It was so cold in the little country church that the breath came like
smoke from the mouths of the priest and the boys who sang in the
choir. The congregation, who listened to the Mass standing, had been
allowed to spread straw on the ground so that whenever they knelt
at the ringing of the little bell, they should not be too chilled.
To-day there were many people at Mass, because they were expecting
an unaccustomed spectacle at the end of the service. The priest was
going to admonish an ill-assorted couple, who would not keep the peace
and could not divorce each other because no crime had been committed.
Neither of them wished to leave their children and incur the disgrace
of running away. The Mass was concluded and the litany, a "Miserere,"
sounded pathetically from the voices which trembled with cold. The
sun shone redly through the frosted window-panes, and the burning wax
candles gave no light at all, but looked merely like yellow blots over
which the warmed air quivered.
"Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi," sang the priest; the boys
answered "Miserere!" and the congregation joined in--deep clear men's
voices and high soft women's voices--"Miserere--have mercy upon us!"
The last "Miserere" sounded like a cry of despair, for at the same
moment the married pair stepped from the hidden place by the door,
which had been appointed for them, and went up the central aisle to
the altar. The man was tall, powerfully built, with a brown beard, and
limped somewhat; the woman had a small, slender figure with pliant
outlines and graceful movements. Her face was half hidden by a hood, so
that one only saw a pair of pale blue eyes with a suffering expression,
and the upper part of her white cheeks.
The priest said a low prayer and turned to the congregation. He was
a young man, not yet thirty, whose fresh, good-natured face seemed
to be out of keeping with his long robe and the solemn, severe words
which he uttered. He had long ago received the confessions of each of
the married pair, and only delivered his admonition at the bishop's
command. The discordant couple had been to the bishop and had asked
him to dissolve their marriage, but the latter had found no reason to
grant their request since the canonical law and the Decretals only
permitted divorce on account of sin, barrenness in certain cases, and
the running away of husband or wife from hearth and home.
The priest began his admonishment in a dry, expressionless voice, as
though he did not believe what he said. He declared that marriage had
been established by God Himself, Who had created woman from the man's
rib to be a help to him; but since the man was created first and the
woman subsequently, the wife should be subject to the husband, and he
should be her lord.
(Here the little hood made a movement as though the wearer wished to
speak.)
The man on his side should treat his wife with respect because she was
his honour, and by doing so he honoured himself in his wife. This was
the teaching of St Paul in his Epistle to the Corinthians, chapter
seven, verse four, on which passage the decree of Gratian was founded,
declaring that the wife had not power over herself, but the husband.
(The little hooded figure shook from head to foot, and the man nodded
approvingly at the priest's words. The priest, who now fastened his
eyes on the woman, changed his tone.)
When the disciples came to Jesus and asked whether divorce was
permissible for married people, be answered and said: "What God hath
joined, let not man put asunder," and for this reason the Church did
not allow the dissolution of marriage. The concessions made by earthly
laws were only due to the wickedness of men and could not be approved
by the Church.
Life was not a rose-garden, and we must not demand too much from it.
The preacher himself was married (as at that time Catholic priests were
allowed to be), he knew therefore how to judge in the matter; he knew
that there must be give and take, if there was not to be quarrelling
and strife. He had married this young couple and witnessed their first
happiness; he had baptised their child and seen their love sanctified
by parental joy. He reminded them of those unforgettable hours when
life had given them its best and the future shone before them like a
bright summer day. He adjured them by that recollection to reach each
other their hands, and to forget all that had happened since the spirit
of unrest had entered their hearts; he prayed them in the presence
of that Christian congregation, to renew the tie which in their
selfishness they had sought to dissolve.
There followed a moment of deep silence and expectation, while the
congregation showed their impatience by pushing forward as far as the
way they were packed together allowed. But the married pair remained
motionless.
Then the priest seemed to become impatient, and in a voice trembling
with annoyance and anger he again resumed. He spoke of the duties of
parents towards their child, of God's wrath against an unforgiving
temper, and said plainly that marriage was not meant to be merely
a means of carnal indulgence or of increasing the population, but
also--and he laid emphasis on this--of family education. He gave them
till the following Sunday to think it over, and bade them depart in
peace.
No sooner had he spoken the last word and made a gesture of dismissal
with his hand, than the young wife turned and departed. Coldly and
calmly she passed between the rows of the congregation, and disappeared
through the great entrance. The man hesitated a moment, then he sought
the smaller door at the end of the transept.
As the priest walked home with his wife, who had been present at Mass,
she said to him in a gentle but reproachful tone: "Did you believe what
you said?"
"You are my conscience, dear woman, and you know my thoughts; spare me
therefore a little, for the spoken word smites like a scourge."
"Then let the scourge smite! You know by their confessions that the
union of this married pair is no true marriage, you know that this
woman is a martyr whose life can only be saved by her keeping away
from this man; you know this, and yet you exhort her to go towards her
destruction."
"The Church, you see, my friend, has higher aims than the well-being of
ordinary people."
"I thought that the well-being of men, what you call their salvation,
was the highest aim of the Church. What then is the Church's highest
aim?"
"The increase of God's kingdom on earth," answered the priest after
some reflection.
"Let us consider!" said his wife. "It is said that only the saved shall
dwell in God's Kingdom. Then the Church is to save men."
"In the higher sense, yes!"
"In the higher sense; are there then two?"
"A little foolish woman can ask more questions than seven wise men can
answer," said the priest, and pressed his wife's hand.
"Then it is a bad look-out for the wisdom of the wise, for what will
they answer when an intelligent person asks--when all the intelligent
people in the world come and ask?" continued the foolish little woman.
"They will answer that they do not know," whispered the priest.
"You ought to say that aloud, and should have said it to-day in the
church. Your conscience is not pleased with you to-day."
"Then I will silence my dear conscience," said the priest, and kissed
his wife, who was standing in the porch of their house.
"That you cannot," she answered, "as long as you love me; and certainly
not in that way."
They stamped the snow from their feet and entered the little parsonage,
where they were met by two small, healthy children, who wanted to kiss
their father and mother. Not the least cause of the heartiness of their
welcome was the good Sunday dinner which was cooking in the oven.
The priest took off his long clerical coat and put on one more like a
layman's. In this, however, he never showed himself to any member of
his congregation but only to his family and the old cook. The table
was laid, the floor was clean and white, and the cut fir twigs smelt
sweetly. The father said grace and they took their seats at the table
as glad and as much at peace with the world and with each other as
though a heart had never been broken for the sake of "higher aims."
* * * * *
The snow had melted and the earth reeked and fermented with creative
power. The parsonage was situated on the unsightly plain in Uppland
which is included in the ecclesiastical district of Rasbo. Wherever the
eye looked there was only to be seen the stony ground, the clay soil,
and some elder bushes which cowered like frightened hares before the
never-ceasing wind. In the distance, on the horizon, were visible the
tree-tops of the edge of a wood like the masts of a ship disappearing
at sea. On the south side of the house the priest had planted some
trees and hoed a little patch of ground where he cultivated flowers and
vegetables, which in winter had to be covered with straw since they
were not accustomed to this severe climate. A small stream which came
from the woods in the north ran by the parsonage, and was large enough
to row a punt on, if one kept exactly in the middle.
Dominus Peder in Rasbo had awakened at sunrise, kissed his wife and
children, and gone to the church which lay a few stone's-throws from
the parsonage. He had read the morning Mass, blessed the work of the
day, and come home again beaming with joy and cheerfulness. The larks,
which certainly did not understand the difference between beauty and
ugliness, had sung over the stony fields as though they blessed the
meagre crop. Water flowed murmuring in the ditches on whose edges
gleamed yellow colt's-foot. The priest had come home, drunk his morning
milk in the porch, and now he stood in his jerkin in the garden and
released his flowers from their winter covering. He took a hoe and
began to turn up the sleeping ground. The sun glowed; the work to which
he was unaccustomed stirred his blood. He inhaled deep draughts of the
strong spring air and felt as robust as though he had awakened to new
life. His wife had opened the window-shutters on the sunny side of the
house, and stood there dressing, while she watched her husband at work.
"That is better than sitting over books," he said.
"You ought to have been a peasant," she replied.
"I could not, my dear! Ah, how it does one's breast and back good! Why
do people think God has given us two long arms if they are not to be
used."
"Yes, one does not need them to read with."
"No! but to shovel snow, to hew wood, to dig the ground, to carry
one's children, and to defend oneself--that's what they are for, and
one is punished if one does not use them. We 'spiritual' men, we must
not touch this sinful earth."
"Hush!" said his wife, and laid her finger on her mouth, "the children
hear you."
Her husband took off his cap and wiped the perspiration from his brow.
"'In the sweat of thy brow thou shalt eat bread,' so it is written.
Oh, how finely I sweat! That is something better than when anxiety at
not being able to discover the sense of an obscure text makes one feel
a cold sweat at the roots of one's hair, or when the spirits of doubt
burn the goodness out of one's blood so that it creeps through the body
like hot sand. Do you see how the flesh on my arm quivers for joy at
being able to move? See how the blue veins swell like streamlets in
spring when the ice melts, my chest feels so broad that the seams of
the jerkin crack; that is really better----"
"Hush!" said his wife, warning him again, and added, in order to divert
the dangerous current of his talk, "You have released your flowers from
their strait-waistcoats, but you have forgotten the poor animals who
have stood all through the winter in their dark stable."
"That is true," said the priest, and put the hoe aside; "but then the
children must come out and see."
He went at once to the cattle-house which stood at the back of the row
of buildings of which the farm consisted; there he set free the two
cows, opened the sheep and the calf sheds, then went up the little
acclivity behind and opened the door of the pigsty. First came out one
cow and stood in the door of the cow-house. The light seemed to dazzle
her as she stretched out her neck and became aware of the sun; then
she stepped carefully on the bridge and drew some deep breaths so that
her stomach swelled; then she smelt the ground and as though seized by
joyful recollections of the previous year, she erected her tail and
danced up the little hill, leapt over stones and bushes and went off
at full gallop. Then followed the other cow, the calves and sheep, and
lastly the pigs. But behind them came the priest with a stick, for
he had forgotten to shut the garden gate, and now there was a race,
in which the boys eagerly joined, to drive the animals out of the
enclosure. But when the old cook saw her master run up the hill in his
jerkin she was anxious what people would say and rushed out from the
kitchen door, while his wife stood on the steps and laughed merrily.
But the young priest was so boisterous and joyful and delighted as a
child at witnessing the delight of the creatures at the end of their
winter imprisonment, that he forgot both congregation and bishop and
ran out on to the high-road in order to drive the animals on to the
fallow ground.
Then he heard his wife call his name, and when he turned round he saw
a woman standing by her in the porch. Feeling ashamed and annoyed, he
pulled his clothes straight, put his hair under his cap, and turned
homewards assuming a solemn expression of face.
As he came nearer he recognised the little woman whom he had exhorted
in the charge regarding discord in marriage. He perceived that she
wished for a conversation, and asked her to come in, saying he would
follow as soon as he had changed his coat.
In another coat and another mind he entered, after a time, the room
where the unruly wife awaited him, and asked her business. She
declared that she had come to an understanding with her husband that
she should leave his house deliberately, since the Church would not
grant a divorce in any other way. The priest was impatient and wished
straightway to quote the Decretals and the Epistle to the Corinthians,
when through the open window he heard the sound of a foot on the sanded
garden-walk. He knew so well the light, soft step, and the crunching of
the sand made an impression on his conscience.
"The act you contemplate, woman," he said, "is courageous, but it is
nevertheless a crime."
"It is no crime; you only call it so," answered the woman decidedly,
as though she had spent days and nights of despair in considering her
action.
The priest was irritated, and sought in his mind for some cutting words
when he heard again the sound of sharp crunching on the sand outside.
"You set a bad example to the congregation," he said.
"A worse one, if I remain," said the woman.
"You will be disinherited."
"I know."
"You will lose your reputation."
"I know that too, but I will bear it for I am innocent."
"But your child?"
"I will take it with me."
"What does your husband say to that? You have no claim on your child
if you leave your home."
"Haven't I? Not on my own child? Then Solomon's wisdom itself is not
sufficient to solve this tangled knot. But I will tear it in two, if
I can make an end by doing so. I came to you to ask for light and
you lead me into a dark passage, where you put out the light and go
your way. One thing I know: where love ceases, there only shame and
humiliation remain; I will not live in sin, therefore I break off."
Outside deep breaths, as of suppressed feelings, were heard. The priest
struggled with himself, then he said: "As the servant of the Church, I
have only to hold to the word of the Lord, and that is hard as a rock.
As a man, I can only say what my heart suggests but what is perhaps
sin, for the human heart is a frail thing. Go in peace, and put not
asunder what God has joined."
"No, not what God has joined, but what our parents arranged. Have you
not a word of comfort to say to me on the difficult path I have to
tread?"
The priest shook his head negatively.
"May you not receive stones some day when you want bread," said the
woman with an almost threatening look, and went out.
The priest threw off his coat again, sighed, and tried to drive away
the uncomfortable feelings which the interview had caused. When he came
out, he approached his wife with the remark that he was sincerely sorry
for the poor woman.
"Why didn't you tell her so?" broke in his wife, who seemed to be well
posted in the matter.
"There are things which one cannot say," answered her husband.
"To whom cannot one say them?"
"To whom? The Church, like the State, my friend, are Divine ideas, but
being reduced to reality by weak men, are only imperfectly realised.
Therefore one cannot confess before ordinary mortals that these
arrangements are imperfect, for then they would begin to doubt their
Divine origin."
"But if one, seeing their imperfection, should doubt of their Divine
origin, and it should be shown, on examination, that they have no
Divine origin?"
"I believe, by all the saints, that the devil of doubt reigns in the
air of this time. Do you not know that the first questioner plunged
mankind into damnation? Certainly it was not without reason that the
Papal Legate in the recent Church Assembly called our land corrupted."
His wife looked at him as if she wanted to see how far he was in
earnest, whereon her husband answered with a smile, which showed that
he was jesting.
"You must not joke like that," said his wife. "I can so easily believe
what you say. Besides, I never know when you are serious or making fun.
You believe partly what you say, but partly not. You are so wavering,
as though you yourself had been possessed by those spirits in the air
of which you spoke."
In order not to proceed further in discussing a question which he
preferred to leave untouched, the priest proposed to make a boat
excursion to a pleasant spot which had the advantage of some leafy
trees, and eat their midday meal there.
Presently he was plying his oars and the green punt shot over the
smooth surface of the water, while the children tried to pull up the
old reeds of the previous year, through whose dry leaves the spring
wind whispered of resurrection from the winter's sleep. The priest had
taken off his long coat and put on his jerkin, which he called his
"old man." He pulled the oars strongly, like a practised rower, the
whole half-mile to the birch-planted height, which lay like an island
in the stony waste around. While his wife prepared the meal, he ran
about with the children and plucked anemones and primroses. He taught
them to shoot with bow and arrow, and cut willow-whistles for them.
He climbed the trees, rolled on the grass like a boy, and let himself
be driven like a horse with a bit in his mouth by the loudly laughing
children. He grew ever more boisterous, and when the boys took the long
coat which he had hung on a birch tree as a mark to shoot at, he began
to laugh till he was purple in the face. But his wife looked carefully
round on all sides to see whether anyone was watching them. "Ah! let me
be at any rate a man in God's free world of nature," he said. And she
had no objection to make.
The meal was laid on the grass, and the priest was so hungry that he
forgot to say grace, which drew a remark from the children.
"Father does not say grace at table," they said.
"I see no table," he answered, and stuck his thumb in the butter. This
delighted the children immensely.
"Keep your feet still under the table, Peter! Don't lay your legs on
the table, Nils," he said, and the little ones laughed till they nearly
choked. Never had they been so jolly; never had they seen their father
so cheerful, and he had constantly to repeat his jests, which they
heard at each repetition with the same delight.
But evening was coming on and they had to think of their return home.
They packed up the things and got into the boat. They were still
cheerful for a while, but soon the laughter grew silent and the
children went to sleep on their mother's lap. The father sat quiet and
serious, as one is after laughing much, and the nearer they approached
the house the more silent he became. He tried at intervals to say
something cheerful, but it sounded quite melancholy. The sun threw
slanting rays over the huge fields; the wind had fallen; there reigned
a depressing silence and deep stillness in all nature, only broken now
and then by the lowing of cattle or the passionate crying of the cuckoo.
"Cuckoo in the north brings sorrow forth," said the priest, as though
he would thereby give a long-sought expression to his melancholy.
"That is only true of the first time one hears it," said his wife,
comforting him.
The roof of the cattle-shed was now visible, and behind it stood the
church tower. They moored the punt by the bridge and the father took
the two sleeping children and carried them into the house. Then he
kissed his wife and thanked her for the pleasant day; he would now go
to church, he said, and read vespers.
He took his book and went. When he came on the road the Angelus was
ringing. He hastened his steps. From a good distance he saw people
moving in the churchyard. Something unusual must be going on, as no
one besides the sacristan generally attended vespers. He thought that
someone had perhaps seen him on the island, and heard his conversation
with his wife. He felt seriously anxious when he approached the church
door, for there he perceived two horses with gorgeous trappings and an
archdeacon with his retinue from Upsala, where the Archbishop lived.
The archdeacon seemed to have been waiting, for he went immediately
towards the priest and said that he wished to make a communication
to him when vespers were over. Never had the priest read the evening
service so fervently, and with deep anxiety he invoked the protection
of all the saints against unknown dangers. He cast a glance now
and then at the door, where he saw the archdeacon standing like an
executioner waiting for his victim, and when he had said "Amen" he went
with heavy steps to receive the blow, for now he was certain that a
misfortune was impending.
"I did not wish to visit you in your house," began the Archbishop's
messenger, "because my business is of such a nature that it demands a
quiet place and the proximity of the holy things which strengthen our
hearts. I have a message from the Church council to deliver which will
deeply affect the intimacies of your private life."
Here he broke off, for he saw his victim's anxiety, and handed over a
parchment which the young priest unrolled and read:
"Dilectis in Christo fratribus (dear brothers in Christ), Episcopus,
Sabinensis, apostolicae sedis legatis (the Bishop of Sabina, Legate of
the Roman Chair)----"
His eyes flew over the crowded letters, till they stopped all at once
at a line which seemed to be written in fire, for the young man's
features became as pale as ashes.
The archdeacon seemed to feel sympathy with him and said: "It appears
that the demands of the Church are severe: before the close of the year
the marriages of all priests are to be dissolved, for a true servant of
the Lord cannot live united to a wife without defiling the holy things
which he handles, and his heart cannot be divided between Christ and a
sinful descendant of the first woman."
"'What God hath joined, that shall not man put asunder,'" answered the
priest as soon as he came to himself.
"That is only true for ordinary people; but when the higher aims of the
Church of Christ demand it, then what would otherwise be wrong becomes
lawful. And mark well the distinction--'_Man_ shall not put asunder.'
The saying, therefore, simply refers to man acting as the divider; but
here God acts through His servant, and sunders what God has united,
therefore it does not apply here."
"But God has ordained marriage Himself," objected the broken man.
"Just what I say, and therefore He has a right to dissolve it."
"But the Lord does not desire this sacrifice from his weak servant."
"The Lord commanded Abraham to sacrifice his son."
"But our hearts will break."
"Just so; hearts ought to break--that makes them more ardent in piety."
"I That can never be the wish of a loving God."
"The 'loving' God caused His own Son to be slain on the Cross. The
world is no pleasure-garden, but merely vain and transient, and you may
comfort yourself with the thought that the Decretals----"
"No, for God's sake, don't talk to me of Decretals! Archdeacon, in
heaven's name give me a spark of hope; dip the tip of your finger in
water and quench this fire of despair which you have kindled. Say that
it is not possible; try to believe that it was only a proposal which
was not adopted."
The archdeacon pointed to his seal and said, "Presentibus consulentibus
et consentientibus (it is already decided and confirmed). And as
regards the Decretals, my young friend, there are in them such
treasures of wisdom that they may well serve to clear up a clouded
mind, and if I want to give a good friend a piece of good advice, I
say, 'Read the Decretals; read them early and late, and you will find
that they make you feel calm and happy.'"
The unhappy priest thought of the stones which he had given on the
morning of the same day to the despairing woman, and bowed his head to
the blow.
"Therefore," concluded the archdeacon, "enjoy the short time left; the
summer wind has blown, the flowers have sprung up in the field, and
the voice of the turtle is heard in our land. On St Sylvester's Day
_ultimo mensis Decembris_ I come here again, and then must your house
be swept and garnished, as though Christ the Lord was about to enter,
under penalty of excommunication. Till then you can study the decree
more closely. Farewell, and forget not to read the Decretals."
He mounted his white horse and rode away in order to reach the next
parish before night and to spread grief and misery there, like the
rider in the Apocalypse.
Dominus Peder in Rasbo was crushed. He did not venture to go home at
once but rushed into the church, where he fell down by the altar.
The doors of the gilded altar-triptych stood open, and the Saviour's
progress to Calvary was illumined by the red rays of the evening sun.
The priest was at this moment not the justiciary of a minatory and
threatening Lord, but he lay like one of the chastised flock and prayed
for mercy. He looked up to the image of Christ but found no sympathy
there. The Saviour took His cup from the hand that offered it and
emptied it to the dregs; He carried His cross on His mangled back up
the steep hill where He was to be crucified, but over the Crucified
heaven opened. There was then something over and beyond all these
sorrows. The priest began to examine into the reasons of these great
human sacrifices which were about to take place all over the country.
The Church had seen how men began to doubt in the priest's right to be
judge and executioner, for they had found their judges full of human
weaknesses. Now the priests must show that for Christ's sake they could
tear their hearts out of their breasts and lay them on the altar.
"But," continued his rebellious reason, "Christianity has done away
with human sacrifices." He went on thinking, and the idea occurred
to him that perhaps there was something underlying the old heathen
sacrifices. Abraham was a heathen, for he did not know Christ, and he
was ready to offer his son at God's command. Christ was sacrificed;
all holy martyrs are sacrificed--why should he be spared? There was no
reason why he should, and he had to acknowledge that if people were to
continue to believe in his preaching they could also demand that, he
should sacrifice his dearest himself, for he and his wife were one.
He had to acknowledge this, and he felt a peculiar new enjoyment in
the thought of the terrible sufferings which awaited him. Pride also
came to his support and pointed to the martyr's crown which would
elevate him above this congregation, on whom he was accustomed to look
down from the high altar, but who had begun to raise their heads and
defiantly threatened to storm this lofty position.
Strengthened and elevated by this thought, he rose and passed within
the altar-rails. He was, in his own eyes, no more the crushed sinner,
but the righteous man who deserved to stand by Christ's side for he had
suffered as much as He. He looked proudly down on the praying-stools
which in the twilight resembled penitents kneeling, and he hurled
the denunciations of a prophet on their heads because they would not
believe in his preaching. He tore his coat open and showed them his
bleeding breast in which an empty gap showed that he had given God his
heart. He bade those of little faith to put their hands in his side and
let themselves be carried over by him. He felt himself grow during his
suffering, and his over-excited imagination transported him into an
ecstasy, so that the operations of thought seemed momentarily suspended
and he believed that he was one with Christ. Further than that he could
not go, and he collapsed like a sail which has been split by the wind,
when the sexton came in to close the church.
On the way home be felt unhappy because his ecstasy was over, and
he would have gladly returned to the church had not an indefinite
something, which expressed itself as a faint sense of duty, summoned
him home. The nearer he approached the more his religious emotions
cooled, and the smaller therefore he felt himself. But when he entered
the door, his wife received him with open arms, asking him uneasily
why he had remained out so long; and when he felt the friendly glow of
his hearth, and saw the children peacefully asleep with rosy cheeks,
he realised the preciousness of what he had now to surrender. He felt
all his young blood well up in his opened heart, and was conscious
of the reawakening of the omnipotent force of first love which can
bear everything. He swore never to leave the beloved of his heart,
and the married pair felt themselves young again. They sat together
till midnight talking of the future and how to escape the danger which
threatened them.
* * * * *
The summer passed for the happy pair like a beautiful dream, during
which they forgot the wakening which awaited them. Meanwhile the papal
decree had become known to the congregation, who heard of it with a
sort of malicious satisfaction--partly because they did not grudge
their spiritual superiors a little purgatorial fire, and partly because
they hoped to get their priests more cheaply when they had to live as
celibates. Moreover, there were in the congregation a number of pious
people who received whatever came from Bishop and Pope as though it
came from heaven. They discussed the question thoroughly and adhered
to the view that a priest's marriage was sinful. These pious people,
who had expected to see the parsonage purified immediately after the
promulgation of the decree, began to murmur when they saw that their
pastor gave no signs whatever of intending to obey it. The murmuring
grew in strength when the church-tower happened to be struck by
lightning. This was followed by a failure in the harvest. The voices of
complaint became louder and the pious party sent a deputation to the
parsonage to declare that they did not intend to receive the sacrament
at the hands of a priest who lived in sin. They demanded that he should
separate from his wife, because any more children which might be born
would be illegitimate, and they threatened to purify the parsonage with
fire if it were not pure by the end of the year.
For a long time after that the pair were left in peace, but a marked
change began to be observable in the priest. He went oftener into the
church than he needed to, and remained there till late in the evening.
He was reserved and cold towards his wife, and seemed as though he were
nervous to meet her. He would take his children for hours on his lap
and caress them without saying a word.
At Martinmas, in November, the archdeacon from the cathedral city came
on a visit and had a long talk with the priest. That night the latter
slept in the attic and continued to sleep there. His wife said nothing,
but saw the course of events without the prospect of being able to
alter anything. Her pride forbade her to make any advance, and as her
husband began to take his meals alone, they met seldom. He was as pale
as ashes, and his eyes were sunken in his head; he never ate in the
evening, and slept on the bare ground under a sealskin rug.
Then came Christmas-time. Two days before Christmas the priest came
into the house and sat by the oven. His wife was mending the children's
clothes. For some time there was a dreadful silence; at last the man
said: "The children must have something for Christmas; who will go to
the town?"
"I will," answered his wife, "but I take the children with me. Do you
agree?"
"I have prayed the Lord that this cup might pass from me, but He has
not willed it, and I have answered, 'Let not my will but Thine be
done!'"
"Are you sure that you know the Lord's will?" said his wife
submissively.
"As sure as my soul lives!"
"I will go to-morrow to my father and mother, who are expecting me,"
said his wife in a sad but firm voice.
The priest stood up and went out hastily, as though he had heard his
death-sentence. The evening sky was sparkling and cold, the stars
glimmered in the blue-grey depths, and the boundless expanse of the
snow-covered plain lay before the despairing wanderer, whose way seemed
to point towards the lowest stars of the sky, which seemed as though
they had risen out of the white earth. He wandered and wandered on and
on; he felt like a tethered horse which runs but is pulled back by
the rope whenever it thinks itself free. He passed by houses brightly
lit up, and saw how people scoured and swept and baked and cooked
in preparation for the approaching Christmas. Thoughts of his own
approaching Christmas awoke in him. He imagined his house unheated,
unlighted, without her, without the children. His feet were burning
but his body felt freezing. He went on and on without knowing whither.
At last he stood before a house. The shutters were fastened, but a ray
of light shone out and threw a yellow gleam upon the snow. He went
nearer and put his eye to the chink. He saw into a room in which the
seats and tables were covered with clothes--little children's shirts,
stockings and coats. A large box stood open; on the cover of it hung a
white dress whose graceful shape attracted his attention; it evidently
belonged to a young woman, and on one shoulder was fastened a green
garland. Was it a shroud or a bridal dress? He wondered with himself
why corpses and brides were dressed in the same way. He saw a shadow
thrown upon the wall--sometimes it was so large that it was broken by
the ceiling and vanished in it; sometimes it crept down to the floor.
At last it remained stationary on the upper part of the white dress.
A small head wearing a cap was thrown into sharp relief against the
bright background. This forehead, this nose, this mouth was familiar
to him. Where was he? The shadow sank into the box, and into the light
there came a face which could belong to no living person, so pale and
unspeakably suffering did it appear. It looked him in the eyes so that
they smarted, and he felt the tears roll down his cheeks and melt
the snow on the window-ledge. The eyes of the face were so soft and
pleading that he thought he saw St Katherine on the wheel, praying the
Emperor Decius for mercy. Yes, that was she, and he was the Emperor.
Should he grant her mercy? No; "give that which is Cæsar's unto Cæsar,"
says the Scripture. No mercy! But he could not endure these looks, if
he was to continue to be strong; therefore he must go.
He now went into the garden, where the snow lay deep on his
straw-covered flower-beds so that they looked like little children's
graves. Who lay in them? His children. His happy, rosy-cheeked
children, whom God had commanded him to sacrifice, as Abraham
sacrificed Isaac. But Abraham escaped with only a fright. That must
be a God of hell, Who could be so inhuman. It must be a bad God Who
preached love to men but Himself behaved like an executioner. He would
go at once and seek Him; seek Him in His own house, speak with Him, and
demand an explanation.
He left the garden and waded through the snow-drifts till he reached
a little fir tree by the wood-shed, and laid hold of it. That was a
Christmas-tree like one the children would have danced round had
they lived. Now he remembered that he wanted to seek the God Who had
taken his children in order to bring him to account. The church was
not far, but when he came to it it was closed. Then he became frantic.
He scraped away the snow till he got hold of a large stone, and with
that he began to hammer the door till the echoes from the church
sounded like thunder, while he shouted loudly: "Come out, Moloch,
child-devourer! I will split up your stomach! Come out, St Katharine
and all saints and devils! You must fight with the Emperor Decius in
Rasbo! Oho! You come from behind, legions of the abyss!" He turned
round to the churchyard, and with the strength of a madman he broke
down a young lime tree, and using it as a weapon he attacked the crowd
of little grave-crosses which with out-stretched arms seemed to be
marching against him. They did not flinch, and he mowed them down like
Death with his scythe, not stopping till he had laid every one flat and
the ground was covered with splinters of wood.
But his strength was not yet exhausted. Now he would plunder the
corpses of his enemies and collect the dead and wounded. Load after
load he carried to the wall of the church and piled them under a
window. When he had finished he climbed on the pile, broke a pane
of glass, and got into the church. The inside was quite lit up by
the northern lights which had hitherto been hidden from him by the
high roof of the church. He made a new raid on the threatening
prayer-stools, which he battered into a heap of fragments. His eyes
now rested on the high altar, where throned above the pictures of the
Passion a figure sat on a cloud with the lightnings of the law in his
hand. The priest crossed his arms and regarded defiantly the severe
figure on the cloud. "Come down!" he shrieked. "Come down! We will
wrestle together!" When he saw that his challenge was not accepted,
he seized a block of wood and hurled it at his enemy. It crashed on a
plaster ornament, which fell down and raised a cloud of dust.
He took another piece of wood and then another and hurled them with the
mounting rage of disappointment. The clouds fell piece by piece, while
he laughed loudly, the lightnings were torn out of the hand of the
figure; at last the heavy piece of carving fell with a terrible crash
on the altar and smashed the candlesticks in its fall.
But then the blasphemer was seized with a panic and sprang out of the
window.
* * * * *
On the morning of the day before Christmas a parishioner had seen a
strange sight by the hedge of the parsonage garden. A sledge came out
of the enclosure containing a woman, two children, and a servant, and
was driven westwards. At about a quarter of a mile distant it was
followed by the priest running and calling out for the sledge to stop.
But it had continued to proceed till it vanished round a bend of the
high-road. Then the priest had fallen into a snow-drift, shaking his
clenched fist against the sky. Later information came to the effect
that the priest lay very ill with fever, and that the devil, in anger
that he had not overcome the servant of the Lord in the battle waged
for the dissolution of his marriage, had raged in the most terrible
way in the church. But in order to enter it, and to exercise his power
there, he had first broken down all the crosses in the churchyard. All
this restored the priest's reputation and even gave him an appearance
of sanctity, which especially pleased the pious party who had been the
instigators of the purification of the parsonage.
* * * * *
The priest lay ill for three months and could not go out till April. He
had become old. His face was full of angles, his eyes had lost their
brightness, his mouth was half open, his back was bent. On the south
side of the house he had a seat where he could sit in the warmth of the
sun, buried in dreams of the past which hardly possessed any reality
for him, especially as he had received no news from those whom he had
once called his own.
Then the month of May returned with flowers and the song of birds. The
priest went into his garden and saw how it was overgrown with weeds;
his precious flowers were killed by the frost because no one had seen
to their being covered, and they now lay mouldering like rags upon the
earth. It never occurred to him for a moment to break up the soil round
the flower-beds or to do anything else of the kind, since he had no
one for whom to work and there would be no tending hand to protect the
young growths. He stood by the fence and looked out over the landscape.
The plain stretched away in the sunlight and the little brook rippled
merrily and invited his eyes to follow the little wavelets, which
danced by and aroused his longing to follow them southwards, where they
met the river. He unmoored his boat, sat in it without touching the
rudder, and let it drift with the stream, gliding on thus for about two
hours.
Suddenly he was aware of the fresh scent of budding birches and spring
flowers. He looked round; the plain had ceased, and he found himself at
the beginning of the little birch wood. Memories of the previous year
rose in him; bright, phantom-like images hovered above the primroses
and anemones. He stepped on shore and went up the hill. Here they had
eaten their lunch; here on this branch hung the coat at which the boys
had shot with their bows. He saw the hole which he had bored in the
birch tree to draw off the sap, which the little ones had drunk. The
willow still bore scars from the knife with which he had cut arrows.
He found an arrow in the grass; how they had hunted for it--the best
he had ever cut, which flew above the top of the highest birch tree!
He hunted in the grass and bushes like a pointer; he upturned the
stones, bent back the branches, raised up the previous year's grass,
scratched away the leaves. What he sought for exactly he did not
know, but he wished to find something which might remind him of her.
Finally he stood by a hawthorn bush; there hung a small fragment of
a piece of red woollen cloth on a thorn. It was set in motion by the
wind and fluttered like a pretty butterfly between the white hawthorn
blossoms--a butterfly pierced by a needle. Then there came a second
gust of wind and turned it round, so that it looked like a bleeding
heart--a heart that was torn from a victim's breast and hung on a tree.
He took it down from the bush, held it to his mouth, breathed on it,
kissed it, and hid it in his hand. Here she had played "soldiers" with
the children, and they had trodden on her dress.
He lay down on the grass and wept; he called her name and the
children's. So long did he weep that he fell asleep from exhaustion.
When he awoke he remained lying as he was for a time and looked with
half-closed eyes over the grass meadow. His eyes fell on a large
willow bush whose yellow tassels hung like golden ears of corn in the
sunshine. His tears had calmed him and produced a certain peace in his
mind; sorrow and joy had ceased, and his soul felt in equipoise. The
reason that his eye rested on the willow bush was that it was directly
in his line of sight. A gentle wind swayed the branches lightly, and
their movement seemed to soothe his tear-reddened eyes. Suddenly the
branches of the bush stopped swaying with a jerk; there was a rustling,
and a hand bent the boughs to one side; a sunlit female figure appeared
framed in the gold of the willow tassels and the green of the tender
leafage.
He still lay a while watching the beautiful sight, as when one looks
at a picture. Then his eyes met hers, which looked out of the bush like
two stars; they kindled, as it were, flame in his expiring spirit. His
body rose from the earth and his feet carried him forward; he stretched
out his arms, and the next moment he felt a small warm creature nestle
on his stony bosom, which was again filled with the breath of life, and
a long kiss melted the ice which had so long held his spirit imprisoned.
* * * * *
Eight days later the archdeacon came on a visit to the parsonage at
Rasbo. He found the priest happy and contented. The archdeacon had a
commission which made him somewhat embarrassed, and he found he had
to express himself suitably. Rumours, he said, had been heard in the
congregation which had reached to the Archbishop's chair. One should
not certainly believe all reports, but the mere fact of a report
arising was itself half a proof. The priest, to speak plainly, was
said to be having assignations with a woman. The Archbishop was fully
aware of the storm which the Papal Bull regarding priests' marriages
had occasioned. The Holy Father himself had recognised the cruelty
involved in the new law, and had therefore thought it advisable through
a special "licentia occulta" (a secret permission) to make the lives
of the clergy less difficult. Woman, it must be admitted, was the
presiding genius of home life.
Here the current of his eloquence stopped, and in a low, scarcely
audible voice the messenger of Christ whispered the secret sanction.
The priest answered, "Then the Church does not allow a priest to have a
wife, but only a mistress?"
"Don't use such strong words! We call it a 'housekeeper.'"
"Well then," said the priest, "if I take my wife as a housekeeper, the
Church has nothing against it?"
"No! No! Take any other, but not her. The aims of the Church! Remember!"
"The _higher_ aims of the Church," you said. "So it was to annul the
right of inheritance and to get possession of land that the Church
insisted on divorce, not in order to check sin! You consider therefore
the unlawful seizure of other people's property as 'higher aims.' Very
well then! I will have nothing to do with the Church. Excommunicate me,
and I will consider it an honour to be excluded from the fellowship of
the noble Church. Depose me from my office, and I will be so far away
before you have been able to write your proclamation that you will
never be able to find a trace of me. Greet the Holy Father from me,
archdeacon, and tell him that I do not accept his dirty offer. Greet
him and say that the gods whom our forefathers worshipped above the
clouds and in the sun were greater and much purer than these Roman and
Semitic cattle-drivers whom you have foisted upon us. Greet him and
say that you have met a man who will devote his whole future life to
converting Christians to heathenism, and that a day will come when the
new heathen will undertake crusades against the vicegerent of Christ
and His followers who wish to introduce the custom of sacrificing men
alive, whereas the heathen contented themselves with killing them. And
now, archdeacon, take your Decretals and go away before I flog you
soundly. You have nearly killed two people here with your invisible
'higher aims,' and the whole land calls down a curse on you. Go with
my curse; break your legs on the high-road; die in a ditch; may the
lightning strike you and robbers plunder you; may the ghosts of your
dead relations haunt you; may incendiaries set your house on fire--for
I excommunicate you from the society of all honourable men, as I
excommunicate myself from the Holy Church! Get out!"
The archdeacon did not remain long in the parsonage; nor did the
priest, for his wife and children were waiting for him by the hill
planted with birch trees on the way to the wood on the border of
Vestmanland, where he was going to plant a settlement.