colony! Teodor Hammargren carried up moss to his tower to make him a
comfortable seat. He had built a stone stairway by which he could
easily pass up and down. Daniel Lagerlöf had cleared the ground between
the spruces and the rock wall, and fitted up a salon with moss-covered
stone seats along three sides. His was the most comfortable and
attractive place of all. Johan and Otto made for themselves a
semi-circular moss sofa in among their tangle of alders. That was also
considered a very desirable location. Ernst Schenson made him a wide
moss-covered lounge, with his big rock as back-rest; but his brother
Klas was a little do-nothing, who just sprawled on the ground under his
juniper bush and didn’t bother to drag stones and moss for a bench.
Hugo Hammargren had begged some board-ends from the Lieutenant’s
carpenter and nailed them in a crotch of his pine, so that he had a
grand seat. Adolf Noreen made a moss bed on his shelf of rock, where he
enjoyed solid comfort when once he had clambered up. Herman Milén had
dug a cave for himself under his uprooted tree, and even the small
twins had spread a bit of moss over their stumps.
But Anna and Selma had nowhere to build and nothing to furnish. They
wandered about the farm utterly deserted, not knowing what to do to
amuse themselves.
The boys, meanwhile, had more and more fun as their commune developed.
They soon found it necessary to have a regular administration and
judiciary, and elected Teodor Hammargren High Chieftain and Judge.
Daniel Lagerlöf was appointed Master of the Mint, and had to issue
paper currency. Johan became bailiff and Otto Hammargren petty
constable.
Now that they had money to do with the boys began to buy and sell stone
and gravel, moss and earth. Some did a brisk trade and grew rich; but
Hugo Hammargren and Herman Milén were regular spendthrifts, and they
were moreover guilty of appropriating ferns from another’s estate. The
bailiff had to arrest them and put them in the jail--an old smithy
which lay conveniently at the roadside.
Anna and Selma still went about the farm by themselves. Anna averred
that the next time the boys asked her to crochet a ball for them she’d
say NO. Nor would she help them make taffy. And Selma, who was only
seven, didn’t know what to do to get even with the boys; but she could
at least refuse to let them haul gravel in her little cart.
Life up at the colony was so thrilling the boys all declared they had
never had such good sport. They sat in councils and discussed the
affairs of State; they voted to build roads and to construct a great
stone bridge across the ditch, in order to connect the colony with the
outer world. All the lads over twelve years of age were to do the
road-breaking and stone-cutting, while the younger ones were to haul
gravel. But afterward it seemed that Hugo Hammargren and Herman
Milén would not help with the work, and from that arose many grave
complications. Hugo and Herman, since they had no respect for law and
order, were now looked upon as the black sheep of the colony. Even the
jail had no terrors for them! So it was difficult to know just what
course of procedure to follow in their case.
Anna and Selma down on the farm tried to amuse themselves by shooting
with the boys’ bows-and-arrows and pitching their quoits. They said
they had quite as much fun in winter, when the boys were away at
school. Anna vowed that never again would she let any boy look at the
big doll her aunt had given her for Christmas, which was over two feet
tall, and wore shoes and stockings, corset and crinoline, and had a bed
of its own, with sheets and pillowcases, and a trunk for its clothes,
and everything.
Up at the colony things were flourishing. One fine day at a town
meeting it was moved that a public house be opened. The motion was
carried, and Master of the Mint Daniel Lagerlöf was elected keeper of
the tavern, because he had the roomiest dwelling.
The new boniface must have found it rather tiring trying to satisfy the
demands of his customers for home-brewed ginger beer, wild raspberries,
green apples, and polypody. Of a sudden it struck him that he had a
couple of sisters; and immediately he went over to the farm, where he
found the girls down by the pond sailing the boys’ boats and promising
each other never again to play with the boys or even so much as look
at them.
“You may come up to the colony, girls, and be waitresses at my tavern.”
Anna and Selma let the boats sail whither they would. Not a word did
they say about being forgotten and left to shift for themselves all
this long time. They went right along with their brother to the boys’
colony, blissfully happy.
VI
THE OLD SOLDIER
IT WAS late afternoon of a beautiful day in autumn. Back-Kaisa, the
onetime nursemaid at Mårbacka, who now worked at the loom, was tramping
through the woods on her way to the hill-croft where she was born and
grew up--on an errand for Lieutenant Lagerlöf. She and little Selma
were still great friends, and she had taken the child along. They were
in no hurry, these two; they stopped to pick and eat whortleberries
growing by the roadside, they admired the gorgeous flybane and gathered
their aprons full of lovely mosses to take home with them so as to have
something pretty to lay between the inner and storm-windows of the
nursery. Back-Kaisa was happy to be once more in the woods, where she
knew every shrub and every stone. When they came to the wattled fence
which surrounded the clearing where the croft-hut stood and were about
to step over the stile, Back-Kaisa said:
“Mind, Selma, you mustn’t say a word about war in Father’s hearing!”
The little girl was astonished at that. She knew that Back-Kaisa’s
father was an old soldier who had fought with Napoleon at Leipsic.
That one could not speak with him about war seemed unbelievable.
“Why can’t I talk to him about war?” she queried.
“That one must never do with them that’s been out in a real war,”
Back-Kaisa told her.
Now the little girl was more astonished than ever. She thought of
_Fritiof;_ of _Hjalmar;_ of _Hector_, and all the gods and heroes of
antiquity she had read about in her saga-books--and her head was in a
whirl.
In the cabin on the edge of the hearth, with his back to the fire, sat
Back-Kaisa’s father, a tall, gaunt-looking man with a coarse-featured
and furrowed face. That he was of the olden time could be seen by his
mode of dress, for he wore knee-breeches and shoes instead of boots and
had on a shockingly grimy sheepskin coat. But on the whole his
appearance was not more bizarre than that of other old peasants.
The little girl stared and stared at the soldier who would not allow
any one to speak of war in his hearing. To her there was nothing so
delightful as to hear tales of battles or read stories of wars. She
thought it a great pity that she could not ask him to tell her about
the things he had been through.
All the while she sat there she dared not speak or reply when spoken
to. She felt that if she opened her mouth she would forget, and say
something about war, and then the old man might kill her.
After a time she began to think he looked horrible. It was so
incomprehensible, this, that one could not talk to him about war.
There must be something dreadful back of it all which she did not
understand. Perhaps the old man was dangerous? She only wanted to
escape, and was ready to make for the door. With every moment that
passed her fear increased, and by the time Back-Kaisa was ready to
leave and they could at last say good-bye, she was fairly beside
herself with fright.
Now, if he had been like other old soldiers, and had said that war was
the greatest thing in the world; if he had boasted of killing hundreds
of men and burning down whole cities and villages, then the little girl
would not have been a bit afraid of him.
VII
THE LAND OF HEART’S DESIRE
IT WAS Lars of London, and Sven of Paris, and Magnus of Vienna, and
Johan of Prague, and Per of Berlin, and Olle of Maggebysäter, the
stableman and the farmboy!
Now Lars of London, Sven of Paris, Magnus of Vienna, Johan of Prague,
and Per of Berlin, they were not foreigners, but farm-labourers at
Mårbacka. Lieutenant Lagerlöf, in a facetious moment, had named his
workmen’s cottages after the principal cities of Europe.
Lars of London and Magnus of Vienna had been plowing all day in the
field below the barn; Sven of Paris had fed the cows and, between
times, helped on the potato land. Johan of Prague had been digging
potatoes, while Per of Berlin, who had been at home all day nursing a
lame back, had come over to the manor for a little diversion. The
stableman had been grooming the horses, and in spare moments chopping
firewood, and the farmboy had worked in the potato field. Olle of
Maggebysäter was not employed at the farm; he had just come down to
Mårbacka to buy a bushel of rye.
It was a drizzly day in autumn, and the men had gone into the servants’
hall for the usual afternoon rest--from half after four to five. Their
shoes were covered with mud, their clothing was damp, and they
themselves were sour and disgruntled. They had kindled a fire on the
hearth, and dropped down round it. Lars of London, who had the largest
croft and was the best workman, sat on the chopping-block directly in
front of the fire. Magnus of Vienna, who was almost as good a worker as
Lars, was sitting next to him, on one of the cobbler’s stools. Sven of
Paris, who thought himself quite as good as any of them, though he did
tend cattle, had planted himself on the edge of the hearth, not caring
whether he shut off the blaze from the others. Johan of Prague had
taken the other stool and the old man of Berlin had seated himself on a
saw-buck just back of the rest. The stableman sat on the edge of the
cubby-bed swinging his legs, the farmboy perched on the carpenter’s
bench, while Olle of Maggebysäter sat down by the door on a barrel of
red ochre, resting his feet on his sack of rye.
Lars of London, Magnus of Vienna, Johan of Prague, and Sven of Paris
now opened their food-bundles. They each took out a hunk of rye bread
with a dab of butter on top. Drawing their sheath-knives from the belts
under their leather aprons and wiping them on their trousers, they
proceeded to spread their bread and cut it up, bit by bit, eating it in
all comfort. The farmboy was sent over to the kitchen to fetch the
fare for himself and the stableman, and came back with two halves of a
rye-cake, two pats of butter, and two dishes of cottage cheese. Per of
Berlin, not having worked that day, had brought no lunch, and Olle of
Maggebysäter had none, either; they just sat and glowered at the
others.
When they had finished eating, Lars of London, Magnus of Vienna, Sven
of Paris, Johan of Prague, the stableman, and the farmboy
simultaneously drew from their trousers’ pockets a plug of tobacco. Per
of Berlin was not left out on this, for he, too, had his plug; but Olle
of Maggebysäter had not even a bit of tobacco in his pocket.
The sheath-knives were again drawn. Now each man cut off a piece of his
plug, laid it on his leather apron, chopped it fine, then filled his
cutty-pipe.
Lars of London picked up a thin stick of wood and lighted it at the
fire. After he had lit his own pipe he gave the light to Magnus of
Vienna, who passed it on to Sven of Paris; Sven of Paris handed it to
Johan of Prague, who reached back and offered it to Per of Berlin: Per
of Berlin leaned over so as to pass it to the stableman, who, after
lighting his pipe, held the burning stick in his hand till the farmboy
came across the room and took it. Olle of Maggebysäter, to be sure, had
no need of a light--having neither pipe nor tobacco. The other men now
being warm and well-fed, the world began to look better to them.
But Olle of Maggebysäter was three-score-and-ten, and so crippled with
rheumatism that his fingers were stiff and crooked like claws; his head
was drawn to one side, one leg was shorter than the other, his sight
was poor, his wits were nothing to brag about, and he was toothless and
ugly. Washed and combed he had certainly not been in half a year. The
fringe of whiskers under his chin was full of sticks and straws. He
owned a little croft up in the woods; but being nothing of a worker, he
had not been able to keep poverty out of his house. Always grumpy and
discontented, he had no friends. And now as the clouds of tobacco smoke
rose from the other men’s pipes, he muttered, as if to himself:
“I’ve had nothin’ but trouble and misery all my life; but now I’ve
heard about a land they call America, and there I want to go.”
The other men sat tranquilly musing over their pipes and made no
response.
Olle of Maggebysäter continued:
“You see, ’tis like this in America--you’ve only to hit a rock with
your stick and the rum’ll come spurtin’ out. That land I want to see
afore I die.”
The others gazed straight before them and smiled, but said nothing.
Olle of Maggebysäter talked on:
“No one can make me stick at home in this dull, miserable place, when I
know there’s a land where the hills are full o’ rum.”
The others remained persistently silent, but not a word of what Olle of
Maggebysäter said was lost on them.
“The leaves of the trees in that land, they’re nothin’ but gold,” said
the poor old man. “There you don’t have to do day’s work at a manor,
you’ve only to go to the woods and pull off an armful of leaves, and
then you can buy yourself whatever you want. Blow me, if I don’t move
over there, old as I be!”
They were now in a mellow mood, all the men in the servants’ hall. They
saw, as it were before their eyes, that land where you tap rum from the
rocks and pick gold off the trees.
The farm-bell rang. Rest-time was up. They must again go out into the
wet and cold.
Lars of London returned to his plow, Magnus of Vienna to his; Sven of
Paris, Johan of Prague, and the farmboy went back to digging potatoes,
Per of Berlin betook himself home to his cottage, the stableman had to
go and chop the evening’s firewood, and Olle of Maggebysäter,
shouldering his sack of rye, limped off to the woods.
None of them looked as glum as they did half an hour ago. There was a
little glint of light in their eyes. They all felt it was good to know
of a land where rum flowed from the hills and the forests were of
gold--even though it lay so far away they could never reach it.
VIII
THE “SLOM” SEASON
EAST of Mårbacka, beyond a wooded ridge, lies Gårdsjön, a little lake
in which there is a fish we call _slom._ The fish is about two inches
long, and so thin as to be almost transparent; but small as it is, it
is edible.
In Lieutenant Lagerlöf’s time, when everything was so much better than
it is now, folks used to take this fish out of the lake in countless
numbers. Its spawning time was in early spring, when the ice began to
break and there was open water along the shores. One could stand at the
water’s edge and scoop the fish up with dippers and buckets. Certainly
no one went to the bother of putting out nets for slom!
Slom was fished and peddled only at the spawning time; therefore, it
was a sure sign of spring when a Gårdsjö fisherman came to the kitchen
at Mårbacka with the first catch. The man, knowing he had brought a
desired commodity, boldly lifted the latch (in those days there was no
lock on the kitchen door) and walked in with an air of confident
assurance. He did not stop just inside the door as on other occasions;
without stating his errand, or even saying good-morning, he strode
across the floor to the big table and deposited a small basket done up
in a blue-checked cotton cloth. Then, stepping back to the door, he
stood with head proudly erect, and waited for what was to follow.
If the housekeeper and the maids were the only ones in the kitchen, he
could stand a long while unnoticed; for they would not permit
themselves to show any signs of curiosity. But if Lieutenant Lagerlöf’s
little daughters chanced to be there, they were over by the basket at a
bound, eagerly untying the cover to see what was under it.
And they found a little porcelain plate, edged round with a blue
landscape, which they recognized as having seen every year at this
season as far back as they remembered. On the plate was a small mound
of slom--some forty or fifty fishes.
Now slom when properly prepared is a tasty fish, but for all that it is
considered rather common food. At the other manors in the district it
was looked upon as poor man’s fare, but not so at Mårbacka. Lieutenant
Lagerlöf was such a lover of fish he would hardly eat anything else the
year round. After the eelpout had finished spawning, in February, he
had to be satisfied with such things as stockfish, dried pike, salt
salmon, salt whitefish, to say nothing of the everlasting herring! So
every day now he wondered if the slom would be along soon.
The little girls had also learned to regard this fish as a rare treat,
and were delighted when they saw what was in the basket. They called to
the housekeeper and the maids to come and see. It was slom! Lasse had
brought slom! Wasn’t it great? Wasn’t it wonderful? And there was
general rejoicing in the kitchen. The housekeeper immediately went into
the pantry and made a sandwich for the fisherman. When handing it to
him, she condescended to ask him whether it looked as if there would be
a good “take” that year. The fisherman, cocky and self-satisfied (for
this was his big day), actually had the temerity to chaff the dignified
old housekeeper. He said there would be more slom than all the riches
of Lieutenant Lagerlöf could buy.
Mamselle Lovisa, wondering what all this talk meant, came out to the
kitchen. Instantly she caught sight of the fisherman and the plate of
slom she threw up her hands and exclaimed in despair:
“Good Lord! Is that awful stuff coming in now again!”
It was a great disappointment to the little girls that Aunt Lovisa did
not share their delight. Still, she must have had some appreciation of
the auspicious event, for she said something in a low tone to the
housekeeper, who smiled and nodded approval. Whereupon the children and
the maids were told not to let Lieutenant Lagerlöf know the slom had
come; it was to be a surprise for his supper.
When the three little girls heard that, they were gladder than ever.
Their father was their best friend and playfellow; there was nothing
too good for him! They felt very important now, and not for anything
would they leave the kitchen. They begged to be allowed to clean the
fish, and knew from past years how it should be done: With one stroke
you cut off the head, with another you drew out the “innards.” The tiny
fish had no scales or sharp bones. If you cut off the tail it was a
sign you didn’t know how slom should be treated. Even after the fishes
were cleaned the children would not leave them out of their sight. They
watched the housekeeper wash them, dip them in flour, and put them in
the frying pan. It wouldn’t do to throw slom in the pan just any way.
The little fishes had to be laid down very carefully, one by one, close
together, none overlapping, and fried hard, so that they all stuck
together. Then, with a flip of the pancake-spade, they were turned
over. When well browned on both sides, they were covered with a hard
round oat-cake, and then turned out of the pan so that the slom lay on
top of the bread. The housekeeper told the children that was the way
their grandmother had fixed it. In the old mistress’s time they used to
set before each person at table a round of slom on an oat-cake, for in
those days they were not so well off for plates as now.
All the while the slom was frying the children were on pins and needles
lest their father should come into the kitchen. Every other minute they
ran out in the hall and opened the door to the living room a wee bit to
see whether he sat quietly reading his newspaper. When he got up to go
for his usual evening walk, their hearts were in their mouths. Oh,
dear! What if he should take a notion to go out by the kitchen way----?
Later, at supper, the three little girls could hardly contain
themselves. If they but glanced at their father they began to titter.
It was hardest for the littlest girl, who had to say grace. In the
middle of the prayer she gave a little chirrup like a sparrow when it
sees a grain of corn. The Lieutenant was about to ask what had come
over her when his eyes fell on the slom right by his plate. His face
lit up.
“Thank the Lord we’ve got something to eat in the house once more!” he
said, and actually meant it. For to him only fish was food.
The children after their long silence broke into peals of laughter.
“Oho!” charged the Lieutenant, shaking a finger at them. “So this is
why you’ve been running in and out the whole evening and wouldn’t let
me read my paper in peace!”
It was an unusually jolly supper. The Lieutenant was always good
humoured and talkative, but when he was especially pleased about
anything he became quite irresistible. Then he fairly bubbled with
amusing anecdotes and kept the whole table convulsed with laughter.
As for the slom, there was no more than the Lieutenant himself could
have eaten; but he insisted that all must have a share of this
“delicacy.” And of course everyone marvelled that such a tiny fish
could be so delicious.
“Now, doesn’t it taste good, Lovisa?” he asked his sister, who was as
fond of meat as he was of fish.
Even she had to concede that just for once like this it was not
bad--but too much of it----
When the Lieutenant folded his serviette before rising from table, he
said very solemnly:
“Now, children, mind what I’m telling you: The King in his royal palace
couldn’t have had a better supper than we’ve had. So we must give God
proper thanks for the food and not slur the grace.”
Thus ended the first day of the slom season.
The next morning the Gårdsjö fisherman brought a whole pound of slom.
He was well met, of course, and he asked twelve _skillings_ the pound
for his fish, which was considered a high price. The Lieutenant himself
came out to the kitchen with the money in order to thank the old man
for coming to Mårbacka with the slom, and request him to continue as he
had begun.
“Now for pity’s sake don’t take it to the parson’s or the founderer’s!”
he said.
This time, also, the little girls volunteered to clean the fish. And
now they were repaid for their trouble. There was slom enough for the
whole family at supper, and some left over for the Lieutenant’s
breakfast. But the serving-folk did not have any that day, either. It
was too choice a dish for them.
The third day the fisherman delivered enough slom to fill a large
earthen bowl. Slom was now served at the family table for both
breakfast and supper, and in the kitchen it was set before the
overseer, but not before the stableman or the farmboy.
The next few days folk from every little hamlet along the lake came
bringing slom to Mårbacka. The Lieutenant bought from all. Soon every
earthen vessel in the cupboard was filled to overflowing, and the fish
had to be emptied into a huge copper kettle; when even that would not
hold it all, it was dumped into a big vat.
But to clean such a lot of small fish was no light task! The housemaids
had to leave off spinning and weaving to sit in the kitchen cleaning
slom. The three little girls were no longer to be seen in the
schoolroom. It was not for fun they cleaned slom now, but to help the
grown-ups. Fru Lagerlöf and Mamselle Lovisa put aside their other work
to give a hand. But it was a bit of a change for them all--a little
departure from the usual routine.
The housekeeper did not help clean fish, she stood at the stove the
whole day frying it. Before long she began to complain of the
quantities of butter the fish was taking. The butter-tub had been full
only a few days before, and she could already see the bottom. That was
the first break in the general satisfaction.
The family had slom for breakfast and slom for supper; but thus far
at dinner there was the usual Värmland midday fare--corned beef or
pork, or herring-balls, or fried ham, or sausage, or whatever else
there was on hand. But such fare was not to the taste of Lieutenant
Lagerlöf. One day when he was served meat that had lain in brine since
autumn, he lost all patience.
“I don’t see why we should sit here and eat salt food when the pantry
is full of nice fresh fish,” he flung out. “But that’s always the way
of these fine housekeepers; they feed the homefolk on salt stuff and
let the fresh things stand on the shelves and spoil--waiting for
company.”