THE PATHS OF LIFE
Weary are the ways which men have to follow here on earth.
Paths through the desert, paths through the marshes, paths over the
mountains.
Why is so much sorrow allowed to go undisturbed, until it loses itself in
the desert or sinks in the bog, or falls on the mountain? Where are the
little flower-pickers, where are the little princesses of the fairy tale
about whose feet roses grow, where are they who should strew flowers on
the weary ways?
Gösta Berling has decided to get married. He is searching for a bride who
is poor enough, humble enough for a mad priest.
Beautiful and high-born women have loved him, but they may not compete
for his hand. The outcast chooses from among outcasts.
Whom shall he choose, whom shall he seek out?
To Ekeby a poor girl sometimes comes from a lonely forest hamlet far away
among the mountains, and sells brooms. In that hamlet, where poverty and
great misery exist, there are many who are not in possession of their
full intellect, and the girl with the brooms is one of them.
But she is beautiful. Her masses of black hair make such thick braids
that they scarcely find room on her head, her cheeks are delicately
rounded, her nose straight and not too large, her eyes blue. She is of a
melancholy, Madonna-like type, such as is still found among the lovely
girls by the shores of Löfven’s long lake.
Well, Gösta has found his sweetheart; a half-crazy broom-girl is just the
wife for a mad priest. Nothing can be more suitable.
All he needs to do is to go to Karlstad for the rings, and then they can
once more have a merry day by Löfven’s shore. Let them laugh at Gösta
Berling when he betroths himself to the broom-girl, when he celebrates
his wedding with her! Let them laugh! Has he ever had a merrier idea?
Must not the outcast go the way of the outcasts,—the way of anger, the
way of sorrow, the way of unhappiness? What does it matter if he falls,
if he is ruined? Is there any one to stop him? Is there any one who would
reach him a helping hand or offer him a cooling drink? Where are the
little flower-pickers, where are the little princesses of the fairy-tale,
where are they who should strew roses on the stony ways?
No, no, the gentle young countess at Borg will not interfere with Gösta
Berling’s plans. She must think of her reputation, she must think of her
husband’s anger and her mother-in-law’s hate, she must not do anything to
keep him back.
All through the long service in the Svartsjö church, she must bend her
head, fold her hands, and only pray for him. During sleepless nights she
can weep and grieve over him, but she has no flowers to strew on the way
of the outcast, not a drop of water to give one who is thirsting. She
does not stretch out her hand to lead him back from the edge of the
precipice.
Gösta Berling does not care to clothe his chosen bride in silk and
jewels. He lets her go from farm to farm with brooms, as her habit is,
but when he has gathered together all the chief men and women of the
place at a great feast at Ekeby, he will make his betrothal known. He
will call her in from the kitchen, just as she has come from her long
wanderings, with the dust and dirt of the road on her clothes, perhaps
ragged, perhaps with dishevelled hair, with wild eyes, with an incoherent
stream of words on her lips. And he will ask the guests if he has not
chosen a suitable bride, if the mad priest ought not to be proud of such
a lovely sweetheart, of that gentle Madonna face, of those blue, dreamy
eyes.
He intended that no one should know anything beforehand, but he did not
succeed in keeping the secret, and one of those who heard it was the
young Countess Dohna.
But what can she do to stop him? It is the engagement day, the eleventh
hour has come. The countess stands at the window in the blue cabinet
and looks out towards the north. She almost thinks that she can see
Ekeby, although her eyes are dim with tears. She can see how the great
three-storied house shines with three rows of lighted windows; she thinks
how the champagne flows in the glasses, how the toast resounds and how
Gösta Berling proclaims his engagement to the broom-girl.
If she were only near him and quite gently could lay her hand on his arm,
or only give him a friendly look, would he not turn back from the evil
way? If a word from her had driven him to such a desperate deed, would
not also a word from her check him?
She shudders at the sin he is going to commit against that poor,
half-witted child. She shudders at his sin against the unfortunate
creature, who shall be won to love him, perhaps only for the jest of a
single day. Perhaps too—and then she shudders even more at the sin he
is committing against himself—to chain fast to his life such a galling
burden, which would always take from his spirit the strength to reach the
highest.
And the fault was chiefly hers. She had with a word of condemnation
driven him on the evil way. She, who had come to bless, to alleviate, why
had she twisted one more thorn into the sinner’s crown?
Yes, now she knows what she will do. She will have the black horses
harnessed into the sledge, hasten over the Löfven and to Ekeby, place
herself opposite to Gösta Berling, and tell him that she does not despise
him, that she did not know what she was saying when she drove him from
her house. No, she could never do such a thing; she would be ashamed and
would not dare to say a word. Now that she was married, she must take
care. There would be such a scandal if she did such a thing. But if she
did not do it, how would it go with him?
She must go.
Then she remembers that such a plan is impossible. No horse can go again
this year over the ice. The ice is melting, it has already broken away
from the land. It is broken, cracked, terrible to see. Water bubbles
up through it, in some places it has gathered in black pools, in other
places the ice is dazzlingly white. It is mostly gray, dirty with melting
snow, and the roads look like long, black streaks on its surface.
How can she think of going? Old Countess Märta, her mother-in-law, would
never permit such a thing. She must sit beside her the whole evening in
the drawing-room and listen to those old stories which are the older
woman’s delight.
At last the night comes, and her husband is away; she is free.
She cannot drive, she does not dare to call the servants, but her anxiety
drives her out of her home. There is nothing else for her to do.
Weary are the ways men wander on earth; but that way by night over
melting ice, to what shall I compare it? Is it not the way which the
little flower-pickers have to go, an uncertain, shaking, slippery way,
the way of those who wish to make amends, the way of the light foot, the
quick eye, and the brave, loving heart?
It was past midnight when the countess reached the shores of Ekeby. She
had fallen on the ice, she had leaped over wide fissures, she had hurried
across places where her footprints were filled with bubbling water, she
had slipped, she had crept on all fours.
It had been a weary wandering; she had wept as she had walked. She was
wet and tired, and out there on the ice, the darkness and the loneliness
had given her terrible thoughts.
At the last she had had to wade in water over her ankles to reach land.
And when she had come to the shore, she had not had the courage to do
more than sit down on a rock and weep from fatigue and helplessness.
This young, high-born lady was, however, a brave little heroine. She had
never gone such ways in her bright mother country. She may well sit by
the edge of that terrible lake, wet, tired, unhappy as she is, and think
of the fair, flowery paths of her Southern fatherland.
Ah, for her it is not a question of South or North. She is not weeping
from homesickness. She is weeping because she is so tired, because she
will not come in time. She thinks that she has come too late.
Then people come running along the shore. They hurry by her without
seeing her, but she hears what they say.
“If the dam gives way, the smithy goes,” one says. “And the mill and the
work-shops and the smith’s house,” adds another.
Then she gets new courage, rises, and follows them.
* * * * *
Ekeby mill and smithy lay on a narrow point past which the Björksjö River
rushes. It comes roaring down towards the point, whipped white in the
mighty falls above, and to protect the land a great break-water was built
before the point. But the dam was old now, and the pensioners were in
power. In their day the dance filled all their thoughts, and no one took
the trouble to see how the current and the cold and time had worn the old
stone-dam.
Now with the spring-floods the dam begins to yield.
The falls at Ekeby are like mighty granite stairs, down which the waves
come rushing. Giddy with the speed, they tumble over one another and
rush together. They rise up in anger and dash in spray over one another,
fall again, over a rock, over a log, and rise up again, again to fall,
again and again, foaming, hissing, roaring.
And now these wild, raging waves, drunken with the spring air, dizzy with
their newly won freedom, storm against the old stone-wall. They come,
hissing and tearing, high up on to it and then fall back again, as if
they had hit their white heads. They use logs as battering-rams, they
strain, they beat, they rush against that poor wall, until suddenly,
just as if some one had called to them, “Look out!” they rush backwards,
and after them comes a big stone, which has broken away from the dam and
sinks thundering down in the stream.
But why are these wild waves allowed to rage without meeting any
resistance? Is every one dead at Ekeby?
No, there are people enough there,—a wild, perplexed, helpless crowd of
people. The night is dark, they cannot see one another, nor see where
they are going. Loud roars the falls, terrible is the din of the breaking
ice and the pounding logs; they cannot hear their own voices. They have
not a thought nor an idea. They feel that the end is coming. The dam is
trembling, the smithy is in danger, the mill is in danger, and their own
poor houses beloved in all their lowliness.
Message after message is sent up to the house to the pensioners.
Are they in a mood to think of smithy or mill? The hundred guests are
gathered in the wide walls. The broom-girl is waiting in the kitchen. The
hour has come. The champagne bubbles in the glasses. Julius rises to
make the speech. All the old adventurers at Ekeby are rejoicing at the
petrifying amazement which will fall upon the assembly.
Out on the ice the young Countess Dohna is wandering a terrible, perilous
way in order to whisper a word of warning to Gösta Berling. Down at the
waterfall the waves are storming the honor and might of Ekeby, but in the
wide halls only joy and eager expectation reign, wax-candles are shining,
wine is flowing; no one thinks of what is happening in the dark, stormy
spring night.
Now has the moment come. Gösta rises and goes out to bring in his
sweetheart. He has to go through the hall, and its great doors are
standing open; he stops, he looks out into the pitch dark night—and he
hears, he hears!
He hears the bells ringing, the falls roaring. He hears the thunder of
the breaking ice, the noise of the pounding logs, the rebellious waves’
rushing and threatening voice.
He hastens out into the night, forgetting everything. Let them inside
stand with lifted glasses till the world’s last day; he cares nothing for
them. The broom-girl can wait, Julius’s speech may die on his lips. There
would be no rings exchanged that night, no paralyzing amazement would
fall upon the shining assembly.
Now the waves must in truth fight for their freedom, for Gösta Berling
has come, the people have found a leader. Terrified hearts take courage,
a terrible struggle begins.
Hear how he calls to the people; he commands, he sets all to work.
“We must have light, light first of all; the miller’s horn-lantern is
not enough. See all those piles of branches; carry them up on the cliff
and set fire to them. That is work for the women and children. Only be
quick; build up a great flaming brush-pile and set fire to it! That will
light up our work; that will be seen far and wide and bring more to help
us. And let it never go out! Bring straw, bring branches, let the flames
stream up to the sky!”
“Look, look, you men, here is work for you. Here is timber, here are
planks; make a temporary dam, which we can sink in front of this breaking
wall. Quick, quick to work; make it firm and solid! Get ready stones and
sand-bags to sink it with! Quick! Swing your axes! To work! to work!”
“And where are the boys? Get poles, get boat-hooks, and come out here in
the midst of the struggle. Out on the dam with you, boys, right in the
waves. Keep off, weaken, drive back their attacks, before which the walls
are cracking. Push aside the logs and pieces of ice; throw yourselves
down, if nothing else helps, and hold the loosening stones with your
hands; bite into them, seize them with claws of iron. Out on the wall,
boys! We shall fight for every inch of land.”
Gösta himself takes his stand farthest out on the dam and stands there
covered with spray; the ground shakes under him, the waves thunder
and rage, but his wild heart rejoices at the danger, the anxiety, the
struggle. He laughs. He jokes with the boys about him on the dam; he has
never had a merrier night.
The work of rescue goes quickly forward, the fire flames, the axes
resound, and the dam stands.
The other pensioners and the hundred guests have come down to the
waterfall. People come running from near and far; all are working, at
the fires, at the temporary dam, at the sand-bags, out on the tottering,
trembling stone-wall.
Now the temporary dam is ready, and shall be sunk in front of the
yielding break-water. Have the stones and sand-bags ready, and boat-hooks
and rope, that it may not be carried away, that the victory may be for
the people, and the cowed waves return to their bondage.
It so happens that just before the decisive moment Gösta catches sight of
a woman who is sitting on a stone at the water’s edge. The flames from
the bonfire light her up where she sits staring out over the waves; he
cannot see her clearly and distinctly through the mist and spray, but his
eyes are continually drawn to her. Again and again he has to look at her.
He feels as if that woman had a special errand to him.
Among all these hundreds who are working and busy, she is the only one
who sits still, and to her his eyes keep turning, he can see nothing else.
She is sitting so far out that the waves break at her feet, and the
spray dashes over her. She must be dripping wet. Her dress is dark, she
has a black shawl over her head, she sits shrunk together, her chin on
her hand, and stares persistently at him out on the dam. He feels as if
those staring eyes were drawing and calling, although he cannot even
distinguish her face; he thinks of nothing but the woman who sits on the
shore by the white waves.
“It is the sea-nymph from the Löfven, who has come up the river to lure
me to destruction,” he thinks. “She sits there and calls and calls. I
must go and drive her away.”
All these waves with their white heads seem to him the black woman’s
hair; it was she who set them on, who led the attack against him.
“I really must drive her away,” he says.
He seizes a boat-hook, runs to the shore, and hurries away to the woman.
He leaves his place on the end of the dam to drive the sea-nymph away.
He felt, in that moment of excitement, as if the evil powers of the deep
were fighting against him. He did not know what he thought, what he
believed, but he must drive that black thing away from the stone by the
river’s edge.
Alas, Gösta, why is your place empty in the decisive moment? They are
coming with the temporary dam, a long row of men station themselves on
the break-water; they have ropes and stones and sand-bags ready to weight
it down and hold it in place; they stand ready, they wait, they listen.
Where is their leader? Is there no voice to command?
No, Gösta Berling is chasing the sea-nymph, his voice is silent, his
commands lead no one.
So the temporary dam has to be sunk without him. The waves rush back, it
sinks into the water and after it the stones and sand-bags. But how is
the work carried out without a leader? No care, no order. The waves dash
up again, they break with renewed rage against this new obstacle, they
begin to roll the sand-bags over, tear the ropes, loosen the stones; and
they succeed, they succeed. Threatening, rejoicing, they lift the whole
dam on their strong shoulders, tear and drag on it, and then they have it
in their power. Away with the miserable defence, down to the Löfven with
it. And then on once more against the tottering, helpless stone-wall.
But Gösta is chasing the sea-nymph. She saw him as he came towards her
swinging the boat-hook. She was frightened. It looked as if she was going
to throw herself into the water, but she changed her mind and ran to the
land.
“Sea-nymph!” cries Gösta, and brandishes the boat-hook. She runs in among
the alder-bushes, gets entangled in their thick branches, and stops.
Then Gösta throws away the boat-hook, goes forward, and lays his hand on
her shoulder.
“You are out late to-night, Countess Elizabeth,” he says.
“Let me alone, Herr Berling, let me go home!”
He obeys instantly and turns away from her.
But since she is not only a high-born lady, but a really kind little
woman, who cannot bear the thought that she has driven any one to
despair; since she is a little flower-picker, who always has roses enough
in her basket to adorn the barrenest way, she repents, goes after him and
seizes his hand.
“I came,” she says, and stammers, “I came to⸺ Oh, Herr Berling, you have
not done it? Say that you have not done it! I was so frightened when you
came running after me, but it was you I wanted to meet. I wanted to ask
you not to think of what I said the other day, and to come to see me as
usual.”
“How have you come here, countess?”
She laughs nervously. “I knew that I should come too late, but I did
not like to tell any one that I was going; and besides, you know, it is
impossible to drive over the ice now.”
“Have you walked across the lake, countess?”
“Yes, yes, of course; but, Herr Berling, tell me. Are you engaged? You
understand; I wish so you were not. It is so wrong, you see, and I felt
as if the whole thing was my fault. You should not have minded a word
from me so much. I am a stranger, who does not know the customs of the
country. It is so dull at Borg since you do not come any more, Herr
Berling.”
It seems to Gösta Berling, as he stands among the wet alder-bushes on the
marshy ground, as if some one were throwing over him armfuls of roses.
He wades in roses up to his knees, they shine before his eyes in the
darkness, he eagerly drinks in their fragrance.
“Have you done that?” she repeats.
He must make up his mind to answer her and to put an end to her anxiety,
although his joy is so great over it. It grows so warm in him and so
bright when he thinks what a way she has wandered, how wet she is, how
frozen, how frightened she must have been, how broken with weeping her
voice sounds.
“No,” he says, “I am not engaged.”
Then she takes his hand again and strokes it. “I am so glad, I am so
glad,” she says, and her voice is shaken with sobs.
There are flowers enough now on the poet’s way, everything dark, evil,
and hateful melts from his heart.
“How good you are, how good you are!” he says.
At their side the waves are rushing against all Ekeby’s honor and glory.
The people have no leader, no one to instill courage and hope into
their hearts; the dam gives way, the waves close over it, and then rush
triumphant forward to the point where the mill and smithy stand. No one
tries any longer to resist the waves; no one thinks of anything but of
saving life and property.
It seems quite natural to both the young people that Gösta should escort
the countess home; he cannot leave her alone in this dark night, nor let
her again wander alone over the melting ice. They never think that he is
needed up at the smithy, they are so happy that they are friends again.
One might easily believe that these young people cherish a warm love
for one another, but who can be sure? In broken fragments the glowing
adventures of their lives have come to me. I know nothing, or next to
nothing, of what was in their innermost souls. What can I say of the
motives of their actions. I only know that that night a beautiful young
woman risked her life, her honor, her reputation, her health, to bring
back a poor wretch to the right way. I only know that that night Gösta
Berling left the beloved Ekeby fall to follow her who for his sake had
conquered the fear of death, the fear of shame, the fear of punishment.
Often in my thoughts I have followed them over the ice that terrible
night, which ended so well for them. I do not think that there was
anything hidden or forbidden in their hearts, as they wandered over the
ice, gay and chatting of everything which had happened during their
separation.
He is once more her slave, her page, who lies at her feet, and she is his
lady.
They are only happy, only joyous. Neither of them speaks a word which can
denote love.
Laughing they splash through the water, they laugh when they find the
path, when they lose it, when they slip, when they fall, when they are
up again; they only laugh.
This blessed life is once more a merry play, and they are children who
have been cross and have quarrelled. Oh, how good it is to make up and
begin to play again.
Rumor came, and rumor went. In time the story of the countess’s
wanderings reached Anna Stjärnhök.
“I see,” she said, “that God has not one string only to his bow. I can
rest and stay where I am needed. He can make a man of Gösta Berling
without my help.”