having caused his wife grief and humiliation. After seventeen years
of domestic infelicity, when Anna von Wachenfeldt could endure no
more, she died. Then misfortunes of all sorts befell him. The creditors
showed no further indulgence, but took away his home. He had to
give up gambling, for now he lost as soon as he touched a card. The
gout had also come, and the gray cataract. Before he had reached
sixty he was white-haired, stiff-jointed, half-blind, helpless, and
poverty-stricken. It would have been no small comfort to him now to
have had his good, loving wife still with him.
Since her death he had been cut off from all social intercourse. No one
cared whether he lived or died. None invited him to their homes. It
looked as if people had merely tolerated him for his wife’s sake. When
he yearns for laughter and merriment, when he would like to sit down to
a well-served dinner and talk with cultured people, he has no place to
go. When the holidays come round, with their long leisure hours, when
he would like to escape from the deadly monotony of the farmhouse, he
does not know what to do with himself.
There is just one place in the world where he can go for a bit of a
taste of the old life, and that place is Mårbacka, whence he had
brought his wife. He knows what they think and feel there--that he had
made her life very unhappy. They actually believe that he tormented her
to death. Nevertheless, he journeys thither thrice a year for the
great holiday festivities. But for these visits to Mårbacka his life
would be intolerable.
The silver bell rings out a loud plaint. The Colour-Sergeant has just
dealt his little horse a stinging blow. Life has many bitter fruits,
which one must take. It seems quite proper that the horse should share
the pain of his master.
* * * * *
If the little Mårbacka children had not known by any other signs that
Christmas was at hand, they would have guessed it when Colour-Sergeant
von Wachenfeldt appeared.
They were overjoyed when they saw his horse and cutter coming up the
driveway. They raced through the house shouting the glad tidings, and
rushed out on the steps to greet him, crying Good-day and Welcome. They
fetched bread for his horse and carried his lean carpet-bag,
embroidered in cross-stitched leaves and flowers, down to the
Lieutenant’s office, which the Sergeant was to occupy.
It was remarkable that the children were always so glad to see
Colour-Sergeant von Wachenfeldt, for he never brought them any goodies
or presents. But they must have thought him a part of Christmas, which
no doubt accounted for their joy. Anyhow, it was well they were
friendly, for the grown folk made no ado over him. Fru Lagerlöf and
Mamselle Lovisa did not go out to receive the guest, and it was with
rather a heavy sigh the Lieutenant put down his Värmland News, and
arose from his rocker to go and meet him.
“Well, well, so you’re here again, Wachenfeldt!” he said, as he stood
on the steps. After putting a few queries as to the state of the roads
and the journey, he conducted his brother-in-law to his room, where he
cleared out a drawer of his chiffonier and made place in the wardrobe;
then he went off with his children, leaving the guest to himself.
With each visit of the Colour-Sergeant memories of the Lieutenant’s
dead sister became more and more poignant. She was the eldest child;
she had cared for him when he was a little chap, had dressed and
undressed him, and coddled him. He had loved her best of all his
sisters, had been more proud of her than of the others. And then she
had to go and fall in love with a worthless fellow like this
Wachenfeldt! She was both beautiful and noble, and as good and true as
she looked. She had always been sunny, and had brightened the lives of
those about her. She had striven to the last breath to keep her home;
the husband had only wasted and squandered. She would not let her
family know how hard she had it, lest they should come to her aid. So
she broke under the strain when she was barely forty.
It was a sad and distressing tale, and the Lieutenant, while this was
seething in him, could not be cordial to Von Wachenfeldt; he had
therefore to take a long walk to let his indignation cool a bit.
Fru Lagerlöf and Mamselle Lovisa felt much as he did. Anna Wachenfeldt
had been the favourite sister-in-law of Fru Lagerlöf, who had looked up
to her with genuine admiration. Anna had been the one to welcome her
most heartily into the family, and she could never forgive
Colour-Sergeant von Wachenfeldt for making this beloved woman unhappy.
Mamselle Lovisa, as a child, had made long visits at Valsäter, the home
of the Wachenfeldts, and knew more about her sister’s troubles than any
of them. She could never hear the name Wachenfeldt without thinking of
a certain morning when a couple of strange men came to Valsäter and led
from the barn the two best cows. Her sister had run out and asked them
what they were doing there, and they had coolly answered that the
Sergeant the night before had staked the cows in a game with their
master, and lost. Mamselle Lovisa saw her sister as it were before her,
and remembered how distressed she had been over this. “He will never
come to his senses,” she had said, “until he has made an end of me.”
However, Mamselle Lovisa was the first to think of her duties as
hostess. She got up from the sewing table, where she had been
embroidering and betimes taking little peeps into a novel that lay open
in her sewing basket, and went to the kitchen door.
“Maja dear,” she called to the housekeeper, apologetically, “now we
have Wachenfeldt here again!”
“I can’t understand why that fellow, who was so mean to his wife, is
allowed to come here at every holiday time,” the housekeeper retorted
with considerable asperity.
“But one can’t very well drive him away,” pleaded Mamselle Lovisa. “And
now, Maja, please put the coffeepot on, so that he’ll have something to
warm him a bit after his long, cold drive.”
“Why must he always come just when you’ve all had your coffee and the
fire’s gone dead in the stove!” The housekeeper looked as if she were
not going to make a move.
But the coffeepot must have got on somehow, for shortly afterward the
housemaid went down to the office and bade Colour-Sergeant von
Wachenfeldt come to the living room for coffee.
In crossing the yard to the house, he walked with the aid of a cane,
which he put by in the outer hall, and carried himself fairly well as
he came into the room. Mamselle Lovisa, who stood there to receive him,
noticed all the same that he had difficulty in walking. When she took
his hands she felt how swollen they were, and when she looked up into
his face, his distorted eye stared at her horribly. Then a good part of
her resentment vanished. She thought to herself that he had already
received his punishment, and she was not going to add woe to woe.
“It was nice that Wachenfeldt could come to us again this Christmas,”
she forced herself to say. Whereupon she poured him some coffee and he
went over to his accustomed place, between the porcelain stove and
the folded card table. It was a modest corner, and also the warmest in
the room. The Colour-Sergeant knew what he was about when he chose that
seat.
He at once began telling Mamselle Lovisa about his servant, Inga, and
her constant quarrels and fights with the peasants who owned the farm
where he lived. He knew that such petty gossip amused his
sister-in-law, and did not fail to observe that she presently poured
herself a cup of coffee so as to keep him company.
Dusk had fallen while they chatted over their coffee cups, a light was
brought and placed on the round table over by the sofa, soon after
which Fru Lagerlöf appeared.
She had not conquered her feeling of aversion, and it was a cool
reception the Colour-Sergeant got from her; she barely touched his
hand, but did not speak, and then sat down to her work.
The Colour-Sergeant, who calmly went on talking to Mamselle Lovisa,
quickly changed the topic of conversation. He told about some strange
cases of sickness among the people and the animals on the farm, which
he had succeeded in curing.
Here was something that interested Fru Lagerlöf; it was in her line.
Before she knew it, she had been drawn into the conversation.
Finally the Lieutenant came in and sank into his rocker. At first he
was silent and depressed. But now, without anyone’s quite knowing how
it came about, the conversation drifted in another direction. It
carried back to old Karlstad, where the Colour-Sergeant was born and
the Lieutenant went to school, and of which the latter loved to talk.
Then it swung up to Stockholm, and took in Emilie Högquist, Jenny Lind,
and much else of a by-gone day that was beautiful and memorable. At
last they fell to telling old Värmland tales, and the evening passed so
quickly they were all astonished when the maid came in to lay the table
for supper.
The amazing thing about it all was that when Colour-Sergeant von
Wachenfeldt related any of his personal experiences he invariably stood
out as the wisest and most prudent man one could wish to meet. That he
had taken part in many adventures and exploits was true enough, but he
had always played the rôle of the counselling friend who helped stupid
folk out of their scrapes.
Just to mention the Wästfelts of Angersby: what a staff he had been to
these nice, childish persons! Particularly at the time when the son’s
intended threw him over and announced her engagement to another. No man
ever spoke with greater veneration of his mother or his wife. Such a
model son and devoted husband all might wish to have. He had always
talked sensibly to young women, smoothed out lovers’ quarrels, and
welded together marriage bonds that threatened to break asunder. All
the unhappy ones had made a confidant of him, and he had never betrayed
them. He had even saved men seized with the gambling fever, had talked
them to rights and reminded them of their duties.
After supper, when Von Wachenfeldt had limped down to his room,
Lieutenant Lagerlöf, his wife and sister sat staring at each
other--dumbfounded.
“Oh, that Wachenfeldt!” the Lieutenant exclaimed. “He’s a wonder; he
knows more than all of us put together.”
“It is always a pleasure to talk with Wachenfeldt,” said Mamselle
Lovisa.
“If it is true that he has been so helpful to others, then how does it
happen that he has managed his own affairs so badly?” queried Fru
Lagerlöf, dryly.
“Some folks are like that,” the Lieutenant averred.
* * * * *
Thenceforth, Colour-Sergeant von Wachenfeldt “feasted right royally,”
as is said in _Fritiof’s Saga_--throughout the Christmas holidays,
playing the wise and all-knowing old man. One could get his advice on
almost everything. He could prescribe for pimples and the snuffles,
give counsel in matters of dress, write recipes for cooking and dyeing,
give instruction in agriculture, and offer the best and cleverest
judgments of people. They appealed to him to settle knotty problems.
“Doesn’t Wachenfeldt think it strange these children cannot be induced
to eat carrots?” Mamselle Lovisa once put to him.
Colour-Sergeant von Wachenfeldt rose to the occasion.
“Wake me in the middle of the night and offer me carrots, and I’ll
eat.”
It was positively unnatural his being so reasonable and practical. The
dashing cavalier of old, the conquering hero with the sixty silver
bells, was apparently no more.
Then it happened that Lieutenant Lagerlöf during one of Wachenfeldt’s
visits got into an argument with the ladies about a young girl in the
district. Fru Lagerlöf and Mamselle Lovisa both thought her sweet and
winsome, while the Lieutenant declared that no man could ever fall in
love with her. He appealed the case in point to Wachenfeldt, as was the
custom in the family.
“Tell me, Wachenfeldt, you who are a judge of women--would you kiss
such a little Miss Snippit?”
Colour-Sergeant von Wachenfeldt, old as he was, flushed. He struck the
table with his fist, half-rose from his seat, and thundered:
“Don’t ask me such a thing! I have never kissed a homely woman.”
The ungodly persons round him broke into hilarious shrieks. Here he had
been acting the part of the sage and the plain man of common sense, yet
a simple little query like that had unmasked him. The old _beau
cavalier_ still survived in him. Sick and wretched, old and dilapidated
as he was, let none think or assume that he would kiss a plain woman.
O _Vackerfeldt! Vackerfeldt!_
VIII
THE ORCHESTRA
IT WAS an impromptu orchestra that played that day at Mårbacka. There
was Major Ehrencrona, a Finn by birth, who in former days had lived in
a palatial home and been a _grand seigneur_, but who now in his old age
occupied a rented room at a farmhouse, where he led a dull and
monotonous existence, much like that of Colour-Sergeant von
Wachenfeldt. He was reputed to be a master of the French horn; but
since he had become poor and lonely he had not been heard to play.
And there was Herr Tyberg, who began life as drummer-boy with the
Värmland Regiment and who surely would have killed himself with drink,
had not the Lieutenant at Mårbacka, by a mere chance, discovered the
man’s special aptitude for teaching small children, and engaged him as
tutor for his own little ones, and later found him a position as
teacher in the elementary school at East Ämtervik.
Then, there was Jan Asker, who had also been in the regiment band, but
who was now church-beadle and grave-digger at East Ämtervik. He came of
an old family of musicians, and used to play the clarinet at all the
peasant weddings and dances. His was an embittered and restless spirit.
The only thing that reconciled him to life was music.
And there was the foundry bookkeeper, Geijer, who lived in the attic of
the school building, and kept house for himself. He was passionately
fond of music, but being too poor to provide himself with any sort of
instrument, he had painted a keyboard on a common deal table, at which
he sat and “played.”
Then, too, there was Sexton Melanoz, who had received instruction from
Dean Fryxell himself, and could scribble verse, cobble shoes, mend
furniture, and run a farm. He was the star entertainer at all the
weddings and wakes, and was moreover the best schoolmaster in the whole
of Fryksdalen. Every Sunday morning he had to play the wheezy organ at
the Ämtervik church, which he never could have endured if he’d not had
his violin to console him on Sunday afternoons, for he was a musical
soul.
These five had arranged to meet at Mårbacka on a certain day during the
Christmas season, while there was still something left of the Christmas
ale, the Christmas ham, and spiced bread.
The first to arrive did not go straight to the house, but waited till
all were there. Whereupon they fell into line, the Major in the lead,
and marched up to the front porch singing _Portugal, Spanjen, Stora
Britanjen._
Lieutenant Lagerlöf had perhaps some notion as to what was in the air,
but he had remained inside so as not to spoil the fun for the guests.
But on hearing that song, he jumped up and ran out to greet them. Nor
was Colour-Sergeant von Wachenfeldt, who was still at Mårbacka, long to
follow.
When the visitors had gone down to the farm-office to remove their
pelts and leggings, the Lieutenant sent his two boys, Daniel and Johan,
up to the attic to fetch the guitar, the French horn, the flute, and
the triangle, while he himself rushed into the bedroom and pulled his
violin from under the bed; placing it on a chair, he unlocked the case
and reverently uncovered the violin, which lay wrapped in a red silk
handkerchief.
Though the Lieutenant himself never smoked or permitted others to smoke
in the house, he sent the boys down to the office to fetch the old
long-stemmed pipe, which had been there since Pastor Wennervik’s time,
and also a little square box filled with tobacco, so that Major
Ehrencrona might have his usual smoke, to keep him in good humour.
When the five guests, the Colour-Sergeant, and the Lieutenant went into
the living room, when the toddy-tray had been brought, and hot drinks
made for all--except Herr Tyberg, of course, who had sworn off for
good--and when the major had finally got his pipe to draw, they decided
it was not worth while to pass the evening at card-playing or in
small-talk, but they would have some music.
It was this the Lieutenant had anticipated; so now he went for the
instruments he had hurriedly assembled. His violin he offered to Sexton
Melanoz, who most humbly protested that there were those in the room
far more worthy than he to handle this, the greatest of all musical
instruments. But when none claimed the distinction, he was as pleased
as if he had suddenly come into a fortune, and at once proceeded to
tune up.
The flute went to Herr Tyberg, of course. It had been his instrument in
the regiment, when he had outgrown the drum. He was well acquainted
with the old flute at Mårbacka, and knew it to be always dry and leaky.
So he ran out to the kitchen to dip the flute in pale beer and bind it
round with tow, to make it hold together.
The guitar was handed to Bookkeeper Geijer, who had a long thin face, a
long slender neck, limpid blue eyes, and long slim fingers. There was a
certain wistfulness about him, a sort of languishing grace. With a
little girlish laugh, he strung the guitar-ribbon round his neck and
tenderly pressed the instrument to his heart, as if embracing a
sweetheart. The guitar had only three strings, but they were enough for
him who was wont to perform on nothing better than a deal table.
Church-beadle Asker had had the foresight to bring his own clarinet. It
was in the back pocket of his greatcoat, so that he had only to go down
to the office and fetch it.
Colour-Sergeant von Wachenfeldt, sitting in his usual corner by the
fire, tried to put on a good face, though he could not perform on any
musical instrument with his gout-stiffened fingers. But the Lieutenant
now went over to him with the triangle, which he could manage with
ease. So the Colour-Sergeant, too, was happy.
Major Ehrencrona sat blowing smoke through his big white moustache. He
saw how one after another had been provided with an instrument, but
feigned indifference.
“Just give me a couple of pot-lids,” he said to the Lieutenant, “so
that I may at least join in the noise-making. I know, of course, that
the instrument I play is not to be found in this house.”
Like a streak, the Lieutenant darted into the parlour and came back
with a brilliantly polished French horn, with green silk cord and
tassel, he had managed to procure for the Major.
“What do you say to this, Uncle?” he asked him.
The old major beamed.
“Ha! you’re a real fellow, Brother Eric Gustaf!” He put down his pipe
and began to toot vociferously, sending out a volley of ear-splitting
blasts.
Now that the guests were all furnished with instruments, they remarked
that the host himself had none. Whereupon, the Lieutenant produced a
little wooden whistle, one end of which must be placed in a glass of
water when one blew upon it. By so doing one could make trills as sweet
as any nightingale’s.
And last, they begged Fru Lagerlöf to accompany them on the piano.
In honour of the Major they first essayed the stirring Finnish martial
hymn, the “March of the Björneborgers.” Fru Lagerlöf struck the opening
chords, and the orchestra followed as best it could. It was a clang and
a din that took the house by storm.
They did their best, all of them. Sexton Melanoz, Jan Asker, and Herr
Tyberg played with a certain assurance, but the Major frequently lagged
behind and the Lieutenant put in a few haphazard trills, due in part to
the freakish behaviour of his “nightingale” and in part to a
mischievous desire to throw the others out of time.
When they had played the march through once they were so enlivened and
interested they wanted to go over it again, to get it quite perfect.
The Major blew and tooted till his eyes were red and his cheeks
distended, as if ready to split. Obviously, he was not as proficient at
the horn as he had made himself out, for he did not play in time even
on second trial.
Of a sudden he jumped up and hurled the French horn across the room
toward the chimney corner with such force that it came near crushing
Colour-Sergeant von Wachenfeldt’s most sensitive toe.
“Hang it all!” he shouted. “I’m not going to sit here and spoil the
Björneborgers’ March.... Play on, you who can!”
The others were a bit disconcerted, naturally, but they took up the
march for the third time. And now the Major sang, _Sons of a race that
bled._ He carried the air in a deep, rich bass that filled the whole
house. The human voice flowed on like a mighty tide, bearing along with
it the tinny old piano, the shrill clarinet, the violin, scraped in old
fiddler-fashion, the three-stringed guitar, the Sergeant’s triangle and
the Lieutenant’s capricious nightingale.
Their hearts warmed, for the loss of Finland still rankled in their
breasts; and now they seemed to be marching with the brave Björneborg
lads to take back their country from the Russians.
When the march was finished the Lieutenant motioned to his wife, who
struck up _Worthy Fathers, Noble Shadows_, from the opera of “Gustaf
Vasa,” which was the Major’s great show piece. He rendered the song
with power and feeling, and the instruments seemed almost to sing with
him.
Over on the straight-backed sofa, quiet as mice, sat all the
children--Daniel, Johan, Anna, Selma, and Gerda--listening. What could
they do but keep still, when the grown-ups played and carried on like
youngsters? When the Major sang Worthy Fathers, Noble Shadows, they
thought he sang of himself and the others who were performing in the
living room.
To the children they were all like ghosts of a vanished
something--shadows of a great and glorious past of which they could but
catch the faint gleams of an afterglow.
THE NEW MÅRBACKA
I
THE SEVENTEEN CATS
THERE was a cow-girl at Mårbacka named Britta Lambert, who had been on
the place from the time of the Paymaster of the Regiment. She was
little and ugly, with a face like old parchment, and she had only one
eye. In the company of humans she was crabbed and surly, but she loved
animals. If a cow was expected to calve in the night, she would make up
a bed in the barn and sleep there. Every day she would heat water in
the brew house and carry great bucketfuls down to the barn, so that the
cows might have warm mash. When the hay ran low in the cow-house, along
in April, and the cows had to chew on rye-straw, she was not above
sneaking over to the stable and stealing hay from the horses.
The barn in which she ruled was very old and so dark you could scarcely
see your hand before you; the passageways were narrow, the floor was
worn full of holes, and the cows stood in cramped little stalls, which
Britta did not think to keep clean. Nevertheless, steady contentment
reigned in the old cow-house. There was no fear of a cow’s overfeeding,
or getting anything sharp in her fodder, or that aught would go wrong
with the calving. There were lots of calves and plenty of milk. The
mistress at Mårbacka never had any anxiety concerning the cow-house.
But there was one species of animal Britta Lambert loved even better
than she loved the cow, and that was the cat. She believed that cats
had some sort of supernatural power to protect her and her cattle. The
worst thing one could ask of her was to drown a kitten now and then,
lest there should be more cats than cows to care for. When anyone
stepped inside the dark cow-house he was met on all sides by the
uncanny gleam of green cat-eyes. The cats got under his feet and sprang
on to his shoulders--for that Britta had got them into the habit of
doing.
When Lieutenant Lagerlöf took over Mårbacka, on the death of his
father, there were no less than seventeen cats in the barn. They were
all of the tortoise-shell variety, with not a black or white or gray
one among them. For Britta Lambert believed it was only the red cats
that brought luck.
Now the Lieutenant was a great lover of animals, and he had no
antipathy whatever to cats; but to feed and house seventeen of them in
the barn--that, he thought, was a bit too much. The cats, to be sure,
were vigilant hunters of rats and field-mice, but they also pursued
little birds; there was hardly so much as a sparrow left at Mårbacka.
Besides, the milk they consumed would have fed three calves.