Sten Ulffot, a youth of twenty years, the last scion of the ancient
family of Ulffot, who possessed property in Wäringe, Hofsta and
Löfsala, awoke one sunny May morning towards the end of the year 1460
in his bedroom at Hofsta in Upland. After some hours of dreamless sleep
his rested brain began to review the events of the previous day, which
had been of such decisive importance for him that, still benumbed by
the blow, be stood as it were outside the whole affair and regarded
it with wonder. The bailiff and sheriff's officer had been there,
had shown mortgage-deeds of the house and estate, had read various
parchment documents, and the upshot of it all was that Sten, because
of his father's and his own debts, was reduced to abject poverty. And
since his father in his lifetime had not been a merciful man, the young
man must leave the old house, which was no longer his, the very next
day.
Sten, who had never taken life seriously, for the simple reason that
life had always been an easy matter for him, took this also very
easily. Poverty for him was simply an uttered word which as yet lacked
any corresponding reality. With a light heart he sprang out of bed,
and put on his only but handsome velvet jacket and his only pair of
breeches of Brabant cloth. He counted his few gold coins, and hid
them carefully in his bosom, for he had now caught some idea of their
importance. Then he went into the castle-room, which was quite empty.
The only impression this spacious room made on him was that he could
breathe more easily in it. Upon a table fastened to the wall were to be
seen damp rings--the traces left by the tankards of beer which the two
functionaries had used the day before; it occurred to him that there
would have been more rings if he had been with them himself--it looked
so stingy!
The sun threw the reflections of the painted windows on the floor, so
that they resembled beautiful mosaic work. His coat of arms, the wolf's
foot on a red ground, was repeated six times; he amused himself by
treading on the black foot, expecting to hear the wolf howl, but every
time he did so the reflection of the wolf's foot merely lay on his
yellow leather boots. When he took a step forward the reflection of
the foot flew up to his breast and on his white jacket the red shield
lay like a bleeding heart torn by the black paw with its outspread
claws. He felt his heart beat violently and left the room.
He climbed the narrow stone stairs to the upper story, which his
parents had occupied in their lifetime. There every possible movable
which makes a house into a home for living beings had been swept off
and carried away. The rooms looked like a series of burial chambers,
hewn out of one rock, intended for souls without bodies and without
corporeal needs. But signs of the life which had been there were still
remaining. Two grey spots on the floor showed where a bed had stood;
there were two dark lines where the table had been', and between them
were marks and scratches left by boots; a dark, irregular stain on the
white-washed wall showed where his father had been accustomed to rest
his head when he raised it from his work which lay on the table. Some
coals from the fire-place had fallen into the room and left dark spots
on the floor like those on a panther-skin.
In his mother's room was a stone image of the Virgin and Child fixed
to the wall; she regarded her Son with a look full of hope and without
any foreboding that she held a future condemned prisoner upon her
knees. Young Sten felt a vague depression and went on. Through a
secret door he mounted up into the attic and went out upon the roof.
Underneath him he saw the whole wide-stretching expanse of land which
till lately he had called his own: these green fields which once formed
the bottom of the sea, surrounded by small green hills once islands,
but lately wore their verdure on his account--to support the poor who
clothed him, brushed him, prepared his food, and tended his horses, his
hounds, his falcons and his cattle. In the previous autumn he had stood
here and watched them sow his corn; now others would come and cut and
gather it in. A little while ago it was his to decide when the fishes
in the streams should die, when the firs in the wood should be felled,
and when the game should be shot. Even the birds in this huge space of
air belonged to him, although they had flown hither from the realm of
the Emperor of Austria.
He could not yet grasp the fact that he possessed nothing more of all
this, for he had never missed anything and therefore did not know what
possession was; he only felt a huge emptiness and thought that the
landscape had a melancholy look. The swallows which had come that very
day flew screaming about him and sought their old nests in the eaves;
some found them, and others did not--the rains of autumn and snows
of winter had destroyed their little clay dwellings so that they had
fallen into the castle-moat.
But there was clay in the fields, water in the brooks and straw on
every hillock; as long as they were homeless they could find shelter in
every grove and under the thatch of every cottage. They hunted without
hindrance in their airy hunting grounds; they paired and wedded in the
blue spring weather which was full of the sweet scents of the newly
sprung birches, the honey-perfumed catkins of the osiers, and all the
invisible burgeonings of the spring. He went farther up on the roof
and stood by the pole that supported the dog-vane. As he looked up to
the white clouds of spring sailing by, it seemed to him as though he
stood on the aerial ship of a fairy-tale and were sailing among the
clouds, and when he looked down on the earth again it appeared like a
collection of mole-hills, a mere rubbish-heap cast out of heaven. But
he had a foreboding that he must go down and dig in the mole-hills in
order to find a living; he felt that his feet stood firm upon the
earth, although his glances wandered at will among the silver-gleaming
clouds.
As he descended the narrow attic stairs it seemed to him as though an
enormous gimlet were screwing him deeper and deeper into the earth.
He entered the garden and looked at the apple trees in blossom. Who
would pluck the fruits of these trees which he had cultivated and
tended for years? He looked at the empty stable; all his horses were
gone except a sorry nag, which he had never thought worth riding. He
went into the dog-house and saw only ten empty leash-straps. Then
his heart grew heavy, for he felt that he had been parted from the
only living creatures who loved him. All others--friends, servants,
farm-hands, tenants--had, as his poverty increased, gradually changed
their demeanour, but these ten had always remained the same. He was
astonished that he did not feel the blank so bitterly up there in the
ancestral castle with its memories, for he forgot that _that_ sense of
loss had long been obliterated by his tears.
He went into the courtyard of the castle. There a sight met his eyes
which made him realise his true situation. On a four-wheeled wagon,
to which three pairs of oxen were yoked, lay a heap of furniture
and household utensils; beneath all lay the great oak bedstead
splendidly carved, mighty clothes and linen chests constructed like
fortresses against thieves, his father's work-table, the family
dining-table, the chairs from the sitting-room with fragments of
torn-down, gaudy-coloured curtains, his mother's embroidery-frame,
his grandfather's chair with the cushioned arms and the high back,
and on the top of all his own cradle and the praying stool at which
his mother had so often prayed for her little one. Beside them were
bundles of lances, swords, and shields with which his forefathers had
once acquired and defended these goods which he must now leave behind
in order to go out into the world and earn his bread in the sweat of
his brow. All these dead things which, when in their places, had formed
parts of his own self lay there like corpses and up-torn trees showing
their roots; it was an enormous funeral pile of memories, which he
would have liked to set fire to.
Just then the gates grated on their hinges, the drawbridge was lowered,
the driver cracked his whip over the first pair of oxen, the ropes and
shafts of the cart creaked, and the heavily laden vehicle rattled away
on the stone-paved courtyard. As it rolled over the planks of the
wooden, bridge, there was a rumbling like the echo from a grave-vault.
"The last load?" called the driver to the gate-keeper.
"The last," came the answer from the vaulted gateway.
The word "last" made a deep impression on Sten, who felt himself to be
the last of his race, but he could not indulge in further reflections,
for a man whom he did not know stepped towards him holding the nag.
"The castle is to be shut up," he said.
"Why shut up?" asked Sten, merely to hear his own voice again.
"Because it is to be pulled down. The King does not wish to have so
many castles in the land."
Sten laid hold of the reins and mounted the nag; he pressed it with
his knees, and holding his head high, rode through the arched gateway.
There he took out his purse and threw a piece of gold behind him, which
the gate-keeper and the stable-man raced for.
When he had ridden over the drawbridge, he reined in his horse till
the cart with its load had disappeared from sight. Then he turned up a
narrow path and vanished among the birch trees.
"I wonder what he will do?" said the gate-keeper.
"Enlist," answered the stable-man.
"No, he is no good at that; he has learnt nothing but reading and
writing."
"Then he will become one of the King's secretaries."
"Not _this_ King's; his father was in disfavour for refusing to bear
arms against his fellow-countrymen."
"Then let him become what the devil he likes."
"One cannot become what one likes, one must become what one can; and if
one can do nothing, one becomes nothing."
"Just so it is! Just so! But I don't know what one has to learn in
order to become a gate-keeper."
"Well, one must be strong enough for it, and keep awake at night; and
that the young gentleman cannot do."
"Yes, he can keep awake at night, for we have seen him do it; but
perhaps he is not strong enough to draw the heavy chain."
"Well, stable-man, he must look after himself. Meanwhile I will draw up
the bridge, and then we can go the backway to the tavern, and change
our piece of gold, and he can do what he likes!"
"What he can, gate-keeper; one cannot do what one likes."
"Quite true! Quite true!"
The chain rattled, the bridge was drawn up, and the gate fell to with a
dull crash.
* * * * *
Sten meantime had ridden for several hours without exactly knowing
whither. He only knew that the way led him out into the world, far
from the protection of home. He saw by the sun's position that it was
nearly afternoon, and by the nag's drooping head that it was tired; he
therefore dismounted, tied the reins loosely round one of the horse's
forelegs and led him up from the path to a fine upland meadow where he
left him loose to graze. Then he lay down under a wild apple tree to
rest, but since he felt that the ground was damp, he broke down some
young birches and made a bed out of their soft leaves; he also tore
off some long strips of bark and placed them under his head, knees and
elbows; then he went to sleep. But when he awoke he felt terrible pangs
of hunger, for he had eaten nothing during the last twenty-four hours;
he felt his tongue cleaving to his palate and a burning and tickling
feeling in his throat. The horse had disappeared. He did not know
where he was, could not see a human habitation, and had small hope of
finding an inn before nightfall. Then he fell on his knees and prayed
his patron-saint to help him. As he mentioned the name "St Blasius" it
occurred to him how the saint under similar circumstances had sustained
himself on roots and berries in the desert. Strengthened by prayer, he
looked round to see what there was to eat and drink. His eye first fell
on a birch. It was just the time of year when the sap flows. With his
knife he split off a piece of bark and fastened the corners together
with wood splinters so that it formed a water-tight basket; then he
bored a hole in the tree and from the hard wood trickled out the clear
sap resembling Rhine wine in colour. While it was trickling, he climbed
into the apple tree, where he had seen a large number of apples, which
had hung there all the winter and were certainly rotten but could at
any rate fill his stomach. When he had eaten some of them he began to
shake the tree, so that the apples fell on the ground. He was just on
the point of rejoicing at his discovery and looking forward to drink
the good birch wine when he heard a harsh voice calling from below;
"Hullo, Sir thief! what are you doing there?"
"I am no thief," answered Sten.
"He who steals is a thief," answered the voice. "Come down at once, or
you will spend the night in gaol."
Sten thought it belter to descend and try to explain himself. He found
himself before a man of authoritative appearance, who was accompanied
by a large dog.
"In the first place," said the man, "you have committed an outrage on
a fruit-bearing tree; punishment--three marks and forfeiture of the
axe--chapter seventeen of the forest laws."
"I thought one had a right to plunder wild trees," said Sten in a
shamefaced way, for he had never been addressed in this manner.
"There are no wild trees now, though it was certainly so in Adam and
Eve's time. Besides, I was purposely keeping the apples to flavour
cabbages with. Secondly, you have cut and extracted the sap from my
fine carriage-pole."
"Carriage-pole?"
"Yes, I intended to make a carriage-pole of the birch tree. Then you
have peeled off birch bark in a wood that did not belong to you; fine
--three shillings, according to the same chapter in King Christopher's
land-law."
"I thought I was in God's free world and had a right to support my
life," answered Sten mildly.
"God's free world? Where is that? I only know tax-free land, land that
is assessed, and crown lands. Thirdly, probably--I have no testimony
to that effect, but probably it is your horse which is feeding in my
meadow?"
"It is my horse, and I suppose it could not die of hunger while the
grass was growing round it."
"No one need die of hunger. Any animal can graze by the way-side,
everyone can pluck a handful of nuts, and every traveller can cut an
axle for his wheel when necessary. You are therefore convicted of
fourfold robbery, and I keep the horse."
"And leave me alone in the wood, where perhaps I cannot even kindle a
fire for the night."
"Whoever cuts dry wood on other people's land is liable to a fine of
three shillings each time. If it were not so, one could never be sure
of possessing anything."
"It never was so on my property. There we knew nothing of such laws and
paragraphs, and my manorial rights were never so niggardly as yours."
Here a great alteration took place in the bearing of the man of
authority. He took the horse by the rein, led it to Sten, held the
stirrup for him, bent one of his knees, and said:
"Sir, pardon me, I see you have ridden out for recreation and jest with
an old law-student. A few mouldy apples, I hope, will not make any
trouble between us."
Sten, who was a lover of sincerity, hesitated a moment before putting
his foot into the proffered stirrup, but as he was glad to be safely
out of the difficulty, he swung himself up on his saddle.
"Listen," he said in an authoritative tone, "where is the nearest inn?"
"Half a mile southwards, if your lordship is going to Stockholm."
"Good! Now I thank you for the amusement, and put a small question to
you. Tell me: if one steals out of necessity, then it is theft; and if
one steals to amuse oneself, what is that?"
"A joke."
"Good. But how is the judge to know whether it is a joke or earnest?"
"Oh, he can tell!"
Sten pressed his nag's sides with his legs, bent forward, and said:
"No, friend, he cannot."
The nag shot away like an arrow from the astonished law-student and his
carriage-pole.
The prospect of soon obtaining a meal, and the fortunate conclusion
of his adventure, had set Sten in a mood which banished gloomy
reflections. After a half-hour's trot he rode through the gate of the
inn, and was received like a gentleman of high rank. He sat down at a
table under a great hawthorn tree outside the house, and ordered a fowl
with sage stuffing and a jug of Travener beer. These the host promised
to get even if he had to run round the whole village for them.
The May evening was fine, and Sten ate and drank at his ease, though
he could not completely banish the alarm which the threatening attack
of hunger had just caused him. He could not get the scene with the
law-student out of his thoughts, and he felt that soon, when his fine
velvet jacket no more protected him, he would come under the hard laws
of necessity like any other ordinary man. He perceived that he must
certainly become a working member of human society, and join one of its
numerous classes if he wished to continue to live. The earth, with all
the products that she bore, was already fully occupied, so that one
of the lords of creation might lie on the ground and die of hunger
under a fruit-bearing tree if he did not wish to be hung, while the
birds of the air might eat their fill with impunity off the same tree.
He wondered that men let squirrels and jays plunder hazel bushes, and
preserve their freedom, while only in case of absolute need was a man
allowed to save his life with a handful of nuts. It seemed to him a
cruel contradiction; he might save his life, but not support it, and
every meal was as it were a recurrent saving of life. But on the other
hand his forefathers had founded these laws and he had himself employed
them. Who then was the proper object of his reproach? Was not the fault
partly his own, and were not the consequences quite natural?
While he was thus meditating, his eyes were fixed upon a figure which
was approaching the garden of the inn from the highway. As it came
nearer, Sten saw a man of about thirty with a dark complexion, long
arms, and knees and feet curving inwards as though he were afflicted
with spavin. Over his shoulder he carried a sack, and in his hand
a knotted stick. With a jerk he flung the sack on the table close
to Sten, sat down and struck on the table with the stick so sharply
that it sounded like a pistol-shot. At the same time he called into
the house, "Come out, Mr Innkeeper, and give a worthy member of the
worshipful company of blacksmiths in Stockholm a jug of beer."
The innkeeper, who thought that some important person had come,
hastened out, but when he saw the fellow he turned round and said to
Sten in a disdainful tone: "These fellows never have money. I will give
him nothing." "By St Michael, the archangel and St Loyus, innkeeper, if
you don't give me beer I will set my mark upon you," broke in the man,
and lifted his stick.
"If you threaten, you will be hung for compelling hospitality," said
the innkeeper; "you did not pay the last time you were here, so pick
up your sack and take yourself off, for the clerk of assize is sitting
inside."
"I will pay for his beer, innkeeper," interrupted Sten, who felt a
certain sympathy with the unmasked braggart.
"The gentleman is kind and understands a traveller's needs. As regards
payment, I think it is all the same who pays. To-day it is my turn,
to-morrow yours. In good company I never say 'no.' And a member of
the worshipful company of blacksmiths at Stockholm can be as good a
gentleman as any other, or any traveller, with your permission."
"You are right, sir; all things considered, we are all travellers, and
when we travel we are all alike."
The blacksmith, who had received his jug of beer, lifted it, took his
cap off, and said in a solemn voice, "Saint Michael and Saint Loyus!"
Then he threw back his head and took some tremendously deep draughts
of the beer, so that the muscles of his neck moved like the backs of
snakes. Then he collected his breath, raised the jug once more and
said, "Pledge me a toast, sir, with your permission." Then he drank for
some minutes so that his neck sinews were strained like harness-straps.
When he had finished, he emptied out the last drops, struck the table
with his stick, and called into the house, "Two full jugs! Now I am the
inviter."
"And the young gentleman pays?" asked the host.
Sten nodded assent, and the blacksmith continued, "It is all the same
who pays. '_Commune bonum_,' as we say in the shop. To-day it is my
turn, to-morrow yours."
"Sit down, sir, and let us talk," said Sten. "You are a blacksmith, I
hear."
"Banner-bearer to the worshipful company of blacksmiths in Stockholm,
thanks to St Michael and St Loyus, with your permission!"
"Tell me, is your trade hard?"
"Hard! Well, it is not for anyone. It is the hardest work there is.
It is a trade which the world cannot dispense with. No one can get on
without a blacksmith. Believe me when I say it. The Emperor of Rome
had a councillor whose name was Vulcant and it was he who invented the
blacksmith's art. And you ask if it is difficult!"
"Yes, but one could learn it," said Sten, who felt more amused than
convinced.
"Learn it? No, sir, one cannot."
"But you have learnt it," insisted Sten.
"I! With me it is another matter," answered the blacksmith,
contemplating the bottom of his mug.
"Well, why cannot it be another matter with me also?" objected Sten.
"Show me your fists, if you please, sir."
Sten laid two small white hands on the table.
The smith grinned. "They are no use. Look at mine." He took the pewter
pot in a giant's grasp and squeezed it till it became as slender as an
hour-glass.
Sten was still not convinced. "But you were not born with such fists,"
he said.
"Yes, sir, I was. I was born to be a blacksmith, just as you were
born--to do nothing, if you will allow me to say so. What do you expect
to do in the world with such mere pegs? You had better not depend on
them or you will be disappointed."
"And yet I am thinking of becoming a blacksmith," said Sten innocently.
"You must not make a jest of that worshipful fraternity, sir. Besides,
I should like to say that the times are different to what they were
formerly; a blacksmith may become mayor or councillor, and Sir Vulcan,
whom I mentioned just now, was one of the Emperor of Austria's
councillors. One should not be proud, even if one is of high birth.
King Karl Knutsson was King one day and the next day he was nothing. If
he had learnt something, he would have been something."
"That is just what I wanted to say, dear smith. And I may as well say
that I am not a gentleman though I have a velvet jacket."
"Is it a disguise? Aren't you a real gentleman?"
"I have been one, but now I am nothing."
The blacksmith drew up the corners of his mouth, came nearer, surveyed
Sten and continued: "Come down in the world? What! Downhill? Eh! Hard
times! When thieves fall out, honest folk come by their own. Yes, yes.
No relations. No fine friends. Alone in the world. Obliged to work. And
now you want to become a blacksmith, when you can't be anything else."
"If I can become one."
"No, you can become nothing. That is less than you are, Claus. (My
name is Claus.) Now you can be proud, Claus. But I am not proud, and
therefore I invite you again to the jug of beer to which I invited you
just now. Was the fowl there good; it looks to me lean." Claus made a
movement as though he were chewing something tough.