poor woman. “If he’s there among ye why doesn’t he stand up and say so,
for I shouldn’t know him again.”
Silence.
The woman slowly went her way. To the first person she met afterwards
she related her experience.
“I thought until now I’d go out of my mind if my son did not come
back,” she said, “but now I thank my God that he’s not among those
skeletons!”
The militia-men rested a week at Mårbacka, and then went on, somewhat
strengthened.
But they had left the bloody flux in their wake. Everyone on the place
became desperately ill. All recovered save Grandmother’s two little
children, who were of too tender an age to resist the virulence of the
sickness.
When the two children lay in their coffins, Grandmother said to
herself: “If I had done like the others, if instead of harbouring those
men I had driven them away with stones, my little ones would have been
alive now.”
But as that thought crossed her mind, she remembered her vision of that
evening in the spring wherein the wolves carried off the children. “Our
Lord is not to blame,” she said. “He forewarned me.” The loss of the
children was not due to her act of mercy, but rather to her
thoughtlessness in not having taken proper precautions to guard them
against contagion.
When she realized that after all it was her own fault the children were
gone, her grief was overwhelming. “I shall never get over it,” she
said. “I can never be the same again.”
Her despair was increased by her fears for the husband--how would he
take the loss of their children? He had not been at home in several
months. The old despondency had perhaps come over him again, so that he
dared not come home. Where he was then she did not know; so could not
even send him word of what had happened. Anyway, he would surely regard
the death of his children as a visitation from God for his marrying
her, and never come back. She was not so certain but he would be right
in this. It were best perhaps they never met again.
All on the place were much concerned about her. What to do to help her
they did not know. But Long-Bengt, who was the oldest of the servitors,
was not afraid to act sometimes on his own responsibility. He set off
for Kymsberg one morning in quest of the master. This time he was not
two whole days getting back. He actually found the Paymaster of the
Regiment and stated his errand. The words were hardly out of his mouth
before the master ordered a fresh horse put to the chaise. They drove
all night without a stop, and reached Mårbacka in the morning.
Now the husband was not glum and difficult when he came. He took his
wife tenderly in his arms, dried her tears, and spoke loving words of
comfort to her. It seemed as if then for the first time, when seeing
her so crushed and sorrowful, was he able to reveal the full depth of
his love.
“And I thought I should lose you, too!” she said.
“I’m not one that grief can drive away,” said he. “Did you think I
would desert you because of your great compassion?”
In that moment she understood his heart as never before. She knew that
in peaceful and happy days she must rely on herself--which she was well
able to do; but in sorrow and suffering and times of stress he would
always be by her side--her stay and comfort.
OLD HOUSES AND OLD PEOPLE
I
THE STONE HUTS
WHEN Lieutenant Lagerlöf took over Mårbacka the buildings were mostly
very old. Oldest, however, were the manservants’ hall and the
sheep-cot, though the storehouse on stilts, which served as larder, the
stable with the loft balcony, the bath-house, where they used to smoke
bacon, and the kiln, where they malted grain, were no newcomers into
the world.
The servants’ hall and sheepfold were built of stones which had been
picked up on the ground--large and small, round and flat. The walls
were two ells in thickness, as if meant to withstand a siege. That
style of building was not of last year or the year before, so that in
the matter of age those two structures would certainly take precedence.
The first permanent residents of Mårbacka must have come from some
village where there were too many occupants in every cottage and not
enough land under cultivation to yield bread-food for all. They were no
doubt a young couple who wanted to set up a home, and saw no other way
than to fare forth into the wilds as settlers. With an eye to the good
pasturage below Åsberget, they took possession of the little huts
formerly tenanted by the _säter_ lasses. But after a time they perhaps
felt unsafe, for they had no neighbours within miles of them. Sometimes
the bear paid a visit to the cattle-shed and they themselves received
calls from rough gangs of charcoal-burners.
Under such circumstances, naturally they would have put up a couple of
stone huts--one for themselves and one for their animals. The building
for the animals was the larger; it had no windows, only narrow openings
with home-forged iron gratings, through which neither lynx nor bear
could squeeze. The floor was just hard, trampled earth, but a partition
of rough-hewn beams divided the hut into two rooms. Thus, the animals
which do not thrive together could be kept apart. Horses and sheep,
which are always friends, were on one side; cows and goats on the
other.
The stone hut they built for themselves had only one room, but it had a
floor of hand-split boards, two windows, a fireplace, and a chimney.
Along the wall opposite the windows, the settler had put up a large
bed-cupboard to hold four wide beds--two lower and two upper--in each
of which three persons could easily lie side by side. Under the windows
was a bench, and before it a large deal table. At the far end of the
room, opposite the entrance, was the fireplace.
In Lieutenant Lagerlöf’s time, this which had once been the main
building and was now the manservants’ hall, was but little changed. The
cubby-beds, the circular open fireplace, and the low, small-paned
windows with the iron gratings, were still there; but the long
board-bench and table had been replaced by a planing-bench and a chest
of tools. There were two small, round, three-legged stools which might
well have come down from the time of the first settler, likewise a worn
chopping-block that stood on the hearth.
Here lived the stableman and farmboy; here the farm labourers gathered
at rest hours to eat and lounge; hither poor belated wayfarers were
shown when they came asking for night harbour. Here Bengt, who had been
stableman in the time of the Paymaster of the Regiment, stayed on in
his old age. He had worked so long on the place that Lieutenant
Lagerlöf had recommended him as one worthy the medal for faithful
service.
There was another who was to receive this mark of honour--the old
housekeeper. She was not nearly so old as Bengt, and was still in
active service. She, who was hale and spry, could drive to church in
the family carriage and receive her medal at the chancel; while Bengt
was confined to his bed that day with the lumbago and pain in the
joints. His medal he would get in any case, but it was a grand
celebration he would be missing. It had been reported that the Dean of
Sunne would come to Ämtervik that Sunday to address the faithful
servants, and would himself place the bright silver medal round their
necks.
One can understand it was not very pleasant for Bengt to be lying there
in pain and torment while the greatest moment life could have held for
him passed him by.
Lieutenant Lagerlöf, on arriving at the church, told the Dean why Bengt
had not come. Now there was no one the Dean so loved to honour as a
faithful servant, one who had been in the same place all his life, and
had shared weal and woe with his master and mistress. So, on hearing
that Bengt was ill, he said he would drive down to Mårbacka immediately
after the service and personally present the medal to Bengt.
The Lieutenant, though pleased, felt a trifle uneasy. He slipped out of
the church as soon as he could do so with propriety, and drove home
like lightning, so as to be there a little ahead of the Dean.
Bengt was quickly washed and combed and hustled into his Sunday shirt,
his bed was spread with clean sheets, and a fancy quilt was substituted
for the old sheepskin rug. The floor was swept, the shavings under the
planing-bench were carried out, the sooty cobwebs were torn from the
ceiling, fresh juniper twigs were strewn over the floor, chopped
spruce-fir spread before the door, and a huge bundle of birch and lilac
branches was stuck in the fireplace.
The Dean of Sunne at that time was no less a personage than the
venerable Anders Fryxell, the distinguished historian and Member of
Parliament. Directly he arrived he went in to see Bengt, accompanied
by Lieutenant and Fru Lagerlöf, Mamselle Lovisa, the old housekeeper,
and all the servants. They quietly and reverently lined themselves
along the walls of the servants’ room, expecting, of course, that the
Dean would make a little speech in Bengt’s honour.
At first all went as it should go. The Dean read some passages from the
Scriptures, and Bengt listened--very still and solemn. Then the Dean
said:
“You, Bengt, have been one of those good and faithful servants of whom
our Lord speaks.”
“Ay,” says Bengt from his bed, “that’s what I’ve been.”
“You have never considered your own welfare before that of your
employer. You have always been mindful of the duties entrusted to you.”
“Ay, ’tis all so true,” says Bengt. “Many thanks to you, Dean, for
those words.”
It looked as if these constant interruptions would prove annoying to
the Dean, who was a great man, accustomed to the society of grand folk.
His was such an impressive personality that one easily became
embarrassed in his presence. He was always supreme and always had the
last word.
There had been no time for the Dean to prepare a speech, and the
address he delivered at the church was hardly suitable for the
servants’ hall. He cleared his throat once or twice, and began again.
“Bengt, you have been a good and faithful servant.”
“Indeed I have,” said Bengt.
The blood mounted to the brow of the great and brilliant Dean Fryxell.
“You must be silent, Bengt, when I am speaking,” he said.
“Ay, ay,” the old man replied. “Sure, I’m not contradicting you, Dean.
’Tis all so true what you’re saying.”
The Dean got redder and redder. Again he cleared his throat and made a
fresh attempt.
“You, Bengt, have been a good and faithful servant, but you have also
had good masters.”
The old man was so elated at this he simply could not keep still.
“You’re right, dear Dean, you’re right! They’ve been grand men, all o’
them--Wennervik and the Paymaster of the Regiment and this here Eric
Gustaf.” He reached over and put his hand on the Lieutenant’s shoulder,
then stroked him down the arm, his old face ashine with happiness.
Once more the Dean lifted up his voice.
“You must be silent, Bengt, when I’m speaking!”
“Why, of course,” said the old man. “But ’tis so right and true every
blessed word you’ve spoken, Dean.”
Now the Dean had to smile. “You’re irrepressible, Bengt. You will not
have to listen to any speech. Here is your medal. May you wear it with
health and honour for many years to come.”
So saying, the Dean went up to the bedside and laid the medal on the
bosom of the old man’s Sunday shirt.
Later, at dinner, the Dean seemed a bit abstracted. “This is the first
time in my life I have ever lost myself,” he confessed, “but in this
world one must have all sorts of experiences.”
II
THE MONEY-CHEST
BENGT, for his part, was perfectly satisfied with the Dean’s speech.
Those words about his having been a good and faithful servant, the
medal, the august presence of His Reverence in the servants’ hall, and
the whole demonstration in his honour, had had the salutary effect of
dispelling the ache in his joints and the shooting pains in his back.
In the afternoon the old man sat up in bed and related, again and
again, to all who would listen, how he had once rescued the money-chest
for the Paymaster of the Regiment.
It happened one winter when he and the master were out tax-gathering.
They had covered all the eastern districts, and before starting on the
western, the Paymaster wanted to go home for a while, as he longed for
a sight of his wife and little ones. But that of course he did not
mention to Bengt. His excuse was that the horse must be rested a couple
of days and the food-box, being empty, needed replenishing. Besides,
the money-chest was now so full he thought they’d best drive no further
until it had been emptied and the money sent on to Karlstad.
The day they turned their noses toward home there was a big blizzard.
The roads were so deep with snow they had to drive at a snail’s pace.
When they were crossing Klarälven on the ice it was already dusk.
Shortly afterward, on coming to Nordsjö Manor, the Paymaster spoke of
turning in there to ask for a night’s shelter. However, he was anxious
to get home, and as they were then within thirteen miles of Mårbacka,
he and Bengt decided to drive on. Even though it meant being out in the
sledge until ten or eleven at night, sleeping in one’s own bed was
best.
Coming into the dense forest between Nordsjö and Sandviken, they found
the road impassable. The sledge went so heavily the horse had to stop
at every step, and neither urging nor coaxing could put life into him.
“This is provoking, Bengt,” said the Paymaster. “But isn’t there a
little forest croft somewhere hereabout?”
“Ay, a bit further on is a hut,” Bengt replied; “but you can’t take in
there, Master!”
“I know what you’re thinking of, Bengt. That tavern is said to be the
haunt of ruffians and vagabonds, decent folk usually fight shy of it.
But what else can we do? We’ve been three hours getting from Nordsjö
here, and the horse is spent. We must get him under cover, where he can
rest for the night.”
“Well, Master, you do as you think best,” said Bengt.
When his man spoke in that manner, the Paymaster knew he had his own
good reasons for not wishing to put up at that place. So he decided to
make another attempt to go on.
The two then got out of the sledge and began to clear a path for the
horse, which slowly followed them. It was a heavy task. Bengt worked
hard and his master, who had on great boots that went above his knees,
a heavy wolfskin coat and thick muffler, was soon all out of breath.
“No, Bengt, my boy, this won’t do,” said he when they were almost at
the forest hut. “Now I’m as used up as the horse is. You’d better go in
and ask for house-room.”
There was nothing for Bengt to do but obey, though he thought to
himself they might better remain out in the sledge all night than
betake themselves, with the Crown’s money, into that robbers’ den. It
was plain that this would lead to trouble.
In the hut he found a man and wife sitting quietly by the fire. It
cannot be said that they were especially pleased to receive the
travellers. They made all sorts of excuses: the guest chamber was cold
and they had no bed or bedclothes suitable for a gentleman. All the
same they were persuaded. The woman brought in wood and made up a fire
in the bedroom, the man took a spade and helped Bengt clear away the
snow, so that the horse and sledge could be taken to the shed. When
Bengt went back to the sledge he found his master sitting there, sound
asleep.
“That one doesn’t guard the Crown’s money any too well, eh?” grinned
the crofter.
“Well, so far he’s never lost so much as a shilling of what’s the
Crown’s,” Bengt snapped.
Always, when they put up anywhere, the Paymaster would carry in the
money-chest and Bengt would follow with the food-box. But now, seeing
how tired his master was, Bengt said, as the sledge stood before the
wretched shed where the horse was to be stabled:
“Go in to bed, Master, and I’ll be along later with the boxes.”
“You need only bring in the one,” the Paymaster told him.
When Bengt had unharnessed the horse and led it into the shed, he found
that his master had already gone inside, and the crofter, too, had
disappeared. The strong-box was not in the sledge, and he assumed that
the master had taken it in as usual.
The Paymaster of the Regiment sat by the fire in a wretched little room
when Bengt came in. He heard him put a box down, but was too dead tired
even to turn his head.
“Lock the door, Bengt,” he said, “and take out the key.”
“’Twas not much use bringing in the empty food-box,” Bengt observed.
“That’s what I thought,” said his master. “But we’ll be able to sleep
to-night without any supper.”
Then he stretched himself out on a bare bench--great boots, fur coat,
and all--slipped a couple of sticks of wood under his head, and was
asleep in a second. He never slept later than four or five in the
morning, but this time he awoke about two o’clock, quite rested and
refreshed.
“Up, Bengt!” he called. “For God’s sake let’s be off at once, so that
we can breakfast at Mårbacka.”
There was neither lamp nor candle in the room; but the night was not
pitch-dark, and they could see well enough to grope their way out.
“You take the box, Bengt, and hitch up,” said the Paymaster, “while I
go in and settle for the lodging.”
In a few moments they drove away. The storm had abated, and though the
road was still heavy with snow, they made fair progress, now that the
horse was rested.
“After all, it wasn’t such a bad idea our stopping there over night,”
the Paymaster remarked.
“It turned out better than I expected,” said Bengt. “But I had such bad
dreams all night, and thought I heard a lot of noise. It sounded as if
they were pounding and hammering in the crofter’s room. I don’t know
yet whether they were up working or whether I was just dreaming.”
“No doubt you dreamt they stole my money-chest,” laughed the Paymaster.
“But, Master--where have you put the box?” the servant burst out,
beginning to fumble about under the seat.
“The box?... Why, you brought that out.”
“I?--I carried out the food-box.”
“But I told you last evening to bring in only the strong-box, and leave
the other.”
It must have been a terrible moment for Paymaster Lagerlöf when he
realized that through a misunderstanding on the part of his man the
money-chest had been left out in the sledge. That the crofter had
stolen it was plain. But what had he done with it? Could he have opened
it? The chest was the regulation bailiff’s strong-box, iron bound, with
combination lock. But at that, they might perhaps have pried it open.
They left the horse standing in the road, and ran back to the hut. When
they burst into the house they found four rough-looking men sitting by
the fire with the crofter and his wife, none of whom showed the least
surprise. Bengt knew the men at once for the worst desperadoes in the
district.
“Now ’tis just as I said,” the woman began, “that ye’d not be able to
get home till the snow-plow’d been run afore ye.”
“Oh, we’ll manage to get home,” said the Paymaster of the Regiment.
“But my money-chest is still in your house, and that I must have along
with me.”
“Well, well, can it be possible that ye went off and left the
money-box!” said the woman. “Then it must be standing in the bedroom.
No one’s been in there since ye left.”
“The box was not forgotten,” said the Paymaster, sternly. “So produce
it at once! You know what happens to those who steal the Crown’s money.”
“Now where could we hide a big money-chest?” the woman protested
blandly. “Ye can see for yerself what’s here, and ye’re welcome to
search the house.”
And that Bengt had already done. He had peered and poked into every
nook and corner--and had found nothing.
“If you won’t give it up willingly,” said the Paymaster, “I shall have
to leave my man here on guard while I go for the bailiff.”
“What, that fellow stay and keep guard over us!” almost laughed the
woman.
Nor was it likely that Bengt, single-handed, could have kept six
persons quietly seated in the hut while his master went in search of
the bailiff. But all this time Bengt had been puzzling over something.
He heard a crackling noise coming from the bake-oven, but saw no
evidences of dough having been prepared. Without a word, he stole up
and flung open the oven door.
“Come here, Master,” he cried, “and see the kind of bread they bake in
this here oven.”
In there on a pyre of burning wood stood the money-chest.
The crofter and his wife now sprang at Bengt, but Paymaster Lagerlöf,
who was a powerful man, pushed them back. When the other four, who had
also begun to bestir themselves, saw the kind of thrusts he could give,
they kept out of his reach. Bengt seized the oven rake and quickly
pulled the box down onto the hearth. In his eagerness to find out
whether the box had been much damaged, he nearly burned his fingers
off.
“Ha! it hasn’t been opened,” he cried exultantly.
Though the box showed that the thieves had been filing and hammering at
it, the good oaken chest was intact; neither lock nor mountings had
given way. As a last resort they had put it on the fire. But, luckily,
Bengt had been too quick for them--only a bit of one corner was
charred.
III
THE LARDER ON STILTS
ALL who had been long on the place thought the building next in age to
the stone huts was the old larder that stood on posts. It had not been
built by the first settler, but was erected some hundred years after
his time, when Mårbacka had become a regular farmstead.
The peasants then living there had hurriedly put up a post-larder, it
being the rule that every farm of any pretension must have one. It was
a crude structure. The door was so low one had to stoop to enter; but
the lock and key were conspicuously large and strong. There were no
windows, only small openings, with trap-shutters. In summer there were
fly-screens at the openings made of woven splints, through which very
little light could penetrate.
The larder had two stories. The upper story being better finished than
the lower, it was probably there the peasants stored their valuables.
In Lieutenant Lagerlöf’s time the building was as in olden days. It may
have had a new roof, perhaps, but the steps were never changed. They
were so narrow and close together one could scarcely get a foothold.
Nor was there ever a pane of glass in the old building.
In the autumn the larder was something to behold. On the lower floor
there were great bins of newly milled flour, next which stood two huge
vats packed to the brim with beef and pork in brine, then came cowls
and buckets of beef sausage, pork sausage, and potato sausage--in fact,
all sorts of things that had been made up during the autumn slaughter.
In one corner stood a barrel of salted herring, a keg of salted
whitefish and one of _sickling_, and generally a firkin of salmon.
Besides, there were tins of salted beans, salted spinach, and firkins
of green and yellow peas.
On the upper floor there were tubs of butter of the summer’s churning
stored for winter use. Long rows of cheeses were arranged on shelves
above the openings, and from the ceiling hung year-old hams. The
home-raised hops were preserved in a sack the size of a bolster, and
the malted grain in a similar one. Here were provisions for a whole
year.
It was the housekeeper who ruled over the larder. That was her domain,
and the key to it seldom got into another’s hands. Mamselle Lovisa
might potter in the pantry or milk-room, but she would hardly have
ventured into the larder. The housekeeper was also supreme in the
kitchen. Making small cakes or putting up preserves and fruit juices
might well be left to Mamselle Lovisa, but when it came to roasting a
fowl, making a cheese, or baking _knäckebröd_, it was the old
housekeeper who took charge.