THE LOST SON.
It is Epiphany, in 1635, thus in mid-winter. In Aron Bertila's
"stuga,"* at Storkyro, a large fire of pine logs crackled on the
spacious hearth, for at that time heavy forests still grew around the
fertile fields. Outside rages a snow-storm, with a heavy blast; the
wolves howl on the ice of the stream; the famished lynx prowls around
to find shelter. It is Twelfth-day evening, an hour or two after
twilight. The Storkyro peasant king sits in his high-backed chair, at
a short distance from the hearth, listening with scattered thoughts to
his daughter Meri, who by the firelight reads aloud a chapter of
Agricola's Finnish New Testament, for at that period the whole Bible
had not been translated into the Finnish tongue. Bertila has grown
very old since we last met him, then still vigorous in his old age.
The great ideas that constantly revolve in his bald head give him no
peace, and yet these plans are now completely shattered by the king's
death, like fragments from a shipwreck floating around on the stormy
billows of a dark sea. Strong souls like his generally succumb only by
destroying themselves. All the changes and misfortunes of his
turbulent life had not been able to break his iron will; but grief over
a ruined hope, the vain attempt to reconstruct the vanished castles in
the air, and the sorrow of seeing his own children themselves tear down
his work, all this gnawed like a vulture upon his inner life. A single
thought had made him twenty years older in two years, and this idea was
presumptuous even to madness.
* A large room, filling the entire house space with the exception of
one or two small chambers. Sleeping bunks are arranged round the
walls. The later peasants' houses have more rooms.
"Why is not one of my own family at this moment King of Sweden?" Thus
it ran.
At times Meri raises her mild blue eyes from the Holy Book and regards
her old father with anxious looks. She, too, looks older; the quiet
sorrow lies like the autumn over green groves; it neither breaks or
kills, but makes the fresh leaves wither on the tree of life. Meri's
glance is full of peace and submission. The thought that shines forth
from her soul like a sun at its setting, is none other than this:
"Beyond the grave I shall again meet the joy of my heart, and then he
will no longer wear an earthly crown."
Near her, to the left, sits old Larsson, short and stout like his
jovial son. His good-natured, hearty face has for a time assumed a
more solemn expression, as he listens to the reading of the sacred
book. His hands are folded as in prayer, and now and then he stirs the
fire a little, with friendly attention, so that Meri can see better.
Behind him in a devotional attitude sit some of the field hands; and
this group, illuminated by the reflection of the fire, is completed by
a purring grey cat, and a large shaggy watch-dog, curled up under
Meri's feet, to which he seems proud to serve as a footstool.
When Meri in her reading came to the place in Luke, where it speaks of
the Prodigal Son, old Bertila's eyes began to glitter with a sinister
light.
"The reprobate!" he muttered to himself. "To waste one's inheritance,
that is nothing! But to forget one's old father ... by God, that is
shameful!"
Meri read until she came to the Prodigal Son's repentance: "And he
arose and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his
father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and
kissed him."
"What a fool of a father!" again muttered Aron Bertila to himself. "He
ought to have bound him with cords, beaten him with rods, and then
driven him away from his house back to the riotous living and the empty
wine-cups!"
"Father!" whispered Meri reproachfully. "Be merciful, as our Heavenly
Father is merciful, and takes the lost children to His arms."
"And if your son ever returns..." began Larsson in the same tone. But
Bertila stopped him.
"Hold your tongues, and don't trouble yourselves about me. I have no
longer any son ... who falls repentant at my feet," he added directly,
when he saw two large, clear pearls glistening in Meri's eyelashes.
She continued: "And the son said unto him, Father, I have sinned
against Heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called
thy son."
"Stop reading that!" burst out the old man, in a bad temper. "See that
my bed is in order, and let the folks go to sleep; it is now late."
At this moment horses' hoofs were heard outside on the creaking snow.
This unusual occurrence on the evening of a sacred day made Larsson go
to the low window, and breathe on the frost-covered pane, so as to look
out into the storm. A sleigh, drawn by two horses, worked its way
through the snow-drifts and drove into the yard. Two men in sheep-skin
cloaks jumped out.
Seized with a sudden intuition, Larsson hurried out to meet the
travellers, and quick as lightning Meri followed him. The door swung
to behind them, and there was a moment's delay before it opened again.
But now a young man in a soldier's garb entered with bowed head, threw
aside his plumed hat, white with snow, and going straight to old
Bertila, knelt down, and bent his beautiful curly head still lower, as
he said:
"Father, I am here, and ask your blessing!"
And behind him stood Meri and old Larsson, both with clasped hands, and
raising their pleading eyes to the stern old man, with the same words:
"Father, here is thy son, give him thy blessing!"
For a brief moment Bertila struggled with himself, his lips slightly
trembled, and his hand was unconsciously stretched out, as if to lift
up the young man at his feet. But soon his bald head rose higher, his
hand drew back, his keen eyes flashed darker than ever, and his lips
trembled no more.
"Go!" said he, short and sharp; "go, you reprobate boy, back to your
brother noblemen, and your sisters, the fine ladies. What seek you in
the plain peasant's 'stuga,' which you despise? Go! I have no longer
a son!"
But the youth went not.
"Do not be angry, my father," he said, "if in my youthful ambition I
have at any time violated your commands. Who sent me out amongst the
great and illustrious ones of the earth, to win fame and honour? Who
bade me go to the war to ennoble my peasant name with great deeds? Who
exposed me to the temptation of all the brilliant examples which
surrounded the king? You, and only you, my father; and now you thrust
away your son, who for your sake twice refused a patent of nobility."
"You!" exclaimed the old man with foaming rage. "You renounce a patent
of nobility, you, who have blushed for your peasant name and taken
another which would look more imposing? No, on your knees have you
begged for a coat of arms. What do I know about its being offered you;
what do I care. I only know that since your earliest childhood I have
tried to implant in your soul, recreant, that there are no other
rightful powers than the king and people, that all who place themselves
between, whether they bear the name of aristocrats, ecclesiastics, or
what not, are monstrosities, a ruin, a curse to State and country ...
all this have I tried to teach you, and the fruit of my teachings has
been that you have smuggled yourself among this nobility, which I hate
and despise, that you have coveted its empty titles, paraded with its
extravagant display, imbibed its prejudices, and now you stand here, in
your father's house, with a lie on your lips, and aristocratic vanity
in your heart. Go, degenerate son! Aron Bertila is what he has always
been--a peasant! He curses and rejects you, apostate!"
With these words the old man turned away, rose and went with a firm
step and a high head into the little bed-chamber, leaving Bertel still
on his knees in the same place.
"Hear me, father, father!" cried Bertel after him, as he quickly
unbuttoned his coat and took out a folded paper; "this paper I have
intended to tear to pieces at your feet!"
But the old father did not hear him; the paper fell to the ground, and
when Larsson, a moment later, unfolded and read it, he saw it contained
a diploma from the Regency in Stockholm, conferring upon Gustaf Bertel,
captain of horse in the "life-guards," a patent of nobility, and a coat
of arms with the name of _Bertelsköld_* at Duke Bernhard of Weimar's
solicitation.
* Bertila is a Finnish peasant name. Bertel is a burgher name.
Bertelsköld is a noble name, indicated by the termination sköld, always
a sign of nobility in Sweden and Finland.
While all in the "stuga" were still perfectly stupefied by old
Bertila's conduct, three of Fru Marta's soldiers from Korsholm entered
in great haste.
"Hullo, boys!" they exclaimed to the hands, "have you seen her? Here
is something that will pay. Two hundred silver thalers reward to him
who seizes and brings back, alive or dead, Lady Regina von Emmeritz,
state prisoner at Korsholm."
At the sound of this name Bertel was aroused from his stupefying grief,
sprang up, and seized the speaker by the collar.
"Wretch, what did you say?" he exclaimed.
"Ho, ho, if you please! Be a little more careful when you speak to the
people of the Royal Majesty and the Crown. I tell you that the German
traitress, the papistical sorceress, Lady von Emmeritz, succeeded in
escaping last night from Korsholm castle, and that he who does not help
to catch her is a traitor and a..."
The man had no time to finish his speech, before a blow from Bertel's
strong arm stretched him at full-length on the floor.
"Ha, my father, you have wished it!" cried the young man, and in a
flash was outside the door and in his sleigh, which at the next moment
was heard driving off through the raging tempest.