Story of Gösta Berling

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Contents

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TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE v

THE STORY OF A STORY be

PART I I The Landscape 29

II Christmas Eve 34

III Christmas Day 49

IV Gosta Berling, Poet . 63

V La Cachucha . 79

VI The Ball at Ekeby 84

VII The Old Vehicles 106

VIII The Great Bear in Gurlitta Cliff . . . 122

IX The Auction at Bjorne 138

X The Young Countess . 170

XI Ghost-Stories 199

XII Ebba Dohna's Story 214

XIII Mamselle Marie 236

PART II I Cousin Christopher 247

II The Paths of Life . 253

III Penitence 268

IV The Iron from Ekeby 28a

Vlii CONTENTS.

Chapter Pao*

V Lilliecrona's Home 291

VI The Witch of Dovre 298

VII Midsummer 304

VIII Madame Musica 309

IX The Broby Clergyman 315

X Patron Julius 321

XI The Plaster Saints 329

XII God's Wayfarer 337

XIII The Churchyard 350

XIV Old Songs 355

XV Death, the Deliverer 367

XVI The Drought 374

XVII The Child's Mother 386

XVIII Amor vincit Omnia 390

XIX The Broom-Girl 403

XX Kevenhuller . 417

XXI The Broby Fair 429

XXII The Forest Cottage ........ 438

XXIII Margareta Celsin© *. . . , 456

A FOREWORD TO THE AMERICAN EDITION OF "GOSTA BERLING"

The fate of the little patch of wooded ground at the foot of the mountan where my brothers and boy cousins played in my childhood has been the fate of all Varmland.

That bit of woodland could hardly be called barren, for on it grew a lot of young spruces, pines and birches, to say nothing about its rich yield of moss, toadstools, bracken, juniper trees, whortleberry-bushes, grass and white anemones. But it lay rather badly, hedged in as it was between a steep hill and a country road, and besides, the ground was covered with a quantity of large and small stones. So who could wonder at its lying there unused and unfenced, as though it were no man's land. Thus it remained until the summer my two brothers and five cousins — all of school age — came home for their three months' vacation.

One day, when they had grown tired of their usual games, it occurred to one of the lads that the neglected woodland would be an ideal spot for a settlement. The seven boys at once proceeded to stake out the land, each claiming his proportion of the ground. They appropriated its products of moss, stone and brushwood, built themselves castles and farmsteads at the top of the big rocks or in the shade of the fir trees, ana laid out roads across the wretched terrain.

x FOREWORD

This was only the beginning. The boys continued their work with the utmost enthusiasm and at the close of the summer a well-organized community had been established in the woodland.

In the meantime, the fame of the school-boy colony had spread far and wide and boys from the neighboring farms had sought and been granted permission to become citizens. There were both rulers and ruled. Elections were held, taxes levied, magistrates appointed, laws enacted, and offenders punished. The settlement had its landed gentry, with great estates, and its paupers, who lived at the expense of the community. The boys bought and sold land and produce and made their own paper money, the counterfeiting of which meant a whole day's sentence at hard labor.

This had been an amazingly rapid boom ; but when it was at its height the boys found, to their dismay.- that the summer had come to an end; they had to go back to school and their flourishing state went to pieces, never to be restored. The poor woodland again lay deserted and useless.

But during the time it had served as a ventureland to the boyish imagination what fun they had had there ! In after years they could never go by the place without thinking with joy and longing of the summer they had devoted to a work so productive and which had afforded them so many opportunities for the exercise of the creative faculty. "Once in our life," they would say, with a sigh, "we actually labored with joy and got results without much effort."

Perhaps it is too much to say that the whole of

FOREWORD xi

Varmland has undergone precisely the same vicissitudes as the patch of wooded ground on my old farm. But it cannot be denied that for centuries the province was little else than a poor unreclaimed wilderness through whose many obstructing mountains and forests civilization had difficulty in finding its way. The southern part of the province bounded by the great lake Vanern and the territory bordering on the larger water courses were well populated and cultivated, but all the rest, I am sorry to say, was regarded as worthless and of no more use than was the bit of woodland at the foot of the mountain back home.

A little over two hundred years ago, toward the close of the eighteenth century, a great change took place. All at once it dawned on the natives that the innumerable falls and rapids formed by the many rivers could be utilized. Then some one, after due deliberation, decided to put up a blast furnace for the smelting of iron ore. The venture proved a success and the output of iron brought good returns.

Then, as if by magic, blast furnaces sprang up everywhere, for now people were no longer satisfied to build them only in the more central parts of Varmland where there were good roads, but made their way to the remote waterfalls in the wildest regions to put up charcoal sheds and smithies. In summer these places could be reached only on foot or on horseback and one had to wait until winter, when streams and forest marshes were frozen, to bring thither raw material or transport the finished product.

But all such drawbacks were accounted as nothing.

xu FOREWORD

The whole province was alive with the spirit of enterprise. To be sure, some of these ventures failed, but most of them, once the work was begun, earned for the fortunate owners more money than they had ever dared hope for. Every stroke of the heavy hammers that forged the smelted iron into shape brought a ducat, it was said at that time.

One can imagine the life and bustle in these remote districts when the blast furnaces were building. First roads had to be opened up, in order to establish communication with other districts. The peasants increased their earnings by selling charcoal and hauling iron while the ironmasters themselves went to cultivating the soil and raising cattle so as to provide their workmen with the necessary food.

This industrial boom had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that people could hardly take it seriously. It meant work, of course, but work that had all the charm and fascination of play about it. People felt somehow that it would not last very long, that it could never become a permanent institution. It was this feeling of uncertainty which gave to the whole the semblance of a game.

People bartered and sold, experimented and speculated, made money and lost money; but all the while it was as if they were having a great and jolly adventure. Failure was not taken seriously, nor success either. Luck shifted hands continually; at each move in the game all was changed.

This spirit of play was naturally most marked in the social life. The ironmasters built themselves great

FOREWORD xiii

manor-houses on the attractive hillsides near their works and fitted them up with spacious dance halls and many guest rooms, which were always occupied in summer and during the Christmas holidays. They entertained lavishly at these houses. There were no end of parties and dances, of fun and frolic, as one may imagine would be the case among a lot of happy, easygoing folk in an out-of-the-way region where one made one's own laws and customs.

This life of gaiety was at its height just after the Napoleonic wars. The glory and honor with whicfy the profession of arms had become endued in the time of the great Emperor had tempted vast numbers of young Swedes of the upper classes to join the colors, and to most of them the opportunity for advancement in their profession was cut off in the year 1814, which was the beginning of the long reign of peace. Finding it impossible to live upon their meagre incomes or to gain their livelihood by any sort of useful work, these " Cavaliers," or adventurers, took to visiting their friends and acquaintances in the country, stopping at each place for days or weeks at a time. If they had only places enough to go to they could manage to lead a merry and care-free life all the year around at the expense of others.

A similar cavalier life prevailed in all parts of Sweden, but nowhere did it become so popular as in the iron districts of Varmland, where in the large households one person more or less did not count. Although every one knew perfectly well why these spongers came they were always heartily welcomed.

xiv FOREWORD

partly because they were bringers of news, partly for their ability to get up all sorts of entertainments.

The country gentlemen, who lived on their small estates the whole year, had their daily duties to occupy them. Not so the cavaliers! If dancers were needed for a ball, actors for private theatricals, violinists for a concert, shooters for a hunt, drivers for a sleighing party, one had only to send word to some of these Knights of Merriment, who ever were ready to accept the call even though it meant journeying for miles and miles in cold and stormy weather.

That was indeed a time of prosperity and recklessness. While it lasted there were introduced into the remote province material improvements and social refinements. Wealth brought blessings which in many ways were far reaching and advantageous. Varmland attained so high a cultural development that in the end it became the land toward which people turned when needing support in some undertaking that tended to promote universal happiness.

But during the latter half of the last century these conditions were changed. Varmland saw one smithy after another torn down. Great discoveries had taken place, which called for radical changes in the methods of handling iron. The work could no longer be satisfactorily performed at these small forges, with their slow-working hammers, and the people soon realized that this industry must be confined to a few large foundries.

In consequence of these altered conditions a large majority of the men who had made iron in the old-

FOREWORD xv

fashioned way were deprived of their living and had to go elsewhere.

When the source of riches, which the iron industry had been to the poor province, began to dwindle a great many good people who had had no part in the production of iron could no longer maintain themselves there. One country estate after the other was sold. The owner who still clung to his home was obliged to live his life out in continuous concern about money matters. For a son or a daughter to remain at home, as was customary in the old days, was out of the question. With a feeling of sorrow and loss too deep for words they left the old places — abodes of contentment and happiness — and turned them over to the new owners, which were mostly large corporations that allowed the big manor houses to stand unoccupied and fall into decay, or peasants, who were unable to uphold the standard of taste in the matter of hospitality and refinement which had been maintained by the former owners.

It was the end of prosperity and merry-making. For some time at least the people were helpless and destitute.

Amid all these changes and the slowly on-stealing retrogression, what more natural than that the old days of opulence, with life lived in all its fullness, should appear, in retrospect, more and more glorious, so that one never tired of talking about their splendour. Undoubtedly one magnified the riches and exaggerated the daring exploits, but all were agreed that it was a time of great activity and much gaiety.

xvi FOREWORD

It is not for me to say anything more. My readers will understand that the book which is placed in their hands is founded upon these old tales, born of yearnings for a time of greatness past and gone, perhaps never to return. The one who has written the stories may have found it harder than others to witness the desolation and ruin that swept over her homeland. Unable to stop the wheel of destruction, she wished to preserve at least the memory of what had been, wished through the medium of fiction again to make the waste places the home of life, play and heroic adventure.

SELMA LAGERLOF

Marbacka, Varmland.

October, 1916.

(Translated from the Swedish by VELMA SWANSTON HOWARD)

Introduction

I

THE PRIEST

At last the minister stood in the pulpit. The heads of the congregation were lifted. Well, there he finally was. There would be no default this Sunday, as on the last and on many other Sundays before.

The minister was young, tall, slender, and strikingly handsome. With a helmet on his head, and girt with sword and shirt of mail, he could have been cut in marble and taken for an ideal of Grecian beauty.

He had a poet's deep eyes, and a general's firm, rounded chin; everything about him was beautiful, noble, full of feeling, glowing with genius and spiritual life.

The people in the church felt themselves strangely subdued to see him so. They were more used to see him come reeling out of the public house with his good friends, Beerencreutz, the Colonel with the thick, white moustaches, and the stalwart Captain Christian Bergh.

He had drunk so deeply that he had not been able to attend to his duties for many weeks, and the con-

i

2 iNTRODUCTIOA

gregation had been obliged to complain, first to the dean, and then to the bishop and the chapters. Now the bishop had come to the parish to make a strict inquiry. He sat in the choir with the gold cross on his breast ; the clergymen of the neighboring parishes sat round about him.

There was no doubt that the minister's conduct had gone beyond the permissible limit. At that time, in the twenties, much in the matter of drinking was overlooked, but this man had deserted his post for the sake of drink, and now must lose it.

He stood in the pulpit and waited while the last verse of the psalm was sung.

A feeling came over him as he stood there, that he had only enemies in the church, enemies in all the seats. Among the gentry in the pews, among the peasants in the farther seats, among the little boys in the choir, he had enemies, none but enemies. It was an enemy who worked the organ-bellows, an enemy who played. In the churchwardens' pews he had enemies. They all hated him, every one, — from the children in arms, who were carried into the church, to the sexton, a formal and stiff old soldier, who had been at Leipsic.

He longed to throw himself on his knees and to beg for mercy.

But a moment after, a dull rage came over him. He remembered well what he had been when, a year ago, he first stood in this pulpit. He was then a blameless man, and now he stood there and looked down on the man with the gold cross on his breast, who had come to pass sentence on him.

While he read the introduction, wave after wave of blood surged up in his face, — it was rage.

It was true enough that he had drunk, but who had a right to blame him for that? Had they seen the vicarage where he had to live ? Pine forests grew dark and gloomy close up to his windows. The dampness dripped from the black roofs and ran down the mouldy walls. Was not brandy needed to keep the spirits up when rain and driving snow streamed in through the broken panes, when the neglected earth would not give bread enough to keep hunger away?

He thought that he was just such a minister as they deserved. For they all drank. Why should he alone control himself? The man who had buried his wife got drunk at the funeral feast; the father who had baptized his child had a carouse afterwards. The congregation drank on the way back from church, so that most of them were drunk when they reached home. A drunken priest was good enough for them.

It was on his pastoral visits, when he drove in his thin cloak over miles of frozen seas, where all the icy winds met, it was when his boat was tossed about on these same seas in storm and pouring rain, it was when he must climb out of his sledge in blinding snow to clear the way for his horse through drifts high as houses, or when he waded through the forest swamps, — it was then that he learned to love brandy.

The year had dragged itself out in heavy gloom. Peasant and master had passed their days with their thoughts on the soil, but at evening their spirits cast off their yokes, freed by brandy. Inspiration came, the heart grew warm, life became glowing, the song rang out, roses shed their perfume. The public-house oar-room seemed to him a tropical garden: grapes *nd olives hung down over his head, marble statuei shone among dark leaves, songsters and poets war* dered under the palms and plane-trees.

No, he, the priest, up there in the pulpit, knew that without brandy life could not be borne in this end of the world; all his congregation knew that, and yet they wished to judge him.

They wished to tear his vestments from him, because he had come drunken into God's house. Oh, all these people, had they believed, did they want to believe, that they had any other God than brandy?

He had finished the exordium, and he kneeled to say the Lord's Prayer.

There was a breathless silence in the church during the prayer. But suddenly the minister with both hands caught hold of the ribbons which held his surplice. It seemed to him as if the whole congregation, with the bishop at the head, were stealing up the pul« pit steps to take his bands from him. He was kneeling and his head was turned away, but he could feel how they were dragging, and he saw them so plainly, the bishop and the deans, the clergymen, the churchwardens, the sexton, and the whole assemblage in a long line, tearing and straining to get his surplice off. And he could picture to himself how all these people who were dragging so eagerly would fall over one another down the steps when the bands gave way, and the whole row of them below, who had not got up as far as his cape, but only to the skirts of his coat, would also fall.

He saw it all so plainly that he had to smile as he knelt, but at the same time a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. The whole thing was too horrible.

That he should now become a dishonored man fof the sake of brandy. A clergyman, dismissed ! Was there anything on God's earth more wretched ?

He should be one of the beggars at the roadside lie drunk at the edge of a ditch, go dressed in rags^ with vagrants for companions.

The prayer was ended. He should read his sermon. Then a thought came to him and checked the words on his lips. He thought that it was the last time he should stand in the pulpit and proclaim the glory oi God.

For the last time — that took hold of him. He forgot the brandy and the bishop. He thought that he must use the chance, and testify to the glory ol God.

He thought that the floor of the church with all his hearers sank deep, deep down, and the roof was lifted off, so that he saw far into the sky. He stood alone, quite alone in his pulpit; his spirit took its flight to the heavens opened above him ; his voice became strong and powerful, and he proclaimed the glory of God.

He was inspired. He left what he had written; thoughts came to him like a flock of tame doves. He felt, as if it were not he who spoke, but he felt toa that it was the best earth had to give, and that no one could reach a greater height of brilliancy and splendor than he who stood there and proclaimed the glory of God.

As long as the flame of inspiration burned in him he continued to speak, but when it died out, and th( roof sank down over the church, and the floor cam* up again from far, far below, he bowed his head anc wept, for he thought that the best of life, for hinx. wai now ovei.

After the service came the inspection and the ves* try meeting. The bishop asked if the congregation had any complaints to make against their clergyman.

The minister was no longer angry and defiant as before the sermon. Now he was ashamed and hunp his head. Oh, all the miserable brandy stories, which were coming now !

But none came. There was a deep silence about the long table in the parish-hall.

The minister looked first at the sexton, — no, he was silent; then at the churchwardens, then at the powerful peasants and mine-owners; they were all silent. They sat with their lips pressed close together and looked embarrassed down on the table.

"They are waiting for somebody to begin, " thought the minister.

One of the churchwardens cleared his throat.

" I think we 've got a fine minister," he said.

" Your Reverence has heard how he preaches," interrupted the sexton.

The bishop spoke of repeated absences.

"The minister has the right to be ill, as well as another," was the peasants' opinion.

The bishop hinted at their dissatisfaction with the minister's mode of life.

They defended him with one voice. He was so young, their minister; there was nothing wrong with him. No ; if he would only always preach as he had done to-day they would not exchange him for the bishop himself.

There were no accusers ; there could be no judge.

The minister felt how his heart swelled and how swiftly the blood flew through his veins. Could it be that he was no longer among enemies; that he

INTRODUCTION J

had won them over when he had least thought of it; that he should still be their priest?

After the inspection the bishop and the clergymen of the neighborhood and the deans and the chief men of the parish dined at the vicarage. The wife of one of the neighbors had taken charge of the dinner ; for the minister was not married. She had arranged it all so well that it made him open his eyes, for the vicarage was not so dreadful. The long dining-table was spread out under the pines and shone with its white cloth, with its blue and white china, its glittering glass and folded napkins. Two birches bent over the door, the floor of the entry was strewn with rushes, a wreath of flowers hung from the rafters, there were flowers in all the rooms ; the mouldy smell was gone, and the green window-panes shone bravely in the sunshine.

He was glad to the bottom of his heart, the minister ; he thought that he would never drink again.

There was not one who was not glad at that dinner-table. Those who had been generous and had forgiven were glad, and the priests in authority were glad because they had escaped a scandal.

The good bishop raised his glass and said that he had started on this journey with a heavy heart, for he had heard many evil rumors. He had gone forth to meet Saul, but lo, Saul was already changed to a Paul, who should accomplish more than any of them. And the worthy man spoke of the rich gifts which their young brother possessed, and praised them. Not that he should be proud, but that he should strain every nerve and keep a close watch over himself, as he must do who bears an exceedingly heavy and costly burden on his shoulders,

The minister was not drunk at that dinner, but h€ was intoxicated. All this great unlooked- for happiness went to his head. Heaven had let the flame of inspiration burn in him, and these people had given him their love. His blood was at fever heat, and at raging speed rushed through his veins still when the evening came and his guests departed. Far into the night he sat awake in his room, and let the night air stream in through the open window to cool this fever of happiness, this pleasant restlessness which would not let him sleep.

He heard a voice.

"Are you awake?"

A man came over the lawn up to the window. The minister looked out and recognized Captain Christian Bergh, one of his trusty boon-companions. He was a wayfarer without house or land, this Captain Bergh, and a giant in stature and strength ; big was he as Goliath, malicious and stupid as a mountain goblin.

" Of course I am up, Captain Christian," answered the minister. " Do you think I could sleep to-night? "

And hear now what this Captain Bergh says to him ! The giant had guessed, he had understood, that the minister would now be afraid to drink. He would never have any peace, thought Captain Christian ; for those priests from Karlstad, who had been here once, could come again and take his surplice from him if he drank.

But now Captain Christian had put his heavy hand to the good work ; now he had arranged that those priests never should come again, neither they nor the bishop. Henceforth the minister and his friends lould drink as much as they liked at the vicarage.

Hear what a deed he had done, he, Christian

Bergh, the mighty Captain. When the bishop and the two deans had climbed into their closed carriage, and the doors had been shut tight on them, then he had mounted on the box and driven them ten miles or so in the light summer night.

And then had Christian Bergh taught the reverend gentlemen how loose life sits in the human body. He had let the horses run at the maddest pace. That was because they would not let an honorable man get drunk in peace.

Do you suppose he followed the road with them ; do you believe he saved them from jolts ? He drove over ditches and ploughed fields ; he drove in a dizzy gallop down the hills ; he drove along the water's edge, till the waves covered the wheels ; he almost stuck in a bog; he drove down over bare rocks, where the horses slid with legs held stiff.

And all the time the bishop and the priests sat with blanched faces behind the leather curtains and murmured prayers. It was the worst journey they had ever made.

And think how they must have looked when they came to Rissater's inn, living, but shaken like shot in a leather pouch.

"What does this mean, Captain Christian?" says the bishop, as he opens the door for them.

" It means that you shall think twice, bishop, before you make a new journey of inspection to Gosta Berling," says Captain Christian; and he had thought that sentence well out beforehand, so as not to get it wrong.

" Tell Gosta Berling," says the bishop, " that to him neither I nor any other bishop will ever coma agata."

io INTRODUCTION

This exploit the mighty Captain Christian stands and relates at the open window in the summer night. For Captain Christian has only just left the horses at the inn, and has come directly to the minister with his news.

"Now you can be at rest, comrade," he says.

Ah, Captain Christian, the clergymen sat with pale faces behind the leather curtains, but the priest at the window looks in the bright summer night far, far paler. Ah Captain Christian!

The minister raised his arm and measured a terrible blow at the giant's coarse, stupid face, but checked himself. He shut the window with a bang, and stood in the middle of the room, shaking his clenched fist on high.

He in whom the fire of inspiration had flamed, he who had been able to proclaim the glory of God, stood there and thought that God had made a fool of him.

Would not the bishop believe that Captain Christian had been sent by the minister? Would he not believe that he had dissembled and lied the whole day? Now he would investigate everything about him in earnest; now he would suspend him and dismiss him.

When the dawn broke the minister was far from his home. He did not care to stay and defend himself. God had mocked at him. God would not help him. He knew that he would be dismissed. God would have it. He might as well go at once.

All this happened in the beginning of the twenties in a far-a-way parish in Western Varmland.

It was the first misfortune which befell Gosta Berling; it was not the last.