and had surely never thought of going to a fair ball. But now, being
invited by an elegant cavalier, she could hardly refuse. So, curtsying
to Fredrik Sandberg, she thanked him and said she felt highly
honoured, and would be most happy to attend the ball.
The boy was pleased at being so well received, for it might have turned
out quite otherwise. He ran back to the students as quickly as
possible, and reported all that had taken place.
A week later Fredrik Sandberg was again ordered to appear before the
collegians, and again dressed up as before, and sent to Mamselle
Brorström.
This time he found her standing before her looking-glass trying on a
red tulle dress. Her neck and arms were bare and she turned and twisted
impatiently, apparently in a dreadful humour.
The little boy stared at the huge woman, who was twice as tall as he,
twice as broad, and twice as strong. He gazed at the thick arms
sticking out from the sleeveless red tulle bodice, and the enormous
legs showing below the short skirts; he looked at her coarse face,
copper-coloured from constant exposure to fire--for she was always
making waffles--and he looked at her black tousled hair standing out
like a bush round her head; he saw the fiery gleam in her blood-shot
eyes and heard the thundering tones of her raucous voice. The boy
wanted to cut and run, but having been sent there by the college
students and knowing what disobedience to that authority meant, he
bowed to Mamselle Brorström, and said:
“I most humbly beg that I may have the pleasure of the first waltz at
the Fair Ball.”
Mamselle Brorström had been rather repentant and thoughtful that
morning, and had wondered if she really ought to go to the ball. She
would no doubt have put all thought of it out of her mind if Fredrik
Sandberg had not come and begged for the first waltz. But now that she
was certain of a dancing partner she was again in good humour. She
assured Fredrik Sandberg that she felt both favoured and honoured, and
that nothing would afford her greater pleasure than to let him dance
with her.
That was the very day of the ball. And in the evening Mamselle
Brorström, arrayed in her red tulle dress (than which nothing could be
prettier, she thought) appeared at the Masonic Lodge among Karlstaders
and Fair visitors. Stalking through the ladies’ dressing room into the
grand ballroom, she sat herself down on one of the small cushioned
seats along the wall.
People stared, but she did not mind. Having been invited, she had as
good a right as any one else to dance at the Fair Ball. She noticed
that the other ladies all had acquaintances to chat with, but this did
not trouble her; when once the music struck up for the dance, they’d
see that she had as fine a partner as any of them.
The regiment band began to play. She saw the foundry clerks step up to
the founderers’ daughters, the lieutenants to the officers’ ladies, and
the shop clerks to the shopkeepers’ girls--each took his partner. Soon
everyone was on the floor whirling round--everyone except Mamselle
Brorström, who sat waiting for Fredrik Sandberg.
The collegians were on the platform with the musicians. They had a good
view of Mamselle Brorström in her red tulle, sitting all alone in the
middle of the long row of wall seats, where the one she was waiting for
might easily find her.
The wife of the Governor put up her lorgnette and wondered who that
large, conspicuous looking woman was. The daughters of the founderers
stuck up their noses at her, while the young ladies of the nobility
marvelled that a person of that sort should come to a Fair Ball.
Mamselle Brorström meanwhile remained seated in the one place. Fredrik
Sandberg did not put in an appearance and no one else seemed to think
of asking her to dance. There was a supper, and after that more
dancing. The fine folk were now leaving and the gentlemen began to look
a bit flushed; but Mamselle Brorström still sat on.
Then at last Tanner Grunder stepped up and asked for a polka.
“’Tis high time!” said Mamselle Brorström in a voice loud enough to be
heard all over the ballroom. And those words became a catch phrase in
Värmland.
The tanner had been in a side room playing cards the whole evening, and
had just come out for a little spin. As she was the only lady
disengaged he naturally went over to her--not knowing, of course, her
state of mind.
As Mamselle Brorström stood up to fling herself into the dizzy whirl,
Tanner Grunder, to be polite and obliging, said:
“What is Mamselle Brorström’s pleasure--to dance forward or backward?”
“’Tis all one to me just so it goes,” she answered.
This, too, was heard all over the hall, and those words also became a
saying in Värmland.
The day after the ball Fredrik Sandberg was again summoned by the
collegians, and once again he was togged out and sent to Mamselle
Brorström.
He found her standing by the stove, as usual, making waffles. That day
she was not attired in red tulle but only in her petticoat and
undervest. The schoolboy thought that never had he seen such a
sour-looking face, such strong arms and formidable fists. The words he
was to speak wanted to stick in his throat. But just outside the door
stood three of the most dangerous collegians, and Fredrik knew what it
would mean to get into the bad graces of the powers that be!
“I most humbly beg to know whether Mamselle Brorström had a pleasant
time last evening at the ball,” he said, and made a low bow.
How Fredrik Sandberg got out of the room, across the hall, down the
stairs, and into the street, he never knew. Nor did the three
collegians who had been lurking behind the door know how they had been
assisted down the stairs. It was well they were there, so that Fredrik
was not alone on this treat, which proved to be more than enough for
them all.
This episode was imprinted indelibly in the mind of Lieutenant
Lagerlöf, who at the time it occurred was a lad attending school at
Karlstad. And of an evening, as he sat in his rocker, he would tell the
tale to his children. Though he was himself the kindest and gentlest of
men, the mad pranks of schoolboys were always a source of amusement to
him.
III
RIDING TO “BLÅKULLA”
IN Grandmother Lagerlöf’s time, when the paupers of the community were
taken into families and cared for, there was an old wardswoman at
Mårbacka who on winter nights used to sleep in the kitchen--though
goodness knows the room was crowded enough anyhow, with the housekeeper
and five maids all sleeping there! So at the first signs of summer she
would betake herself to the barn-loft, where she had found a good
comfortable bed in an old discarded sledge, which in bygone winters had
been used for carting pig-iron from the smithies in Bergslagerna to the
Kymsberg Iron Works.
There for several weeks she had slept in peace and quiet. Then, one
night, she was awakened by the sledge moving. She sat bolt upright and
looked round. Outside, the night was almost as light as day, but in the
barn where the poor old woman lay it was pitch dark, so that she could
not see anything. Thinking that she had only been dreaming, she sank
back upon her pillow and was soon slumbering again.
But strange to say, she had no more than got to sleep when the sledge
began to move again. This time it not only gave a little lurch but
went gliding along the floor. Though it moved kind of slowly and
cautiously, there was no mistaking that there was life in it.
The old woman sat up and gripped the side of the sledge with both
hands. Her hair rose and her jaw fell.
“Merciful God!” she gasped, “it’s crawling!”
But how in the world could such a thing happen? Could it be that an old
sledge which had carried pig-iron winter after winter between
Bergslagerna and Kymsberg grew restless at night, and must bestir
itself a bit once in a while?
The sledge moved faster; now it went bumpety-bump over the uneven
floor, and scudded across piles of hay and straw as if taking plunges
into deep gulches and flights up steep hills.
“O merciful God! Merciful God!” cried the woman.
But invoking the name of the Lord did not stop the sledge; it ran right
on the whole length of the barn-loft, till it struck the wall.
There it must surely stand still, she thought. But no indeed! As soon
as it recovered its breath, so to speak, it began to back toward the
corner where it first stood.
The wardswoman said later that if in that instant she had not guessed
what was wrong with the sledge she surely would have lost her wits.
Oh, no, it was not the old Bergslag journeys haunting the pig-iron
sledge--someone had “greased” it! Some witch-hag on the farm or in the
district (she didn’t care to mention any names, or even think
them) had taken it into her head that she could ride to Blåkulla, the
Witches’-kitchen, with more ease and comfort in the old sledge than on
a broom-stick, an oven-rake, or a barn door. Perhaps the wicked witch
did not know the wardswoman slept in the sledge. In the stress of the
moment there was no time to figure on just how it had all come about.
But this much was certain: the sledge wanted to be out and off, and it
was she--the wardswoman--it was taking to the Witches’ hell instead of
the right one.
Lord o’ Mercy! But for the strong barn wall she would already be flying
over the village toward the church.
Meanwhile the sledge kept backing. She knew well enough that that was
only in order to make a fresh start to break through. Once outside, it
would go shooting through the air over tree-tops and mountain ranges.
She would be flying above shining lakes and rivers, without the least
fear of tumbling into them; she would circle round the church steeple
like a jackdaw, and fly on beyond Stor Kil and Grav parishes; but where
she would land she hated to think on.
Lord o’ Mercy! The sledge was rushing forward again. There was no doubt
that sledge could fly if once it got out into the open; it was making
for the wall at terrific speed. The old woman, positive now that the
wall would give way, lay down again so as not to be scraped off in the
middle when the sledge cut through the boards. This time it struck
hard. Oh, what a bump! Again the wall resisted. Now, if only the sledge
had the sense to see that it couldn’t get anywhere, and stand still!
But don’t for a moment imagine it! Once more it began to back. That
sledge must have been greased with real witch-oil. If it made a third
attempt it would surely succeed. Whatever would she do when she got in
amongst witches and all the Hosts of Darkness! To be sure she had heard
tell of such, but she had never wanted to believe in them. There is so
much one would rather not believe until one has seen for oneself
whether it is true.
“Merciful Lord, lead me not into temptation,” she prayed. All her life
she had endured poverty and contempt without a murmur. But were she now
to be offered riches and power, would she be able to resist? Or, were
she to learn the magic words that cure sickness in humans and animals,
or the ones that make the ground yield good harvests, or those that
awaken love in young folk, could she withstand the temptation to use
them? Might she only be granted strength to rise above temptation and
so preserve her soul unto salvation.
Just then the sledge took a third lunge. Now it tore ahead, creating a
rush of wind that whizzed about her ears. She shut her eyes lest she
turn giddy, for in the wink of an eyelid she knew she would be soaring
high above the earth--high as the lark.
Crash! Now, surely, the wall had given way....
But, thanks be to God! the good board wall still held; it was only the
sledge that had broken down. With that, it must have lost all zest for
travel. The sledge having come to a dead stop, the wardswoman managed
to crawl out and drop down on a heap of straw, to rest after her
perilous ride. When in the morning she told it all to the maids and it
eventually came to the ears of Grandmother Lagerlöf, the latter thought
it sounded a bit queer. Though Grandmother was herself a firm believer
in the supernatural, there had to be some semblance of reason and
probability behind it. That one could ride to _Blåkulla_ on a light
summer’s night, and in a sleigh at that, was something unheard of.
Grandmother, of course, went down to the barn and examined the sledge.
Finding a couple of long ropes attached to it, she immediately summoned
the stableboy and two or three of his companions. After questioning the
boys thoroughly, she gave them a good dressing down.
This, too, was one of the Lieutenant’s boy-prank yarns. There were many
more up his sleeve; but when he had told this and the one about
Mamselle Brorström, Fru Lagerlöf would say:
“Now that is enough for this evening. It’s time for the children to say
Good-night, and go to bed.”
IV
BELLMAN BALLADS
AT SIX-THIRTY every morning Nurse made a fire in the children’s room,
and at seven o’clock the children had to rise and start dressing. When
they were ready, say at about half after seven, and the beds had been
hurriedly made, a tray was sent up from the kitchen with bowls of gruel
and large pieces of buttered _knäckebröd._ This was the _little_
breakfast. Then, until eight, they sat at a large table by the window
and glanced over their lessons. The nursery had to serve as schoolroom,
there being no other place available.
On the stroke of eight books were closed. The children then put on
their wraps and went out in the half-dark winter morning--whatever the
weather. They hurried down to the pond first thing, to see whether
there was ice for skating, or, in lieu of that, went sledding on the
driveway. If there was nothing else they could do, they ran down to the
barn to see the baby rabbits and romp with the sheep-dog.
A little before nine they had _big_ breakfast, which usually consisted
of eggs, or griddle-cakes, or fried herring with boiled potatoes, or
black pudding with salt pork and cream gravy. At breakfast the family
did not sit at the big table, but each person, in turn, helped himself
and then sat down at one of the side tables.
At nine sharp one had to be through with the meal, for at that hour
lessons began. Then it was back to the nursery again to sit at the long
table reading, writing, and figuring until noon. The little girls had a
governess now--Ida Melanoz, eldest daughter of Sexton Melanoz, who had
her father’s good brain and teaching ability.
At twelve o’clock dinner was served at the round dining table. One of
the little girls said grace before the meal, the other after it. Then,
rising from table, they kissed Mother’s hand and Father’s hand, and
said: “Thanks for the food.” It was never quiet during the dinner hour.
Lieutenant Lagerlöf kept the ball of chatter rolling. He could always
find something to talk about. If nothing more thrilling had happened
than his meeting an old woman in the lane, he would make a whole story
out of the incident.
From one to two the children were again out of doors. But they often
went in a few minutes before the play hour was up, so as to run through
their lessons for the afternoon session, which was from two to four.
Afterwards, they would read the lessons for the next day. They were
never allowed to sit at their studies later than five o’clock, when
they must go out-doors again. Now they were off to some distant
coasting hill. At one time they had a big ram to drive, and that,
of course, was great sport. When they got back to the house a pleasant
hour awaited them. A log fire crackled in the living room and on the
folded card table stood a plate of sandwiches and a pitcher of
unfermented beer. To sit or lie before the fire while munching their
sandwiches--that was something the youngsters enjoyed hugely. They
chattered and planned all sorts of things. It was the only hour of the
day they had to themselves.
When the fire burned low, the lamp on the round table over by the sofa
was lit. Fru Lagerlöf now took her little daughters in hand, and taught
them to sew, crochet, and knit. She had a volume of Hans Andersen’s
fairy tales, and when she thought the work had gone well she would
reward the children by reading or narrating “The Travelling Companion,”
or “The Tinder-box,” or “The Wild Swans.” Besides, there were pretty
and amusing illustrations in that book, and to look at those was almost
as much fun as to hear the stories.
At eight o’clock supper was served, and then the Lieutenant appeared.
Up to that hour he had been at the farm-office poring over his ledgers.
And now, after the long work-filled day, one could at last relax. The
children put away their needlework, and the Lieutenant, sitting back in
his rocking-chair, began to tell schoolboy yarns like the one about
Mamselle Brorström, or else he related his memories of the glorious
Jenny Lind as _Norma_ or the _Daughter of the Regiment_, or of Emily
Högquist as the _Maid of Orleans._ When at times he did not feel like
talking, he would ask Fru Lagerlöf or Mamselle Lovisa to read aloud
from Tegnér. Anything more beautiful than “Fritiof’s Saga” he thought
had never been written. He would rather have been the Lund professor
who sang of Fritiof’s and Ingeborg’s love, than Emperor of France or
Tsar of Russia. He was also an admirer of Runeberg, whose tales of
“Surgeon Stål” and epic poems he enjoyed hearing. But he did not like
it if any one said the Finnish poet was greater than Tegnér.
Sometimes (and that was the best fun of all) he would sit down at the
old piano and strike a few chords, then call out:
“Come, children, let’s sing Bellman!”
The girls needed no coaxing, they were over by the piano in a jiffy.
Then, with high glee, they let loose on Bellman! They always began with
“Old Man Noah” and “Joachim of Babylon,” then followed “Father Movitz”
and “Mother at Tuppen,” and they sang of “Dancing Master Mollberg, and
His Misadventures in Rostock Tavern.”
The Lieutenant pounded out the accompaniments, and hummed the air, to
mark the time and carry the tune. But the children sang at the top of
their voices, and could be heard all over the house. Here were indeed
life and merriment for them after the day’s work! They understood very
little of what they sang, but the melodies put them in a glow and
livened their spirits. Ah, how sweet it sounded when _Ulla_ danced in
spangles, veil and fringe! or when _Fredman_ sang: “’Tis as far to
Monday as from north to south.” And what could be funnier than when the
ever-hapless _Mollberg_ jumped into the vat where _Grogshop-Mother_
soaked her stockfish, or when at the great boating-picnic the
party-cake came on garnished with sugar, cinnamon, and anchovies!
But what delighted the children above everything was that they might
sing as loud as ever they wished. The Lieutenant never corrected them
or interrupted to remind them that there were such things as voice
modulation and singing in unison. They thought they sang Bellman just
as he should be sung.
On the wall above the piano sat Karl Mikael (Bellman) himself, with his
lute. Now and then, the Lieutenant looked up at him, as if expecting a
smile of approval from that incomparable lyrist and singer.
But once when Lieutenant Lagerlöf and the children were having a
Bellman-sing, it happened that Colour-Sergeant von Wachenfeldt was
there, sitting in his usual corner, chatting with Mamselle Lovisa.
“Isn’t it strange that not one of the children has a voice?” Mamselle
Lovisa remarked to the Sergeant in a half-whisper.
“Yes,” replied the Sergeant in a low tone. “That they haven’t singing
voices they can’t help, but they might at least make use of their
ears!”
“It seems extraordinary, when both parents are musical, don’t you think
so, Wachenfeldt? I can’t understand how Gustaf endures it!”
“He does not hear it as it sounds to us,” said the Sergeant. “He loves
those children.”
“People are wont to speak of seeing with the eyes of love,” observed
Mamselle Lovisa, “and there may be such a thing as hearing with the
ears of love....”
“Be sure of that!” responded the Colour-Sergeant, who knew whereof he
spoke.
One of the little singers chanced to overhear those remarks, and
repeated them to the others, and perhaps it was due to that that the
Bellman “concerts” at Mårbacka were suddenly discontinued.
But long afterward--aye, always--the love of the Bellman songs lived in
the hearts of the Mårbacka children. They loved them not only for their
humour and pathos and their haunting beauty; but the faintest tone from
the Bellman lute called up memories of the never-failing love and
tenderness that had made their childhood such a happy one!
V
BOYS AND GIRLS
IN THE summer of 1866 there was an unusually large number of children
at Mårbacka. Besides Daniel and Johan Lagerlöf, sons of the house,
there were Teodor, Otto, and Hugo Hammargren, cousins on the paternal
side, who, with their parents, were spending the whole summer at
Mårbacka. Ernst and Klas Schenson, cousins on the maternal side, had
also come for the summer. But, indeed, they were not all! Herman,
Bernhard, and Edvin Milén of the neighbouring farm, must also be
counted as members of the company, and Adolf Noreen of Herrestad came
over two or three times a week to play with the boys. And of course
there were Anna, Selma, and Gerda Lagerlöf, though Gerda, who was only
three years old, hardly counted; nor were Anna and Selma of any
importance when there were so many boys around.
That summer the lads had hit upon a jollier and more satisfying pastime
than any of previous years. The first few weeks they spent in the usual
way--picking berries, lying on the grass, swinging in the rope-swing,
shooting arrows, pitching quoits, and playing leap-frog. But after a
time they wearied of these petty diversions, and talked of taking up
some serious and productive work. They had an eye to a bit of woodland
just beyond the avenue, which was bounded on the west by the road
ditch, on the east by towering Åsberget, on the north by a stone wall,
and on the south by a deep gravel pit; so that the whole area, which
covered about one sixteenth of an acre, lay quite detached and well
secluded.
On closer inspection, the boys discovered that the land had a bountiful
supply of rocks, and its vegetation consisted mostly of juniper bushes,
spruce saplings, and bracken. At the northern end there was a little
brook, which ran dry in high summer, and along its shores grew some
fine alder bushes. In the crevices of the mountain wall grew polypody,
a kind of fern to which the boys attached great value. At the south end
there were four large spruces, while in the midst of the territory
stood a tall, thickly branched pine.
The whole region was evidently devoid of culture, its only inhabitants
being squirrels, woodpeckers, and ants. Now the boys thought this
wilderness ought to have the benefit of the blessings of civilization,
and decided to emigrate and settle there.
Their first move was to stake out their homesteads. Teodor Hammargren,
who was sixteen years of age and the nominal head of the expedition,
claimed a towering rock, which afforded him a splendid view of the
whole country. Daniel Lagerlöf, who was fifteen--and next in age and
standing--appropriated the four large spruces and the fine rock wall
behind them. Johan Lagerlöf and Otto Hammargren, who were schoolfellows
and good pals, took joint possession of the northernmost tract with the
dried-out brook and alder grove. Ernst Schenson, who was but twelve,
contented himself with a scraggy rock. The others wondered what joy he
could have of that. His brother, Klas, who was only a little chap, also
chose a rock; but he seemed to have got the better position, for he had
a shading juniper close by. Hugo Hammargren claimed as his portion the
solitary pine, which no one begrudged him. Herman Milén, aged ten,
found a big uprooted spruce lying with its roots in the air and its
trunk full of branches. His little brothers, Bernhard and Edvin, who
were twins and only eight, came near not getting anything at all;
however, they were each finally allotted the stump of a tree. Adolf
Noreen had not been at Mårbacka the day the land was apportioned, and
there was great consternation when he finally appeared and demanded his
share of the spoils; for by that time every available spot had already
been taken. Luckily, Teodor Hammargren hit upon the thought of allowing
him a shelf of rock in the mountain wall. And with that, peace was
restored.
But if Anna and Selma had entertained any hopes of owning homes in the
settlement they were sadly mistaken. Why, they were just girls, and it
never even occurred to the boys that they might wish to be included.