she was too fond of her brother to be offended by anything he might
say. She meekly answered that she had never heard of any one’s setting
slom before guests.
“I know, Lovisa, that you are too refined to eat slom. You have been
out in the great world, and know how things ought to be. But I don’t
see why we back here at Mårbacka need bother ourselves about what they
do in Karlstad or Åmål.”
A light broke in on Mamselle Lovisa. “But surely you don’t want slom
for dinner, too!” she exclaimed, as if such a thing were unprecedented.
“Certainly I’ll eat slom whenever I can get it. Why do you suppose I
buy it every day, if I’m not to have any myself?”
After that, they had slom morning, noon, and night; which was not a
happy thought on the part of the Lieutenant. There is no denying that
slom is a nice-tasting fish, but it has an unpleasant odour. Not in the
sense of being tainted; but it is evil-smelling from the moment it
comes out of the water. However, all that disappears in the frying. But
those who have to handle the raw fish cannot escape, for it is an odour
that clings. Do what you will, it stays by you. Everything you touch
smells of slom.
Soon all but the Lieutenant began to sicken of slom. They took smaller
portions at each meal, and sighed as they sat down at table and saw the
everlasting slom set before them again.
Lieutenant Lagerlöf, however, went on buying. The fisherman who had
brought the first mess, true to his word, came faithfully every day,
and sometimes twice a day. But his manner was noticeably changed. He
now pulled the latch-string very gently, and came in with a meek and
deprecating smile. He did not set the fish on the kitchen table but
left it outside the door. Though he removed his cap and said Good-day,
he had to stand and wait a good half-hour before anyone seemed aware of
his presence.
Pleasant as it had been for both the maids and the children to escape
for a while from the old routine, they were by now so sick and tired of
cleaning fish they longed to get back to their regular tasks. None of
them would so much as look at the fisherman.
“I say, Lars, you’re not bringing slom again to-day, are you?” the
housekeeper once asked him, as if he were offering stolen goods.
The man just blinked his eyes; he was too abashed to utter a word.
“We’ve got more fish now than we can eat,” she told him. “I don’t
believe the Lieutenant wants to buy any more of that horrid stuff.”
However, she knew the Lieutenant was not to be trifled with in the
matter of slom, so of course she had to go in and tell him the
fisherman had come.
One day the Lieutenant was out when the old man appeared, so the
housekeeper peremptorily ordered him away. All in the kitchen were
glad, thinking that for once they would not have to clean any slom. But
as luck would have it, the old man met the Lieutenant in the lane; and
the latter bought his whole bagful of fish and sent him back to the
house with it.
It went on like that for a couple of weeks. Everyone was weary and
disgusted--except the Lieutenant. He chanted the praises of slom at
every meal; it was wholesome and nutritious food. One need only look at
the fishermen down in Bohuslän who lived upon fish; they were the
strongest and healthiest men in the whole country.
One evening Mamselle Lovisa tried to tempt him with larded pancakes, a
favourite dish of his. And no wonder! for such larded pancakes as the
old housekeeper made you never tasted in all your life!
“The overseer and the men, I suppose, must have their fill of slom, so
you want me to be satisfied with pancakes.” The Lieutenant waved away
the plate of nice hot cakes.
“Oh, no, that’s not the reason,” said Mamselle Lovisa. “The overseer
and the men are so sick of slom we dare not set it before them.”
Then the Lieutenant had to laugh; but, as he would not touch the
pancakes, they had to fetch him his slom.
Toward the end of the second week the whole household was in open
rebellion. The housekeeper raged about the inroads on the butter, and
the servants declared they could not go on working at a place where
they fed you on nothing but slom. It had reached a pass where the
Lieutenant dared not show his face in the kitchen; for there the
murmurs were loudest. Nor were things as they should be in the dining
room. Joy had fled the board. The governess left her plate untouched
and the little daughters of the house, who otherwise stuck by their
father through thick and thin, even they began to pipe a few feeble
protests.
Then at last Fru Lagerlöf came to the rescue. She conferred with
Mamselle Lovisa and the housekeeper, and they all thought it time now
to resort to the old tried and sure remedy.
At dinner there was boiled slom. Now, the very look of boiled slom is
enough! There is a pallor about it peculiarly corpselike, and, besides,
it is quite tasteless. Just the sight of it takes away one’s appetite.
When the Lieutenant saw the boiled slom he looked as glum as the
others.
“We are all out of butter,” Mamselle Lovisa gave as excuse; “and since
you will have slom at every meal we had no choice but to serve it
boiled. For my part,” she added, “I think it tastes no worse that way
than any other.”
The Lieutenant made no answer; so they all knew that Mamselle Lovisa
had triumphed. He might easily have stepped into the pantry and seen
for himself whether the butter was all gone, or ordered a fresh supply;
but he did neither.
After that dinner he bought no more slom. What was the use, he said,
when the womenfolk were too lazy to prepare the fish in the proper way?
No one contradicted him, though all knew he was as glad as they were to
see the last of the slom.
IX
THE SEVENTEENTH OF AUGUST
I
IT IS not easy to say how the seventeenth of August, which was
Lieutenant Lagerlöf’s birthday, came to be the great day that it was.
But one can imagine that with so many gifted persons all living in a
little place like East Ämtervik, it was really necessary that they
should have a chance, at least once a year, to show what they could do.
When, for example, there were three such fine orators as Engineer
Noreen of Herrestad, Senator Nils Andersson of Bävik, and Merchant
Teodor Nilsson of Visteberg, the first of whom went in for the
pathetic, the second for the profound, and the third for the poetic, it
would have been a great pity had they never been heard elsewhere than
at small parties and town meetings.
And with a verse writer, too, like Sexton Melanoz at one’s command!
Days on end he had to sit in the schoolroom and hear the youngsters
spell, stammer, and stumble through the intricate mazes of the Swedish
language. Surely he needed to let this maltreated tongue ring out in
high-sounding eulogistic measures once a year at least!
Then, moreover, there was a male quartette in the parish composed of
such good singers as Gustaf and Jan Asker, of the old musical Askers,
and the brothers Alfred and Tage Schullström, who kept a store down by
the church. People were thankful to them whenever they sang; but for
the singers themselves it must have been both stimulating and inspiring
to sing at a grand affair where they had critical and discriminating
hearers.
And the old man Asker, who played dance music at peasant weddings where
nobody cared what came forth from the clarinet just so it had dash and
rhythm--he must indeed have been glad to come to Mårbacka on a
seventeenth of August! The young folk there appreciated his art, and
told him there was no music in the world so easy to dance to as his.
Then, too, there was a brass sextette made up of Tage Schullström,
Sergeant Johan Dalhgren, the Gårdsjö Inspector, a shop-clerk and two
infant-school teachers. They had all invested in instruments and
scores, and had rehearsed marches and waltzes, overtures and
folk-songs. It would have been too bad not to have had one gala day,
when their efforts were crowned by the award of triumph.
When, besides, among the relatives who spent their summers at Mårbacka
there were two clever entertainers like Oriel Afzelius, husband of Fru
Lagerlöf’s sister, and her own brother, Kristofer Wallroth, it was well
that away off here in the farming country there was a fête on a grand
enough scale to tempt them to perform.
Moreover, among the guests was a born prima donna, the pretty and merry
Stockholmer, Fru Hedda Hedberg, who could act as well as sing, and was
in every way adapted for the stage. But she had married a poor Värmland
lieutenant. Therefore, one may well say it was almost imperative that
there should be a seventeenth of August celebration where all this
wealth of talent might come into its own.
II
AFTER Lieutenant Lagerlöf became master of Mårbacka, for the first few
years the seventeenth of August was observed in the customary birthday
manner; there were flowers on the coffee table and a garland of leaves
round the Lieutenant’s cup. The neighbours dropped in to wish him many
happy returns of the day, and were served with coffee, fruit juice,
punch, and toddy. Then came supper at nine o’clock with the usual light
chatter. After the meal, tables and chairs were removed from the living
room that all might have a bit of a dance.
But somehow it must have been spread abroad that these little birthday
parties were rather pleasant affairs. Since there was never any thought
of sending out invitations, all who cared to come were welcome; so from
year to year more and more folk gathered at Mårbacka.
And there were increases in the families, of course. As soon as the
little ones began to toddle, they had to come along to Mårbacka to
celebrate Lieutenant Lagerlöf’s birthday. And sometimes the neighbours,
who always attended these parties, had guests at home, and, naturally,
they brought them.
In those days, when the young gentlemen would go many a mile for the
sake of a dance, they, too, began to pay their respects to Lieutenant
Lagerlöf on the seventeenth of August. Besides, there were the
relatives from other parts of the country who visited Mårbacka every
summer, and they planned their trips so as to be present on the
Lieutenant’s birthday.
As it was always fine weather on the seventeenth of August, in the
Lieutenant’s lifetime, the guests would while away the time strolling
about the grounds, viewing his gardens and buildings. If many young
people were present, the dancing would begin before supper. Everyone,
no doubt, had a pleasant enough time, though no more so than at other
parties.
Then happily Lieutenant Adolf Hedberg and his pretty young wife came to
live at East Ämtervik. At Lieutenant Lagerlöf’s next birthday party an
old peasant woman with a basket of eggs to sell stalked into the
kitchen in the midst of the festivities.
She was immediately ordered out, of course; no one had time to stop and
buy eggs in the bustle and excitement, with so many guests to be
served. Not in the least discouraged, the old woman went round to the
veranda, where the Lieutenant sat with a circle of gentlemen. Indeed
she was not embarrassed by the presence of the company; her tongue
wagged so rapidly and she was so facetiously persistent, he had to buy
her eggs to get rid of her. Even after she had stuffed the money into
the pocket of her kirtle, she would not go. Then she wanted to know who
the other gentlemen were, and commented rather freely on their personal
appearance. Finally, young Lieutenant Hedberg, who thought the joke had
gone far enough, said:
“You’d better stop now, Hedda.”
Whereupon the “old peasant woman” rushed up, and dealt him a sound box
on the ear.
“Why, Adolph!” she cried, “how can you be so mean as to give me away
like that!”
And indeed it was a shame, for her disguise was so perfect and her
Värmland dialect so deliciously natural that none would have taken her
for the charming lady from Stockholm.
That bit of drollery set the ball of talents rolling. Along in the
evening Kristofer Wallroth sang a number of Eric Bögh’s ditties. He had
no voice to speak of, but his rendition of the serio-comic was
side-splitting. At the end, Auditor Afzelius, with a silk kerchief
bound round his head and a mantilla thrown over his shoulder, sang
“Emilie’s Heart-throbs.” That was, of course, the star feature of the
evening; the Auditor was inimitable in the rôle of the lovelorn maiden.
It must have been rather galling to the local pride of Sexton Melanoz
that only these city folk provided entertainment for the Lieutenant and
his guests. But the next year it was the sexton who made the “big hit.”
The Lieutenant had once presented to the Ostenby school a lot of small
wooden muskets made at Mårbacka so that the children might learn to
drill. He had even sent an old sergeant to the school to teach the
youngsters the first military movements.
The sexton had an inspiration; he and his school children would march
to Mårbacka on the Lieutenant’s birthday! Shouldering their arms, and
led by banner and drum, they came marching along the driveway. It
looked as if a whole army were approaching. There were so many the line
extended from the manservants’ cottage all the way up to the
dwelling-house veranda, where the sexton, who was in command, called
Halt!
First, he said a few words to the effect that the children had come to
thank Lieutenant Lagerlöf for considering that their bodies needed to
be developed as well as their minds; then he let them demonstrate how
well they could march--do right-about, left-about, close ranks,
shoulder arms ...
It was a grand surprise the sexton had prepared for them all. The
Lieutenant was delighted and his guests were pleased. What the old
housekeeper, Mamselle Lovisa, and Fru Lagerlöf thought, when in the
middle of a big party they had to serve coffee and cakes to some sixty
youngsters, may be left to the imagination. After that, every time the
seventeenth of August came round, they remembered with dismay the long
procession of children, and hoped the sexton’s army would not be so
strong this year.
Engineer Noreen and his wife, like the sexton, had felt it was not fair
to let folk from outside the parish furnish all the amusement for the
seventeenth of August. So along in the evening, when there was a moon,
the Engineer donned a black velvet cape and plumed baretta, and Fru
Emelie an old-time dress with high puffed sleeves. Then, on the
gravel-walk below the veranda, they gave two or three scenes from
Börjesson’s “Eric XIV.” This acting in the mellow moonlight was touched
with enchantment. Eric Noreen had so wholly lived himself into the rôle
of the unhappy King, it seemed as if every word he spoke came straight
from his heart. And Fru Noreen looked sweet and shy and just a bit
frightened, as a “Karin Månsdotter” should look.
At the next year’s celebration there were more people than ever.
Carriages, pony-carts, and chaises came rolling up the avenue. In a
short space of time some seventy or eighty persons had arrived. It was
evident the report had travelled far and wide that they had many
delightful diversions at Mårbacka not to be found elsewhere.
This time the Lieutenant felt quite embarrassed, as there was nothing
special to offer the guests. It was just as at any other party; the
young folk began to dance in the early afternoon, the _paterfamilias_
chatted over their toddy glasses, and the _maters_ sat in the drawing
room nibbling fruit and confectionery. Apparently, no one was bored,
for Auditor Afzelius and Dean Hammargren among the men and Hedda
Hedberg and Nana Hammargren among the women knew how to enliven a
company. The Lieutenant noted no mysterious glances nor any signs of
preparation. Not even the usual birthday speech was forthcoming.
Then as dusk was falling, folk from all the countryside came flocking
to Mårbacka. The avenue leading to the house was soon black with
people. The Lieutenant thought it a pity they had taken the trouble to
come when there was nothing to be seen.
After supper there was a little flutter of excitement and expectancy
among the guests. Presently two gentlemen placed before the Lieutenant
a flower-decked armchair, and bade him be seated. Instantly strong arms
lifted him on high. Jan Asker struck up a march; the gentlemen offered
their arms to the ladies, and all marched out into the night. But not
for long did they walk in darkness. When they turned the corner of
the house, the whole garden was a-light with row upon row of magic
lanterns. The Lieutenant was borne along illuminated walks down to the
little park. It was the first time anything of the sort had been
attempted at Mårbacka. He was struck with wonder and amazement at the
beauty of the scene. Could this be the ground that he and the old
gardener had staked and measured only a few years back?
Exclamations of delight came from all sides. How dark and mysterious
the copses; how deep and endless the paths appeared under their canopy
of leaves; how the flowers shimmered and shone in the light of the
multi-coloured lanterns; how the masses of foliage hung down from the
trees like gorgeous draperies!
The procession halted in one of the glades of the park. The
Lieutenant’s chair was set down; and, as his dazzled eyes blinked into
a grotto of leaves and flowers, Flora, on a pedestal, encircled by
little nymphs, sang in a glorious voice a song of praise to the creator
of the garden.
“Oh, Hedda!” the Lieutenant cried to the beautiful goddess of flowers,
“I might have known that you would not forget me!”
III
IT IS about four in the afternoon of a seventeenth of August. The two
smaller girls, Selma and Gerda, are dressing for the party. The
housemaid pokes her head into the attic storeroom--the room the little
girls are occupying temporarily, since their own has been placed at the
convenience of visiting relatives.
“Selma and Gerda, you’ll have to go down and receive,” shouts the maid.
“No one else is ready, and the first carriages are coming up the
drive.”
Now the little girls have to hurry; but at the same time they are
thrilled with joy. Just think! It’s beginning--the seventeenth of
August is beginning!
They button up their frocks, pin on their kerchief rosettes, and run
down. Not a grown person in sight! Not even their elder sister can help
them receive, since she is attending a dress rehearsal of the evening’s
play.
The first arrivals, Herr Nilsson, his wife and four children, are
already seated on the veranda. They always come too early to parties,
but never so much so as on the seventeenth of August. The little girls
do not wonder at that; for everyone must long to come to Mårbacka on
such a day.
The time seems a bit long, perhaps, to the guests and their little
hostesses before the next vehicle rolls up and the homefolk put in an
appearance. But to-day is the Seventeenth, and one does not catch at
trifles.
The next arrivals are Pastor Alfred Unger and family from West
Ämtervik. They come in a two-horse carriage and have driven about
thirteen English miles. The wagon is full of women and children; the
parson himself, who is a real horseman, is handling the reins.
Lieutenant Lagerlöf, ready at last, comes out on the veranda as the
pastor drives in on the grounds.
“Say, Alfred!” he shouts, “what the deuce have you done to your horses?
They’re as like as two blackberries.”
“Chut, chut! You mustn’t betray any secrets on your birthday,” Pastor
Unger shouts back.
As a matter of fact, the parson had two fine carriage horses which
would have been exactly alike but for a white spot on the forehead of
one of them. He had hit upon the idea of inserting between the
blinder-straps of each a piece of white leather, to make it appear
that the horses were perfectly matched. No one would have detected the
artifice if the pastor had not been so proud of his device that he had
talked of it to right and left, and of course the Lieutenant had heard
all about it.
But besides this conveyance from West Ämtervik comes a hayrick packed
full of young people, relatives from Karlstad. Then wagon after wagon
draws up. Here come the Gårdsjö folk--most delightful of guests! They
have a long line of vehicles. They are a large family, and besides
themselves they have brought Oriel and Georgina Afzelius, and Kristofer
Wallroth and his young sister, Julia, who are staying with them.
In one of the Gårdsjö wagons there are some odd looking large white
bundles, to be taken upstairs to the theatre. Selma and Gerda are very
curious to know what those are for. The little Wallroth girls are sworn
to secrecy; all they dare divulge is that Uncle Oriel has thought of
something perfectly gorgeous.
Then who should come up but old Engineer Ivan Warberg from Angersby,
with a cartful of pretty girls! A jubilant whoop from the veranda!
What, a confirmed old bachelor like Ivan Warberg? Who would have
thought it! They all know, to be sure, that the girls are his nieces,
and his guests for the summer; but they can’t resist the fun of teasing
Ivan a bit.
The little Lagerlöf girls think it strange Fru Hedda does not appear.
True, she no longer lives at East Ämtervik; but they hope she will come
and do something jolly. Somehow, it would not be a real seventeenth of
August unless she were there.
And now come the nearest neighbours. Pastor Milén and his boys have
moved to another parish. To-day, it is the tall, handsome Pastor
Lindegren and his sweet little wife who stroll over from the parsonage.
From Där Ner in Mårbacka come Mother Kersten and Father Olof; but they
are not the only peasant-folk who want to felicitate the Lieutenant.
Old man Larsson of Ås, the richest man in the parish, has come with his
daughters; the Senator from Bävik with his wife, and the church warden
of Västmyr with his.
The little girls are in a perfect twitter of excitement as they stand
beside their father and see all who come. One whom they most anxiously
await is Jan Asker. They do hope he is not hurt about something and
will stay away. They try to count heads, but as people keep pouring in
from every direction they soon lose the count. Maybe there are already
a hundred guests! They hope it will be a gay party. It sounds so grand
to the children when somebody says there were a hundred persons
gathered at Mårbacka on the seventeenth of August.
But this receiving is merely an introduction to that which is to
follow. It is the same with the coffee-drinking on the lawn. The
children wish all such things were over.
Ah, at last it is going to begin! The brass sextette line up in
position below the steps. A march is struck. The gentlemen offer an
arm to the ladies and, led by the band, the couples march through the
garden down to the little park.
There they gather round a table on which stand glasses of punch and
claret-cup. Obviously, the moment has come for the birthday speech and
the toast to Lieutenant Lagerlöf. Engineer Noreen, Senator Nils
Andersson, and Herr Nilsson of Visteberg have all come prepared to
speak. Each wonderingly looks at the others, and hesitates, not wanting
to push forward and take the word from his rivals.
“Well, are we to have something?” the Lieutenant asks. These high-flown
set speeches are not to his taste, and he is anxious to have that part
of the programme over as quickly as possible. Just then from behind him
comes a clear voice, with musical Stockholm intonations, and out of the
thicket steps a beautiful Zingara. She asks if she may tell his
fortune. Taking his left hand between her two pretty hands, she reads
the lines of his palm.
Lieutenant Lagerlöf had been very ill during the winter, and to regain
his health had spent part of the summer at Strömstad. All his exploits
and divertissements on that sojourn the Zingara now reads in his hand,
and, moreover, she reveals them in lilting verse.
It is a bit pert and naughty, to be sure, but it provokes laughter and
the Lieutenant is charmed.
“Anyhow, you’re Number One, Hedda!” he says.
But when Fru Hedda has proposed a health to the host, and has led the
fourfold hurrahs, and the sextette has tooted a fanfare, she gives the
three speakers from East Ämtervik a sweeping glance, and says: “Pray,
pardon my intrusion. Now it is the turn of the natives.”
“The ‘natives’ are already beaten, Fru Hedberg,” replies Engineer
Noreen.