must sing; however keen the north

wind and however glaring the sun which shines straight in his face, sing

he does.

The clerk, however, is getting old now, and he has not much voice left;

he is quite aware that it does not sound as well now as formerly when he

sang people into their graves; but he does it all the same--it is part

of his duty. For the day, you understand, when his voice quite fails

him, so that he cannot sing any more, he must resign his office, and

this means downright poverty for him. Therefore the whole gathering

stands in apprehension while the old clerk sings, wondering whether his

voice will last through the whole verse. But no one joins him, not a

single person, for that would not do; it is not the custom. People never

sing at a grave at Svartsjö. People do not sing in the church either,

except the first hymn on Christmas Day morning.

Still, if one listened very attentively, one could hear that the clerk

does not sing alone. There really is another voice, but it sounds so

exactly the same that the two voices blend as if they were only one. The

other who sings is a little old man in a long, coarse gray coat. He is

still older than the clerk, but he gives out all the voice he has to

help him. And the voice, as I have told you, is exactly the same kind as

the clerk's; they are so alike one cannot help wondering at it.

But when one looks closer, the little gray old man is also exactly like

the clerk; he has the same nose and chin and mouth, only somewhat older,

and, as it were, more hardly dealt with in life. And then one

understands that the little gray man is the clerk's brother; and then

one knows why he helps him. For, you see, things have never gone well

with him in this world, and he has always had bad luck; and once he was

made a bankrupt, and brought the clerk into his misfortunes. He knows

that it is his fault that his brother has always had to struggle. And

the clerk, you know, has tried to help him on to his legs again, but

with no avail, for he has not been one of those one can help. He has

always been unfortunate; and then, he has had no strength of purpose.

But the clerk has been the shining light in the family; and for the

other it has been a case of receiving and receiving, and he has never

been able to make any return at all. Great God! even to talk of making

any return--he who is so poor! You should only see the little hut in

the forest where he lives. He knows that he has always been dull and

sad, only a burden--only a burden for his brother and for others. But

now of late he has become a great man; now he is able to give some

return. And that he does. Now he helps his brother, the clerk, who has

been the sunshine and life and joy for him all his days. Now he helps

him to sing, so that he may keep his office.

He does not go to church, for he thinks that everyone looks at him

because he has no black Sunday clothes; but every Sunday he goes up to

the church to see whether there is a coffin on the black trestles

outside the parish room; and if there is one he goes to the grave, in

spite of his old gray coat, and helps his brother with his pitiful old

voice.

The little old man knows very well how badly he sings; he places himself

behind the others, and does not push forward to the grave. But sing he

does; it would not matter so much if the clerk's voice should fail on

one or other note, his brother is there and helps him.

At the churchyard no one laughs at the singing; but when people go home

and have thrown off their devoutness, then they speak about the service,

and then they laugh at the clerk's singing--laugh both at his and his

brother's. The clerk does not mind it, it is the same to him; but his

brother thinks about it and suffers from it; he dreads the Sunday the

whole week, but still he comes punctually to the churchyard and does his

duty. But you in your coffin, you do not think so badly of the singing.

You think that it is good music. Is it not true that one would like to

be buried in Svartsjö, if only for the sake of that singing?

It says in the hymn that life is but a walk towards death, and when the

two old men sing this--the two who have suffered for each other during

their whole life--then one understands better than ever before how

wearisome it is to live, and one is so entirely satisfied with being

dead.

And then the singing stops, and the clergyman throws earth on the coffin

and says a prayer over you. Then the two old voices sing: 'I walk

towards heaven.' And they do not sing this verse any better than the

former; their voices grow more feeble and querulous the longer they

sing. But for you a great and wide expanse opens, and you soar upwards

with tremulous joy, and everything earthly fades and disappears.

But still the last which you hear of things earthly tells of

faithfulness and love. And in the midst of your trembling flight the

poor song will awake memories of all the faithfulness and love you have

met with here below, and this will bear you upwards. This will fill you

with radiance and make you beautiful as an angel.