WORKDAYS AND FÊTE-DAYS

WORKDAYS AND FÊTE-DAYS

I NOONING

LIEUTENANT LAGERLÖF believed that children, in order to grow up healthy and strong and become useful and capable men and women, should above all things acquire the habit of nooning. With that object in mind, always, after the midday meal, he would take the two youngest children down to the farm-office, which was in another building a few steps from the house.

The office was a large room, and probably looked about the same as in the days of the Mårbacka clergymen, when it had been their study. At the far end, under a window, there was a black leather lounge, and before it an oblong table. Along one side-wall stood a bedstead, a black leather-seated chair, a large black walnut writing table, and a high chest of drawers, while at the other side stood another bed and black leather chair and a tile stove. On the wall, beyond the stove, hung three fowling pieces, a seal-skin game-bag, a large horse-pistol, a couple of powder horns, and a fencing foil which crossed a broken sabre. In the midst of this armoury rested a huge pair of elk antlers. Down by the door, on one side, there was a stationary clothes cupboard, on the other side, a bookcase. At the bottom of the cupboard reposed the Lieutenant’s iron-bound oak chest, the one the Paymaster of the Regiment had used, and which was a bit charred on one corner.

In the bookcase the Lieutenant kept his big ledgers, and there, also, were the school books of two generations. Many annuals of the European Feuilleton were crowded in with Homer, Cicero, and Livy. Histories of Peter the Great and Frederick the Wise had been relegated hither on account of their common drab cardboard bindings, also the works of Wilhelm von Braun—though not because of their covers but for other reasons. On the floor lay surveyors’ instruments from the time the Lieutenant had assisted in the shifting of boundary lines; also some boxes of fishing tackle and odds and ends.

First thing, on coming into the office, the Lieutenant and his little daughters had to drive out the flies. Doors and windows were thrown wide open. The Lieutenant caught up a towel for the chase, and the little girls took off their aprons and went to beating the air. They climbed on to chairs and tables, hunted and swatted, while the buzzing flies flew hither and yon, as if determined not to go. However, in the end they were cleared out, and windows and doors were closed.

But there was one fly they called the Old Office Fly; she was used to the daily chase, and knew enough to keep out of the way while it went on. When all was quiet and peaceful again, she would come forth from her hiding place and seat herself on the ceiling.

No fresh chase was started for her. The Lieutenant and the children knew that she was too canny for them. They could never get rid of her! So they went on to the next thing to be done before nooning. The girls arranged two leather pillows and a down pillow on the lounge as a head-rest for the Lieutenant; whereupon he stretched himself out, shut his eyes, and simulated sleep.

Then, with wild shrieks, the children threw themselves upon him. He tossed them off as if they were little balls of yarn, but back they came like playful puppies. They pulled his whiskers, ruffled his hair, and clambered up on to the sofa, playing all sorts of pranks on him.

When the Lieutenant thought the children had had enough of play he clapped his hands once, and said:

“It’s over now.”

Little good that did! The children kept right on; again and again they crawled up on to the sofa, were flung off, and came bounding back—shrieking and making a fearful racket.

When that had gone on for some little time, the Lieutenant clapped twice and said: “It’s quite over now.”

Nor did that have any effect. The same performance was repeated amid shrieks and laughter, until the Lieutenant presently clapped his hands three times, and said:

“Now it is really and truly over.”

The two children instantly hushed their noise, and each crept into her own bed to sleep.

After a little the Lieutenant began to snore. His snores were not very loud, but they were enough to keep the two children, who were to acquire the habit of nooning, awake.

The youngsters were not allowed to get out of bed or speak to each other, but had to lie perfectly still. Their eyes, meanwhile, wandered round the room. Gazing at the rag mats on the floor, they recognized their mother’s and their aunt’s old dresses, which had been cut up for carpets. They looked at the portrait of General Malmberg, which hung on the wall between two battle canvasses, at the ink-well and pen, at the antlers and game-bags, at the foil and the famous gun called the “harekiller.” They traced the figures in the quilt, they counted the stars on the wall-paper, the nail-heads along the floor, and the checks in the curtains. The hour seemed dreadfully long! They heard the merry voices of the other children, who were so big they did not have to take a midday nap, but ran about—happy and free—devouring cherries and gooseberries and green apples!

The sole hope of the two little girls was the “office fly.” She buzzed and buzzed round the Lieutenant’s face, making as much noise as she could. If only she kept at it long enough she’d wake him up!

II MAMSELLE BRORSTRÖM

THE undergraduates at the Gymnasium of Karlstad had been unusually quiet in the beginning of the autumn semester. They had not started any fights with the street boys, or been up to any other deviltry. The whole city was surprised, pleased, and thankful, though no doubt people felt at the same time that something was lacking.

Then, as it drew on toward autumn Fair-time, when folk from all parts of Värmland were coming to the capital of the province, the students felt they must do something to maintain their reputation. Now it was not merely a question of Karlstad, but of all Värmland. After due deliberation, when various propositions had been presented and rejected, a schoolboy named Fredrik Sandberg was summoned to appear before the collegians.

Fredrik Sandberg obeyed orders, of course, for in those days it never would have done for the schoolboys to defy the collegians, who were their overlords. Nor would it have been well for the one who attempted to evade a summons from that quarter!

When Fredrik came the students togged him out in frilled shirt and stock, satin waistcoat of large flowered pattern, gray trousers with foot-straps, blue swallow-tail coat with silver buttons, and patent leather shoes. His hair was then curled and arranged in a forelock, gloves and walking stick were put into his hands, and a tall stove-pipe hat with curved brim topped it all.

If only Fredrik Sandberg had not been so small that the trousers hung in pleats, the coat tails almost trailed on the ground, and the hat went down on his ears, he would have been as fine a dandy as ever trod a city street. Thus arrayed, he was ordered off to Mamselle Brorström’s.

When Fredrik Sandberg entered the attic room where Mamselle Brorström lived, he found her standing before her tile-stove making waffles. Her attire was a bit so-so—just a petticoat and undervest. The little schoolboy thought to himself that never had he seen such arms and legs, such hands and feet, and such a torso!

“My name is Fredrik Sandberg,” he said by way of introduction, “and I would most humbly beg that I may be permitted to invite Mamselle Brorström to the Fair Ball at the Masonic Lodge.”

Mamselle Brorström was not exactly what would be termed “in society,” and had surely never thought of going to a fair ball. But now, being invited by an elegant cavalier, she could hardly refuse. So, curtsying to Fredrik Sandberg, she thanked him and said she felt highly honoured, and would be most happy to attend the ball.

The boy was pleased at being so well received, for it might have turned out quite otherwise. He ran back to the students as quickly as possible, and reported all that had taken place.

A week later Fredrik Sandberg was again ordered to appear before the collegians, and again dressed up as before, and sent to Mamselle Brorström.

This time he found her standing before her looking-glass trying on a red tulle dress. Her neck and arms were bare and she turned and twisted impatiently, apparently in a dreadful humour.

The little boy stared at the huge woman, who was twice as tall as he, twice as broad, and twice as strong. He gazed at the thick arms sticking out from the sleeveless red tulle bodice, and the enormous legs showing below the short skirts; he looked at her coarse face, copper-coloured from constant exposure to fire—for she was always making waffles—and he looked at her black tousled hair standing out like a bush round her head; he saw the fiery gleam in her blood-shot eyes and heard the thundering tones of her raucous voice. The boy wanted to cut and run, but having been sent there by the college students and knowing what disobedience to that authority meant, he bowed to Mamselle Brorström, and said:

“I most humbly beg that I may have the pleasure of the first waltz at the Fair Ball.”

Mamselle Brorström had been rather repentant and thoughtful that morning, and had wondered if she really ought to go to the ball. She would no doubt have put all thought of it out of her mind if Fredrik Sandberg had not come and begged for the first waltz. But now that she was certain of a dancing partner she was again in good humour. She assured Fredrik Sandberg that she felt both favoured and honoured, and that nothing would afford her greater pleasure than to let him dance with her.

That was the very day of the ball. And in the evening Mamselle Brorström, arrayed in her red tulle dress (than which nothing could be prettier, she thought) appeared at the Masonic Lodge among Karlstaders and Fair visitors. Stalking through the ladies’ dressing room into the grand ballroom, she sat herself down on one of the small cushioned seats along the wall.

People stared, but she did not mind. Having been invited, she had as good a right as any one else to dance at the Fair Ball. She noticed that the other ladies all had acquaintances to chat with, but this did not trouble her; when once the music struck up for the dance, they’d see that she had as fine a partner as any of them.

The regiment band began to play. She saw the foundry clerks step up to the founderers’ daughters, the lieutenants to the officers’ ladies, and the shop clerks to the shopkeepers’ girls—each took his partner. Soon everyone was on the floor whirling round—everyone except Mamselle Brorström, who sat waiting for Fredrik Sandberg.

The collegians were on the platform with the musicians. They had a good view of Mamselle Brorström in her red tulle, sitting all alone in the middle of the long row of wall seats, where the one she was waiting for might easily find her.

The wife of the Governor put up her lorgnette and wondered who that large, conspicuous looking woman was. The daughters of the founderers stuck up their noses at her, while the young ladies of the nobility marvelled that a person of that sort should come to a Fair Ball.

Mamselle Brorström meanwhile remained seated in the one place. Fredrik Sandberg did not put in an appearance and no one else seemed to think of asking her to dance. There was a supper, and after that more dancing. The fine folk were now leaving and the gentlemen began to look a bit flushed; but Mamselle Brorström still sat on.

Then at last Tanner Grunder stepped up and asked for a polka.

“’Tis high time!” said Mamselle Brorström in a voice loud enough to be heard all over the ballroom. And those words became a catch phrase in Värmland.

The tanner had been in a side room playing cards the whole evening, and had just come out for a little spin. As she was the only lady disengaged he naturally went over to her—not knowing, of course, her state of mind.

As Mamselle Brorström stood up to fling herself into the dizzy whirl, Tanner Grunder, to be polite and obliging, said:

“What is Mamselle Brorström’s pleasure—to dance forward or backward?”

“’Tis all one to me just so it goes,” she answered.

This, too, was heard all over the hall, and those words also became a saying in Värmland.

The day after the ball Fredrik Sandberg was again summoned by the collegians, and once again he was togged out and sent to Mamselle Brorström.

He found her standing by the stove, as usual, making waffles. That day she was not attired in red tulle but only in her petticoat and undervest. The schoolboy thought that never had he seen such a sour-looking face, such strong arms and formidable fists. The words he was to speak wanted to stick in his throat. But just outside the door stood three of the most dangerous collegians, and Fredrik knew what it would mean to get into the bad graces of the powers that be!

“I most humbly beg to know whether Mamselle Brorström had a pleasant time last evening at the ball,” he said, and made a low bow.

How Fredrik Sandberg got out of the room, across the hall, down the stairs, and into the street, he never knew. Nor did the three collegians who had been lurking behind the door know how they had been assisted down the stairs. It was well they were there, so that Fredrik was not alone on this treat, which proved to be more than enough for them all.

This episode was imprinted indelibly in the mind of Lieutenant Lagerlöf, who at the time it occurred was a lad attending school at Karlstad. And of an evening, as he sat in his rocker, he would tell the tale to his children. Though he was himself the kindest and gentlest of men, the mad pranks of schoolboys were always a source of amusement to him.

III RIDING TO “BLÅKULLA”

IN Grandmother Lagerlöf’s time, when the paupers of the community were taken into families and cared for, there was an old wardswoman at Mårbacka who on winter nights used to sleep in the kitchen—though goodness knows the room was crowded enough anyhow, with the housekeeper and five maids all sleeping there! So at the first signs of summer she would betake herself to the barn-loft, where she had found a good comfortable bed in an old discarded sledge, which in bygone winters had been used for carting pig-iron from the smithies in Bergslagerna to the Kymsberg Iron Works.

There for several weeks she had slept in peace and quiet. Then, one night, she was awakened by the sledge moving. She sat bolt upright and looked round. Outside, the night was almost as light as day, but in the barn where the poor old woman lay it was pitch dark, so that she could not see anything. Thinking that she had only been dreaming, she sank back upon her pillow and was soon slumbering again.

But strange to say, she had no more than got to sleep when the sledge began to move again. This time it not only gave a little lurch but went gliding along the floor. Though it moved kind of slowly and cautiously, there was no mistaking that there was life in it.

The old woman sat up and gripped the side of the sledge with both hands. Her hair rose and her jaw fell.

“Merciful God!” she gasped, “it’s crawling!”

But how in the world could such a thing happen? Could it be that an old sledge which had carried pig-iron winter after winter between Bergslagerna and Kymsberg grew restless at night, and must bestir itself a bit once in a while?

The sledge moved faster; now it went bumpety-bump over the uneven floor, and scudded across piles of hay and straw as if taking plunges into deep gulches and flights up steep hills.

“O merciful God! Merciful God!” cried the woman.

But invoking the name of the Lord did not stop the sledge; it ran right on the whole length of the barn-loft, till it struck the wall.

There it must surely stand still, she thought. But no indeed! As soon as it recovered its breath, so to speak, it began to back toward the corner where it first stood.

The wardswoman said later that if in that instant she had not guessed what was wrong with the sledge she surely would have lost her wits.

Oh, no, it was not the old Bergslag journeys haunting the pig-iron sledge—someone had “greased” it! Some witch-hag on the farm or in the district (she didn’t care to mention any names, or even think them) had taken it into her head that she could ride to Blåkulla, the Witches’-kitchen, with more ease and comfort in the old sledge than on a broom-stick, an oven-rake, or a barn door. Perhaps the wicked witch did not know the wardswoman slept in the sledge. In the stress of the moment there was no time to figure on just how it had all come about. But this much was certain: the sledge wanted to be out and off, and it was she—the wardswoman—it was taking to the Witches’ hell instead of the right one.

Lord o’ Mercy! But for the strong barn wall she would already be flying over the village toward the church.

Meanwhile the sledge kept backing. She knew well enough that that was only in order to make a fresh start to break through. Once outside, it would go shooting through the air over tree-tops and mountain ranges. She would be flying above shining lakes and rivers, without the least fear of tumbling into them; she would circle round the church steeple like a jackdaw, and fly on beyond Stor Kil and Grav parishes; but where she would land she hated to think on.

Lord o’ Mercy! The sledge was rushing forward again. There was no doubt that sledge could fly if once it got out into the open; it was making for the wall at terrific speed. The old woman, positive now that the wall would give way, lay down again so as not to be scraped off in the middle when the sledge cut through the boards. This time it struck hard. Oh, what a bump! Again the wall resisted. Now, if only the sledge had the sense to see that it couldn’t get anywhere, and stand still!

But don’t for a moment imagine it! Once more it began to back. That sledge must have been greased with real witch-oil. If it made a third attempt it would surely succeed. Whatever would she do when she got in amongst witches and all the Hosts of Darkness! To be sure she had heard tell of such, but she had never wanted to believe in them. There is so much one would rather not believe until one has seen for oneself whether it is true.

“Merciful Lord, lead me not into temptation,” she prayed. All her life she had endured poverty and contempt without a murmur. But were she now to be offered riches and power, would she be able to resist? Or, were she to learn the magic words that cure sickness in humans and animals, or the ones that make the ground yield good harvests, or those that awaken love in young folk, could she withstand the temptation to use them? Might she only be granted strength to rise above temptation and so preserve her soul unto salvation.

Just then the sledge took a third lunge. Now it tore ahead, creating a rush of wind that whizzed about her ears. She shut her eyes lest she turn giddy, for in the wink of an eyelid she knew she would be soaring high above the earth—high as the lark.

Crash! Now, surely, the wall had given way....

But, thanks be to God! the good board wall still held; it was only the sledge that had broken down. With that, it must have lost all zest for travel. The sledge having come to a dead stop, the wardswoman managed to crawl out and drop down on a heap of straw, to rest after her perilous ride. When in the morning she told it all to the maids and it eventually came to the ears of Grandmother Lagerlöf, the latter thought it sounded a bit queer. Though Grandmother was herself a firm believer in the supernatural, there had to be some semblance of reason and probability behind it. That one could ride to Blåkulla on a light summer’s night, and in a sleigh at that, was something unheard of. Grandmother, of course, went down to the barn and examined the sledge. Finding a couple of long ropes attached to it, she immediately summoned the stableboy and two or three of his companions. After questioning the boys thoroughly, she gave them a good dressing down.

This, too, was one of the Lieutenant’s boy-prank yarns. There were many more up his sleeve; but when he had told this and the one about Mamselle Brorström, Fru Lagerlöf would say:

“Now that is enough for this evening. It’s time for the children to say Good-night, and go to bed.”

IV BELLMAN BALLADS

AT SIX-THIRTY every morning Nurse made a fire in the children’s room, and at seven o’clock the children had to rise and start dressing. When they were ready, say at about half after seven, and the beds had been hurriedly made, a tray was sent up from the kitchen with bowls of gruel and large pieces of buttered knäckebröd. This was the little breakfast. Then, until eight, they sat at a large table by the window and glanced over their lessons. The nursery had to serve as schoolroom, there being no other place available.

On the stroke of eight books were closed. The children then put on their wraps and went out in the half-dark winter morning—whatever the weather. They hurried down to the pond first thing, to see whether there was ice for skating, or, in lieu of that, went sledding on the driveway. If there was nothing else they could do, they ran down to the barn to see the baby rabbits and romp with the sheep-dog.

A little before nine they had big breakfast, which usually consisted of eggs, or griddle-cakes, or fried herring with boiled potatoes, or black pudding with salt pork and cream gravy. At breakfast the family did not sit at the big table, but each person, in turn, helped himself and then sat down at one of the side tables.

At nine sharp one had to be through with the meal, for at that hour lessons began. Then it was back to the nursery again to sit at the long table reading, writing, and figuring until noon. The little girls had a governess now—Ida Melanoz, eldest daughter of Sexton Melanoz, who had her father’s good brain and teaching ability.

At twelve o’clock dinner was served at the round dining table. One of the little girls said grace before the meal, the other after it. Then, rising from table, they kissed Mother’s hand and Father’s hand, and said: “Thanks for the food.” It was never quiet during the dinner hour. Lieutenant Lagerlöf kept the ball of chatter rolling. He could always find something to talk about. If nothing more thrilling had happened than his meeting an old woman in the lane, he would make a whole story out of the incident.

From one to two the children were again out of doors. But they often went in a few minutes before the play hour was up, so as to run through their lessons for the afternoon session, which was from two to four. Afterwards, they would read the lessons for the next day. They were never allowed to sit at their studies later than five o’clock, when they must go out-doors again. Now they were off to some distant coasting hill. At one time they had a big ram to drive, and that, of course, was great sport. When they got back to the house a pleasant hour awaited them. A log fire crackled in the living room and on the folded card table stood a plate of sandwiches and a pitcher of unfermented beer. To sit or lie before the fire while munching their sandwiches—that was something the youngsters enjoyed hugely. They chattered and planned all sorts of things. It was the only hour of the day they had to themselves.

When the fire burned low, the lamp on the round table over by the sofa was lit. Fru Lagerlöf now took her little daughters in hand, and taught them to sew, crochet, and knit. She had a volume of Hans Andersen’s fairy tales, and when she thought the work had gone well she would reward the children by reading or narrating “The Travelling Companion,” or “The Tinder-box,” or “The Wild Swans.” Besides, there were pretty and amusing illustrations in that book, and to look at those was almost as much fun as to hear the stories.

At eight o’clock supper was served, and then the Lieutenant appeared. Up to that hour he had been at the farm-office poring over his ledgers.

And now, after the long work-filled day, one could at last relax. The children put away their needlework, and the Lieutenant, sitting back in his rocking-chair, began to tell schoolboy yarns like the one about Mamselle Brorström, or else he related his memories of the glorious Jenny Lind as Norma or the Daughter of the Regiment, or of Emily Högquist as the Maid of Orleans. When at times he did not feel like talking, he would ask Fru Lagerlöf or Mamselle Lovisa to read aloud from Tegnér. Anything more beautiful than “Fritiof’s Saga” he thought had never been written. He would rather have been the Lund professor who sang of Fritiof’s and Ingeborg’s love, than Emperor of France or Tsar of Russia. He was also an admirer of Runeberg, whose tales of “Surgeon Stål” and epic poems he enjoyed hearing. But he did not like it if any one said the Finnish poet was greater than Tegnér.

Sometimes (and that was the best fun of all) he would sit down at the old piano and strike a few chords, then call out:

“Come, children, let’s sing Bellman!”

The girls needed no coaxing, they were over by the piano in a jiffy. Then, with high glee, they let loose on Bellman! They always began with “Old Man Noah” and “Joachim of Babylon,” then followed “Father Movitz” and “Mother at Tuppen,” and they sang of “Dancing Master Mollberg, and His Misadventures in Rostock Tavern.”

The Lieutenant pounded out the accompaniments, and hummed the air, to mark the time and carry the tune. But the children sang at the top of their voices, and could be heard all over the house. Here were indeed life and merriment for them after the day’s work! They understood very little of what they sang, but the melodies put them in a glow and livened their spirits. Ah, how sweet it sounded when Ulla danced in spangles, veil and fringe! or when Fredman sang: “’Tis as far to Monday as from north to south.” And what could be funnier than when the ever-hapless Mollberg jumped into the vat where Grogshop-Mother soaked her stockfish, or when at the great boating-picnic the party-cake came on garnished with sugar, cinnamon, and anchovies!

But what delighted the children above everything was that they might sing as loud as ever they wished. The Lieutenant never corrected them or interrupted to remind them that there were such things as voice modulation and singing in unison. They thought they sang Bellman just as he should be sung.

On the wall above the piano sat Karl Mikael (Bellman) himself, with his lute. Now and then, the Lieutenant looked up at him, as if expecting a smile of approval from that incomparable lyrist and singer.

But once when Lieutenant Lagerlöf and the children were having a Bellman-sing, it happened that Colour-Sergeant von Wachenfeldt was there, sitting in his usual corner, chatting with Mamselle Lovisa.

“Isn’t it strange that not one of the children has a voice?” Mamselle Lovisa remarked to the Sergeant in a half-whisper.

“Yes,” replied the Sergeant in a low tone. “That they haven’t singing voices they can’t help, but they might at least make use of their ears!”

“It seems extraordinary, when both parents are musical, don’t you think so, Wachenfeldt? I can’t understand how Gustaf endures it!”

“He does not hear it as it sounds to us,” said the Sergeant. “He loves those children.”

“People are wont to speak of seeing with the eyes of love,” observed Mamselle Lovisa, “and there may be such a thing as hearing with the ears of love....”

“Be sure of that!” responded the Colour-Sergeant, who knew whereof he spoke.

One of the little singers chanced to overhear those remarks, and repeated them to the others, and perhaps it was due to that that the Bellman “concerts” at Mårbacka were suddenly discontinued.

But long afterward—aye, always—the love of the Bellman songs lived in the hearts of the Mårbacka children. They loved them not only for their humour and pathos and their haunting beauty; but the faintest tone from the Bellman lute called up memories of the never-failing love and tenderness that had made their childhood such a happy one!

V BOYS AND GIRLS

IN THE summer of 1866 there was an unusually large number of children at Mårbacka. Besides Daniel and Johan Lagerlöf, sons of the house, there were Teodor, Otto, and Hugo Hammargren, cousins on the paternal side, who, with their parents, were spending the whole summer at Mårbacka. Ernst and Klas Schenson, cousins on the maternal side, had also come for the summer. But, indeed, they were not all! Herman, Bernhard, and Edvin Milén of the neighbouring farm, must also be counted as members of the company, and Adolf Noreen of Herrestad came over two or three times a week to play with the boys. And of course there were Anna, Selma, and Gerda Lagerlöf, though Gerda, who was only three years old, hardly counted; nor were Anna and Selma of any importance when there were so many boys around.

That summer the lads had hit upon a jollier and more satisfying pastime than any of previous years. The first few weeks they spent in the usual way—picking berries, lying on the grass, swinging in the rope-swing, shooting arrows, pitching quoits, and playing leap-frog. But after a time they wearied of these petty diversions, and talked of taking up some serious and productive work. They had an eye to a bit of woodland just beyond the avenue, which was bounded on the west by the road ditch, on the east by towering Åsberget, on the north by a stone wall, and on the south by a deep gravel pit; so that the whole area, which covered about one sixteenth of an acre, lay quite detached and well secluded.

On closer inspection, the boys discovered that the land had a bountiful supply of rocks, and its vegetation consisted mostly of juniper bushes, spruce saplings, and bracken. At the northern end there was a little brook, which ran dry in high summer, and along its shores grew some fine alder bushes. In the crevices of the mountain wall grew polypody, a kind of fern to which the boys attached great value. At the south end there were four large spruces, while in the midst of the territory stood a tall, thickly branched pine.

The whole region was evidently devoid of culture, its only inhabitants being squirrels, woodpeckers, and ants. Now the boys thought this wilderness ought to have the benefit of the blessings of civilization, and decided to emigrate and settle there.

Their first move was to stake out their homesteads. Teodor Hammargren, who was sixteen years of age and the nominal head of the expedition, claimed a towering rock, which afforded him a splendid view of the whole country. Daniel Lagerlöf, who was fifteen—and next in age and standing—appropriated the four large spruces and the fine rock wall behind them. Johan Lagerlöf and Otto Hammargren, who were schoolfellows and good pals, took joint possession of the northernmost tract with the dried-out brook and alder grove. Ernst Schenson, who was but twelve, contented himself with a scraggy rock. The others wondered what joy he could have of that. His brother, Klas, who was only a little chap, also chose a rock; but he seemed to have got the better position, for he had a shading juniper close by. Hugo Hammargren claimed as his portion the solitary pine, which no one begrudged him. Herman Milén, aged ten, found a big uprooted spruce lying with its roots in the air and its trunk full of branches. His little brothers, Bernhard and Edvin, who were twins and only eight, came near not getting anything at all; however, they were each finally allotted the stump of a tree. Adolf Noreen had not been at Mårbacka the day the land was apportioned, and there was great consternation when he finally appeared and demanded his share of the spoils; for by that time every available spot had already been taken. Luckily, Teodor Hammargren hit upon the thought of allowing him a shelf of rock in the mountain wall. And with that, peace was restored.

But if Anna and Selma had entertained any hopes of owning homes in the settlement they were sadly mistaken. Why, they were just girls, and it never even occurred to the boys that they might wish to be included.

The lads were having such good times all by themselves in their new colony! Teodor Hammargren carried up moss to his tower to make him a comfortable seat. He had built a stone stairway by which he could easily pass up and down. Daniel Lagerlöf had cleared the ground between the spruces and the rock wall, and fitted up a salon with moss-covered stone seats along three sides. His was the most comfortable and attractive place of all. Johan and Otto made for themselves a semi-circular moss sofa in among their tangle of alders. That was also considered a very desirable location. Ernst Schenson made him a wide moss-covered lounge, with his big rock as back-rest; but his brother Klas was a little do-nothing, who just sprawled on the ground under his juniper bush and didn’t bother to drag stones and moss for a bench. Hugo Hammargren had begged some board-ends from the Lieutenant’s carpenter and nailed them in a crotch of his pine, so that he had a grand seat. Adolf Noreen made a moss bed on his shelf of rock, where he enjoyed solid comfort when once he had clambered up. Herman Milén had dug a cave for himself under his uprooted tree, and even the small twins had spread a bit of moss over their stumps.

But Anna and Selma had nowhere to build and nothing to furnish. They wandered about the farm utterly deserted, not knowing what to do to amuse themselves.

The boys, meanwhile, had more and more fun as their commune developed. They soon found it necessary to have a regular administration and judiciary, and elected Teodor Hammargren High Chieftain and Judge. Daniel Lagerlöf was appointed Master of the Mint, and had to issue paper currency. Johan became bailiff and Otto Hammargren petty constable.

Now that they had money to do with the boys began to buy and sell stone and gravel, moss and earth. Some did a brisk trade and grew rich; but Hugo Hammargren and Herman Milén were regular spendthrifts, and they were moreover guilty of appropriating ferns from another’s estate. The bailiff had to arrest them and put them in the jail—an old smithy which lay conveniently at the roadside.

Anna and Selma still went about the farm by themselves. Anna averred that the next time the boys asked her to crochet a ball for them she’d say NO. Nor would she help them make taffy. And Selma, who was only seven, didn’t know what to do to get even with the boys; but she could at least refuse to let them haul gravel in her little cart.

Life up at the colony was so thrilling the boys all declared they had never had such good sport. They sat in councils and discussed the affairs of State; they voted to build roads and to construct a great stone bridge across the ditch, in order to connect the colony with the outer world. All the lads over twelve years of age were to do the road-breaking and stone-cutting, while the younger ones were to haul gravel. But afterward it seemed that Hugo Hammargren and Herman Milén would not help with the work, and from that arose many grave complications. Hugo and Herman, since they had no respect for law and order, were now looked upon as the black sheep of the colony. Even the jail had no terrors for them! So it was difficult to know just what course of procedure to follow in their case.

Anna and Selma down on the farm tried to amuse themselves by shooting with the boys’ bows-and-arrows and pitching their quoits. They said they had quite as much fun in winter, when the boys were away at school. Anna vowed that never again would she let any boy look at the big doll her aunt had given her for Christmas, which was over two feet tall, and wore shoes and stockings, corset and crinoline, and had a bed of its own, with sheets and pillowcases, and a trunk for its clothes, and everything.

Up at the colony things were flourishing. One fine day at a town meeting it was moved that a public house be opened. The motion was carried, and Master of the Mint Daniel Lagerlöf was elected keeper of the tavern, because he had the roomiest dwelling.

The new boniface must have found it rather tiring trying to satisfy the demands of his customers for home-brewed ginger beer, wild raspberries, green apples, and polypody. Of a sudden it struck him that he had a couple of sisters; and immediately he went over to the farm, where he found the girls down by the pond sailing the boys’ boats and promising each other never again to play with the boys or even so much as look at them.

“You may come up to the colony, girls, and be waitresses at my tavern.”

Anna and Selma let the boats sail whither they would. Not a word did they say about being forgotten and left to shift for themselves all this long time. They went right along with their brother to the boys’ colony, blissfully happy.

VI THE OLD SOLDIER

IT WAS late afternoon of a beautiful day in autumn. Back-Kaisa, the onetime nursemaid at Mårbacka, who now worked at the loom, was tramping through the woods on her way to the hill-croft where she was born and grew up—on an errand for Lieutenant Lagerlöf. She and little Selma were still great friends, and she had taken the child along. They were in no hurry, these two; they stopped to pick and eat whortleberries growing by the roadside, they admired the gorgeous flybane and gathered their aprons full of lovely mosses to take home with them so as to have something pretty to lay between the inner and storm-windows of the nursery. Back-Kaisa was happy to be once more in the woods, where she knew every shrub and every stone. When they came to the wattled fence which surrounded the clearing where the croft-hut stood and were about to step over the stile, Back-Kaisa said:

“Mind, Selma, you mustn’t say a word about war in Father’s hearing!”

The little girl was astonished at that. She knew that Back-Kaisa’s father was an old soldier who had fought with Napoleon at Leipsic. That one could not speak with him about war seemed unbelievable.

“Why can’t I talk to him about war?” she queried.

“That one must never do with them that’s been out in a real war,” Back-Kaisa told her.

Now the little girl was more astonished than ever. She thought of Fritiof; of Hjalmar; of Hector, and all the gods and heroes of antiquity she had read about in her saga-books—and her head was in a whirl.

In the cabin on the edge of the hearth, with his back to the fire, sat Back-Kaisa’s father, a tall, gaunt-looking man with a coarse-featured and furrowed face. That he was of the olden time could be seen by his mode of dress, for he wore knee-breeches and shoes instead of boots and had on a shockingly grimy sheepskin coat. But on the whole his appearance was not more bizarre than that of other old peasants.

The little girl stared and stared at the soldier who would not allow any one to speak of war in his hearing. To her there was nothing so delightful as to hear tales of battles or read stories of wars. She thought it a great pity that she could not ask him to tell her about the things he had been through.

All the while she sat there she dared not speak or reply when spoken to. She felt that if she opened her mouth she would forget, and say something about war, and then the old man might kill her.

After a time she began to think he looked horrible. It was so incomprehensible, this, that one could not talk to him about war. There must be something dreadful back of it all which she did not understand. Perhaps the old man was dangerous? She only wanted to escape, and was ready to make for the door. With every moment that passed her fear increased, and by the time Back-Kaisa was ready to leave and they could at last say good-bye, she was fairly beside herself with fright.

Now, if he had been like other old soldiers, and had said that war was the greatest thing in the world; if he had boasted of killing hundreds of men and burning down whole cities and villages, then the little girl would not have been a bit afraid of him.

VII THE LAND OF HEART’S DESIRE

IT WAS Lars of London, and Sven of Paris, and Magnus of Vienna, and Johan of Prague, and Per of Berlin, and Olle of Maggebysäter, the stableman and the farmboy!

Now Lars of London, Sven of Paris, Magnus of Vienna, Johan of Prague, and Per of Berlin, they were not foreigners, but farm-labourers at Mårbacka. Lieutenant Lagerlöf, in a facetious moment, had named his workmen’s cottages after the principal cities of Europe.

Lars of London and Magnus of Vienna had been plowing all day in the field below the barn; Sven of Paris had fed the cows and, between times, helped on the potato land. Johan of Prague had been digging potatoes, while Per of Berlin, who had been at home all day nursing a lame back, had come over to the manor for a little diversion. The stableman had been grooming the horses, and in spare moments chopping firewood, and the farmboy had worked in the potato field. Olle of Maggebysäter was not employed at the farm; he had just come down to Mårbacka to buy a bushel of rye.

It was a drizzly day in autumn, and the men had gone into the servants’ hall for the usual afternoon rest—from half after four to five. Their shoes were covered with mud, their clothing was damp, and they themselves were sour and disgruntled. They had kindled a fire on the hearth, and dropped down round it. Lars of London, who had the largest croft and was the best workman, sat on the chopping-block directly in front of the fire. Magnus of Vienna, who was almost as good a worker as Lars, was sitting next to him, on one of the cobbler’s stools. Sven of Paris, who thought himself quite as good as any of them, though he did tend cattle, had planted himself on the edge of the hearth, not caring whether he shut off the blaze from the others. Johan of Prague had taken the other stool and the old man of Berlin had seated himself on a saw-buck just back of the rest. The stableman sat on the edge of the cubby-bed swinging his legs, the farmboy perched on the carpenter’s bench, while Olle of Maggebysäter sat down by the door on a barrel of red ochre, resting his feet on his sack of rye.

Lars of London, Magnus of Vienna, Johan of Prague, and Sven of Paris now opened their food-bundles. They each took out a hunk of rye bread with a dab of butter on top. Drawing their sheath-knives from the belts under their leather aprons and wiping them on their trousers, they proceeded to spread their bread and cut it up, bit by bit, eating it in all comfort. The farmboy was sent over to the kitchen to fetch the fare for himself and the stableman, and came back with two halves of a rye-cake, two pats of butter, and two dishes of cottage cheese. Per of Berlin, not having worked that day, had brought no lunch, and Olle of Maggebysäter had none, either; they just sat and glowered at the others.

When they had finished eating, Lars of London, Magnus of Vienna, Sven of Paris, Johan of Prague, the stableman, and the farmboy simultaneously drew from their trousers’ pockets a plug of tobacco. Per of Berlin was not left out on this, for he, too, had his plug; but Olle of Maggebysäter had not even a bit of tobacco in his pocket.

The sheath-knives were again drawn. Now each man cut off a piece of his plug, laid it on his leather apron, chopped it fine, then filled his cutty-pipe.

Lars of London picked up a thin stick of wood and lighted it at the fire. After he had lit his own pipe he gave the light to Magnus of Vienna, who passed it on to Sven of Paris; Sven of Paris handed it to Johan of Prague, who reached back and offered it to Per of Berlin: Per of Berlin leaned over so as to pass it to the stableman, who, after lighting his pipe, held the burning stick in his hand till the farmboy came across the room and took it. Olle of Maggebysäter, to be sure, had no need of a light—having neither pipe nor tobacco. The other men now being warm and well-fed, the world began to look better to them.

But Olle of Maggebysäter was three-score-and-ten, and so crippled with rheumatism that his fingers were stiff and crooked like claws; his head was drawn to one side, one leg was shorter than the other, his sight was poor, his wits were nothing to brag about, and he was toothless and ugly. Washed and combed he had certainly not been in half a year. The fringe of whiskers under his chin was full of sticks and straws. He owned a little croft up in the woods; but being nothing of a worker, he had not been able to keep poverty out of his house. Always grumpy and discontented, he had no friends. And now as the clouds of tobacco smoke rose from the other men’s pipes, he muttered, as if to himself:

“I’ve had nothin’ but trouble and misery all my life; but now I’ve heard about a land they call America, and there I want to go.”

The other men sat tranquilly musing over their pipes and made no response.

Olle of Maggebysäter continued:

“You see, ’tis like this in America—you’ve only to hit a rock with your stick and the rum’ll come spurtin’ out. That land I want to see afore I die.”

The others gazed straight before them and smiled, but said nothing.

Olle of Maggebysäter talked on:

“No one can make me stick at home in this dull, miserable place, when I know there’s a land where the hills are full o’ rum.”

The others remained persistently silent, but not a word of what Olle of Maggebysäter said was lost on them.

“The leaves of the trees in that land, they’re nothin’ but gold,” said the poor old man. “There you don’t have to do day’s work at a manor, you’ve only to go to the woods and pull off an armful of leaves, and then you can buy yourself whatever you want. Blow me, if I don’t move over there, old as I be!”

They were now in a mellow mood, all the men in the servants’ hall. They saw, as it were before their eyes, that land where you tap rum from the rocks and pick gold off the trees.

The farm-bell rang. Rest-time was up. They must again go out into the wet and cold.

Lars of London returned to his plow, Magnus of Vienna to his; Sven of Paris, Johan of Prague, and the farmboy went back to digging potatoes, Per of Berlin betook himself home to his cottage, the stableman had to go and chop the evening’s firewood, and Olle of Maggebysäter, shouldering his sack of rye, limped off to the woods.

None of them looked as glum as they did half an hour ago. There was a little glint of light in their eyes. They all felt it was good to know of a land where rum flowed from the hills and the forests were of gold—even though it lay so far away they could never reach it.

VIII THE “SLOM” SEASON

EAST of Mårbacka, beyond a wooded ridge, lies Gårdsjön, a little lake in which there is a fish we call slom. The fish is about two inches long, and so thin as to be almost transparent; but small as it is, it is edible.

In Lieutenant Lagerlöf’s time, when everything was so much better than it is now, folks used to take this fish out of the lake in countless numbers. Its spawning time was in early spring, when the ice began to break and there was open water along the shores. One could stand at the water’s edge and scoop the fish up with dippers and buckets. Certainly no one went to the bother of putting out nets for slom!

Slom was fished and peddled only at the spawning time; therefore, it was a sure sign of spring when a Gårdsjö fisherman came to the kitchen at Mårbacka with the first catch. The man, knowing he had brought a desired commodity, boldly lifted the latch (in those days there was no lock on the kitchen door) and walked in with an air of confident assurance. He did not stop just inside the door as on other occasions; without stating his errand, or even saying good-morning, he strode across the floor to the big table and deposited a small basket done up in a blue-checked cotton cloth. Then, stepping back to the door, he stood with head proudly erect, and waited for what was to follow.

If the housekeeper and the maids were the only ones in the kitchen, he could stand a long while unnoticed; for they would not permit themselves to show any signs of curiosity. But if Lieutenant Lagerlöf’s little daughters chanced to be there, they were over by the basket at a bound, eagerly untying the cover to see what was under it.

And they found a little porcelain plate, edged round with a blue landscape, which they recognized as having seen every year at this season as far back as they remembered. On the plate was a small mound of slom—some forty or fifty fishes.

Now slom when properly prepared is a tasty fish, but for all that it is considered rather common food. At the other manors in the district it was looked upon as poor man’s fare, but not so at Mårbacka. Lieutenant Lagerlöf was such a lover of fish he would hardly eat anything else the year round. After the eelpout had finished spawning, in February, he had to be satisfied with such things as stockfish, dried pike, salt salmon, salt whitefish, to say nothing of the everlasting herring! So every day now he wondered if the slom would be along soon.

The little girls had also learned to regard this fish as a rare treat, and were delighted when they saw what was in the basket. They called to the housekeeper and the maids to come and see. It was slom! Lasse had brought slom! Wasn’t it great? Wasn’t it wonderful? And there was general rejoicing in the kitchen. The housekeeper immediately went into the pantry and made a sandwich for the fisherman. When handing it to him, she condescended to ask him whether it looked as if there would be a good “take” that year. The fisherman, cocky and self-satisfied (for this was his big day), actually had the temerity to chaff the dignified old housekeeper. He said there would be more slom than all the riches of Lieutenant Lagerlöf could buy.

Mamselle Lovisa, wondering what all this talk meant, came out to the kitchen. Instantly she caught sight of the fisherman and the plate of slom she threw up her hands and exclaimed in despair:

“Good Lord! Is that awful stuff coming in now again!”

It was a great disappointment to the little girls that Aunt Lovisa did not share their delight. Still, she must have had some appreciation of the auspicious event, for she said something in a low tone to the housekeeper, who smiled and nodded approval. Whereupon the children and the maids were told not to let Lieutenant Lagerlöf know the slom had come; it was to be a surprise for his supper.

When the three little girls heard that, they were gladder than ever. Their father was their best friend and playfellow; there was nothing too good for him! They felt very important now, and not for anything would they leave the kitchen. They begged to be allowed to clean the fish, and knew from past years how it should be done: With one stroke you cut off the head, with another you drew out the “innards.” The tiny fish had no scales or sharp bones. If you cut off the tail it was a sign you didn’t know how slom should be treated. Even after the fishes were cleaned the children would not leave them out of their sight. They watched the housekeeper wash them, dip them in flour, and put them in the frying pan. It wouldn’t do to throw slom in the pan just any way. The little fishes had to be laid down very carefully, one by one, close together, none overlapping, and fried hard, so that they all stuck together. Then, with a flip of the pancake-spade, they were turned over. When well browned on both sides, they were covered with a hard round oat-cake, and then turned out of the pan so that the slom lay on top of the bread. The housekeeper told the children that was the way their grandmother had fixed it. In the old mistress’s time they used to set before each person at table a round of slom on an oat-cake, for in those days they were not so well off for plates as now.

All the while the slom was frying the children were on pins and needles lest their father should come into the kitchen. Every other minute they ran out in the hall and opened the door to the living room a wee bit to see whether he sat quietly reading his newspaper. When he got up to go for his usual evening walk, their hearts were in their mouths. Oh, dear! What if he should take a notion to go out by the kitchen way——?

Later, at supper, the three little girls could hardly contain themselves. If they but glanced at their father they began to titter. It was hardest for the littlest girl, who had to say grace. In the middle of the prayer she gave a little chirrup like a sparrow when it sees a grain of corn. The Lieutenant was about to ask what had come over her when his eyes fell on the slom right by his plate. His face lit up.

“Thank the Lord we’ve got something to eat in the house once more!” he said, and actually meant it. For to him only fish was food.

The children after their long silence broke into peals of laughter.

“Oho!” charged the Lieutenant, shaking a finger at them. “So this is why you’ve been running in and out the whole evening and wouldn’t let me read my paper in peace!”

It was an unusually jolly supper. The Lieutenant was always good humoured and talkative, but when he was especially pleased about anything he became quite irresistible. Then he fairly bubbled with amusing anecdotes and kept the whole table convulsed with laughter.

As for the slom, there was no more than the Lieutenant himself could have eaten; but he insisted that all must have a share of this “delicacy.” And of course everyone marvelled that such a tiny fish could be so delicious.

“Now, doesn’t it taste good, Lovisa?” he asked his sister, who was as fond of meat as he was of fish.

Even she had to concede that just for once like this it was not bad—but too much of it——

When the Lieutenant folded his serviette before rising from table, he said very solemnly:

“Now, children, mind what I’m telling you: The King in his royal palace couldn’t have had a better supper than we’ve had. So we must give God proper thanks for the food and not slur the grace.”

Thus ended the first day of the slom season.

The next morning the Gårdsjö fisherman brought a whole pound of slom. He was well met, of course, and he asked twelve skillings the pound for his fish, which was considered a high price. The Lieutenant himself came out to the kitchen with the money in order to thank the old man for coming to Mårbacka with the slom, and request him to continue as he had begun.

“Now for pity’s sake don’t take it to the parson’s or the founderer’s!” he said.

This time, also, the little girls volunteered to clean the fish. And now they were repaid for their trouble. There was slom enough for the whole family at supper, and some left over for the Lieutenant’s breakfast. But the serving-folk did not have any that day, either. It was too choice a dish for them.

The third day the fisherman delivered enough slom to fill a large earthen bowl. Slom was now served at the family table for both breakfast and supper, and in the kitchen it was set before the overseer, but not before the stableman or the farmboy.

The next few days folk from every little hamlet along the lake came bringing slom to Mårbacka. The Lieutenant bought from all. Soon every earthen vessel in the cupboard was filled to overflowing, and the fish had to be emptied into a huge copper kettle; when even that would not hold it all, it was dumped into a big vat.

But to clean such a lot of small fish was no light task! The housemaids had to leave off spinning and weaving to sit in the kitchen cleaning slom. The three little girls were no longer to be seen in the schoolroom. It was not for fun they cleaned slom now, but to help the grown-ups. Fru Lagerlöf and Mamselle Lovisa put aside their other work to give a hand. But it was a bit of a change for them all—a little departure from the usual routine.

The housekeeper did not help clean fish, she stood at the stove the whole day frying it. Before long she began to complain of the quantities of butter the fish was taking. The butter-tub had been full only a few days before, and she could already see the bottom. That was the first break in the general satisfaction.

The family had slom for breakfast and slom for supper; but thus far at dinner there was the usual Värmland midday fare—corned beef or pork, or herring-balls, or fried ham, or sausage, or whatever else there was on hand. But such fare was not to the taste of Lieutenant Lagerlöf. One day when he was served meat that had lain in brine since autumn, he lost all patience.

“I don’t see why we should sit here and eat salt food when the pantry is full of nice fresh fish,” he flung out. “But that’s always the way of these fine housekeepers; they feed the homefolk on salt stuff and let the fresh things stand on the shelves and spoil—waiting for company.”

That was a sharp rap at his sister. But Mamselle Lovisa took it calmly; she was too fond of her brother to be offended by anything he might say. She meekly answered that she had never heard of any one’s setting slom before guests.

“I know, Lovisa, that you are too refined to eat slom. You have been out in the great world, and know how things ought to be. But I don’t see why we back here at Mårbacka need bother ourselves about what they do in Karlstad or Åmål.”

A light broke in on Mamselle Lovisa. “But surely you don’t want slom for dinner, too!” she exclaimed, as if such a thing were unprecedented.

“Certainly I’ll eat slom whenever I can get it. Why do you suppose I buy it every day, if I’m not to have any myself?”

After that, they had slom morning, noon, and night; which was not a happy thought on the part of the Lieutenant. There is no denying that slom is a nice-tasting fish, but it has an unpleasant odour. Not in the sense of being tainted; but it is evil-smelling from the moment it comes out of the water. However, all that disappears in the frying. But those who have to handle the raw fish cannot escape, for it is an odour that clings. Do what you will, it stays by you. Everything you touch smells of slom.

Soon all but the Lieutenant began to sicken of slom. They took smaller portions at each meal, and sighed as they sat down at table and saw the everlasting slom set before them again.

Lieutenant Lagerlöf, however, went on buying. The fisherman who had brought the first mess, true to his word, came faithfully every day, and sometimes twice a day. But his manner was noticeably changed. He now pulled the latch-string very gently, and came in with a meek and deprecating smile. He did not set the fish on the kitchen table but left it outside the door. Though he removed his cap and said Good-day, he had to stand and wait a good half-hour before anyone seemed aware of his presence.

Pleasant as it had been for both the maids and the children to escape for a while from the old routine, they were by now so sick and tired of cleaning fish they longed to get back to their regular tasks. None of them would so much as look at the fisherman.

“I say, Lars, you’re not bringing slom again to-day, are you?” the housekeeper once asked him, as if he were offering stolen goods.

The man just blinked his eyes; he was too abashed to utter a word.

“We’ve got more fish now than we can eat,” she told him. “I don’t believe the Lieutenant wants to buy any more of that horrid stuff.” However, she knew the Lieutenant was not to be trifled with in the matter of slom, so of course she had to go in and tell him the fisherman had come.

One day the Lieutenant was out when the old man appeared, so the housekeeper peremptorily ordered him away. All in the kitchen were glad, thinking that for once they would not have to clean any slom. But as luck would have it, the old man met the Lieutenant in the lane; and the latter bought his whole bagful of fish and sent him back to the house with it.

It went on like that for a couple of weeks. Everyone was weary and disgusted—except the Lieutenant. He chanted the praises of slom at every meal; it was wholesome and nutritious food. One need only look at the fishermen down in Bohuslän who lived upon fish; they were the strongest and healthiest men in the whole country.

One evening Mamselle Lovisa tried to tempt him with larded pancakes, a favourite dish of his. And no wonder! for such larded pancakes as the old housekeeper made you never tasted in all your life!

“The overseer and the men, I suppose, must have their fill of slom, so you want me to be satisfied with pancakes.” The Lieutenant waved away the plate of nice hot cakes.

“Oh, no, that’s not the reason,” said Mamselle Lovisa. “The overseer and the men are so sick of slom we dare not set it before them.”

Then the Lieutenant had to laugh; but, as he would not touch the pancakes, they had to fetch him his slom.

Toward the end of the second week the whole household was in open rebellion. The housekeeper raged about the inroads on the butter, and the servants declared they could not go on working at a place where they fed you on nothing but slom. It had reached a pass where the Lieutenant dared not show his face in the kitchen; for there the murmurs were loudest. Nor were things as they should be in the dining room. Joy had fled the board. The governess left her plate untouched and the little daughters of the house, who otherwise stuck by their father through thick and thin, even they began to pipe a few feeble protests.

Then at last Fru Lagerlöf came to the rescue. She conferred with Mamselle Lovisa and the housekeeper, and they all thought it time now to resort to the old tried and sure remedy.

At dinner there was boiled slom. Now, the very look of boiled slom is enough! There is a pallor about it peculiarly corpselike, and, besides, it is quite tasteless. Just the sight of it takes away one’s appetite.

When the Lieutenant saw the boiled slom he looked as glum as the others.

“We are all out of butter,” Mamselle Lovisa gave as excuse; “and since you will have slom at every meal we had no choice but to serve it boiled. For my part,” she added, “I think it tastes no worse that way than any other.”

The Lieutenant made no answer; so they all knew that Mamselle Lovisa had triumphed. He might easily have stepped into the pantry and seen for himself whether the butter was all gone, or ordered a fresh supply; but he did neither.

After that dinner he bought no more slom. What was the use, he said, when the womenfolk were too lazy to prepare the fish in the proper way? No one contradicted him, though all knew he was as glad as they were to see the last of the slom.

IX THE SEVENTEENTH OF AUGUST

I

IT IS not easy to say how the seventeenth of August, which was Lieutenant Lagerlöf’s birthday, came to be the great day that it was. But one can imagine that with so many gifted persons all living in a little place like East Ämtervik, it was really necessary that they should have a chance, at least once a year, to show what they could do.

When, for example, there were three such fine orators as Engineer Noreen of Herrestad, Senator Nils Andersson of Bävik, and Merchant Teodor Nilsson of Visteberg, the first of whom went in for the pathetic, the second for the profound, and the third for the poetic, it would have been a great pity had they never been heard elsewhere than at small parties and town meetings.

And with a verse writer, too, like Sexton Melanoz at one’s command! Days on end he had to sit in the schoolroom and hear the youngsters spell, stammer, and stumble through the intricate mazes of the Swedish language. Surely he needed to let this maltreated tongue ring out in high-sounding eulogistic measures once a year at least!

Then, moreover, there was a male quartette in the parish composed of such good singers as Gustaf and Jan Asker, of the old musical Askers, and the brothers Alfred and Tage Schullström, who kept a store down by the church. People were thankful to them whenever they sang; but for the singers themselves it must have been both stimulating and inspiring to sing at a grand affair where they had critical and discriminating hearers.

And the old man Asker, who played dance music at peasant weddings where nobody cared what came forth from the clarinet just so it had dash and rhythm—he must indeed have been glad to come to Mårbacka on a seventeenth of August! The young folk there appreciated his art, and told him there was no music in the world so easy to dance to as his.

Then, too, there was a brass sextette made up of Tage Schullström, Sergeant Johan Dalhgren, the Gårdsjö Inspector, a shop-clerk and two infant-school teachers. They had all invested in instruments and scores, and had rehearsed marches and waltzes, overtures and folk-songs. It would have been too bad not to have had one gala day, when their efforts were crowned by the award of triumph.

When, besides, among the relatives who spent their summers at Mårbacka there were two clever entertainers like Oriel Afzelius, husband of Fru Lagerlöf’s sister, and her own brother, Kristofer Wallroth, it was well that away off here in the farming country there was a fête on a grand enough scale to tempt them to perform.

Moreover, among the guests was a born prima donna, the pretty and merry Stockholmer, Fru Hedda Hedberg, who could act as well as sing, and was in every way adapted for the stage. But she had married a poor Värmland lieutenant. Therefore, one may well say it was almost imperative that there should be a seventeenth of August celebration where all this wealth of talent might come into its own.

II

AFTER Lieutenant Lagerlöf became master of Mårbacka, for the first few years the seventeenth of August was observed in the customary birthday manner; there were flowers on the coffee table and a garland of leaves round the Lieutenant’s cup. The neighbours dropped in to wish him many happy returns of the day, and were served with coffee, fruit juice, punch, and toddy. Then came supper at nine o’clock with the usual light chatter. After the meal, tables and chairs were removed from the living room that all might have a bit of a dance.

But somehow it must have been spread abroad that these little birthday parties were rather pleasant affairs. Since there was never any thought of sending out invitations, all who cared to come were welcome; so from year to year more and more folk gathered at Mårbacka.

And there were increases in the families, of course. As soon as the little ones began to toddle, they had to come along to Mårbacka to celebrate Lieutenant Lagerlöf’s birthday. And sometimes the neighbours, who always attended these parties, had guests at home, and, naturally, they brought them.

In those days, when the young gentlemen would go many a mile for the sake of a dance, they, too, began to pay their respects to Lieutenant Lagerlöf on the seventeenth of August. Besides, there were the relatives from other parts of the country who visited Mårbacka every summer, and they planned their trips so as to be present on the Lieutenant’s birthday.

As it was always fine weather on the seventeenth of August, in the Lieutenant’s lifetime, the guests would while away the time strolling about the grounds, viewing his gardens and buildings. If many young people were present, the dancing would begin before supper. Everyone, no doubt, had a pleasant enough time, though no more so than at other parties.

Then happily Lieutenant Adolf Hedberg and his pretty young wife came to live at East Ämtervik. At Lieutenant Lagerlöf’s next birthday party an old peasant woman with a basket of eggs to sell stalked into the kitchen in the midst of the festivities.

She was immediately ordered out, of course; no one had time to stop and buy eggs in the bustle and excitement, with so many guests to be served. Not in the least discouraged, the old woman went round to the veranda, where the Lieutenant sat with a circle of gentlemen. Indeed she was not embarrassed by the presence of the company; her tongue wagged so rapidly and she was so facetiously persistent, he had to buy her eggs to get rid of her. Even after she had stuffed the money into the pocket of her kirtle, she would not go. Then she wanted to know who the other gentlemen were, and commented rather freely on their personal appearance. Finally, young Lieutenant Hedberg, who thought the joke had gone far enough, said:

“You’d better stop now, Hedda.”

Whereupon the “old peasant woman” rushed up, and dealt him a sound box on the ear.

“Why, Adolph!” she cried, “how can you be so mean as to give me away like that!”

And indeed it was a shame, for her disguise was so perfect and her Värmland dialect so deliciously natural that none would have taken her for the charming lady from Stockholm.

That bit of drollery set the ball of talents rolling. Along in the evening Kristofer Wallroth sang a number of Eric Bögh’s ditties. He had no voice to speak of, but his rendition of the serio-comic was side-splitting. At the end, Auditor Afzelius, with a silk kerchief bound round his head and a mantilla thrown over his shoulder, sang “Emilie’s Heart-throbs.” That was, of course, the star feature of the evening; the Auditor was inimitable in the rôle of the lovelorn maiden.

It must have been rather galling to the local pride of Sexton Melanoz that only these city folk provided entertainment for the Lieutenant and his guests. But the next year it was the sexton who made the “big hit.” The Lieutenant had once presented to the Ostenby school a lot of small wooden muskets made at Mårbacka so that the children might learn to drill. He had even sent an old sergeant to the school to teach the youngsters the first military movements.

The sexton had an inspiration; he and his school children would march to Mårbacka on the Lieutenant’s birthday! Shouldering their arms, and led by banner and drum, they came marching along the driveway. It looked as if a whole army were approaching. There were so many the line extended from the manservants’ cottage all the way up to the dwelling-house veranda, where the sexton, who was in command, called Halt!

First, he said a few words to the effect that the children had come to thank Lieutenant Lagerlöf for considering that their bodies needed to be developed as well as their minds; then he let them demonstrate how well they could march—do right-about, left-about, close ranks, shoulder arms ...

It was a grand surprise the sexton had prepared for them all. The Lieutenant was delighted and his guests were pleased. What the old housekeeper, Mamselle Lovisa, and Fru Lagerlöf thought, when in the middle of a big party they had to serve coffee and cakes to some sixty youngsters, may be left to the imagination. After that, every time the seventeenth of August came round, they remembered with dismay the long procession of children, and hoped the sexton’s army would not be so strong this year.

Engineer Noreen and his wife, like the sexton, had felt it was not fair to let folk from outside the parish furnish all the amusement for the seventeenth of August. So along in the evening, when there was a moon, the Engineer donned a black velvet cape and plumed baretta, and Fru Emelie an old-time dress with high puffed sleeves. Then, on the gravel-walk below the veranda, they gave two or three scenes from Börjesson’s “Eric XIV.” This acting in the mellow moonlight was touched with enchantment. Eric Noreen had so wholly lived himself into the rôle of the unhappy King, it seemed as if every word he spoke came straight from his heart. And Fru Noreen looked sweet and shy and just a bit frightened, as a “Karin Månsdotter” should look.

At the next year’s celebration there were more people than ever. Carriages, pony-carts, and chaises came rolling up the avenue. In a short space of time some seventy or eighty persons had arrived. It was evident the report had travelled far and wide that they had many delightful diversions at Mårbacka not to be found elsewhere.

This time the Lieutenant felt quite embarrassed, as there was nothing special to offer the guests. It was just as at any other party; the young folk began to dance in the early afternoon, the paterfamilias chatted over their toddy glasses, and the maters sat in the drawing room nibbling fruit and confectionery. Apparently, no one was bored, for Auditor Afzelius and Dean Hammargren among the men and Hedda Hedberg and Nana Hammargren among the women knew how to enliven a company. The Lieutenant noted no mysterious glances nor any signs of preparation. Not even the usual birthday speech was forthcoming.

Then as dusk was falling, folk from all the countryside came flocking to Mårbacka. The avenue leading to the house was soon black with people. The Lieutenant thought it a pity they had taken the trouble to come when there was nothing to be seen.

After supper there was a little flutter of excitement and expectancy among the guests. Presently two gentlemen placed before the Lieutenant a flower-decked armchair, and bade him be seated. Instantly strong arms lifted him on high. Jan Asker struck up a march; the gentlemen offered their arms to the ladies, and all marched out into the night. But not for long did they walk in darkness. When they turned the corner of the house, the whole garden was a-light with row upon row of magic lanterns. The Lieutenant was borne along illuminated walks down to the little park. It was the first time anything of the sort had been attempted at Mårbacka. He was struck with wonder and amazement at the beauty of the scene. Could this be the ground that he and the old gardener had staked and measured only a few years back?

Exclamations of delight came from all sides. How dark and mysterious the copses; how deep and endless the paths appeared under their canopy of leaves; how the flowers shimmered and shone in the light of the multi-coloured lanterns; how the masses of foliage hung down from the trees like gorgeous draperies!

The procession halted in one of the glades of the park. The Lieutenant’s chair was set down; and, as his dazzled eyes blinked into a grotto of leaves and flowers, Flora, on a pedestal, encircled by little nymphs, sang in a glorious voice a song of praise to the creator of the garden.

“Oh, Hedda!” the Lieutenant cried to the beautiful goddess of flowers, “I might have known that you would not forget me!”

III

IT IS about four in the afternoon of a seventeenth of August. The two smaller girls, Selma and Gerda, are dressing for the party. The housemaid pokes her head into the attic storeroom—the room the little girls are occupying temporarily, since their own has been placed at the convenience of visiting relatives.

“Selma and Gerda, you’ll have to go down and receive,” shouts the maid. “No one else is ready, and the first carriages are coming up the drive.”

Now the little girls have to hurry; but at the same time they are thrilled with joy. Just think! It’s beginning—the seventeenth of August is beginning!

They button up their frocks, pin on their kerchief rosettes, and run down. Not a grown person in sight! Not even their elder sister can help them receive, since she is attending a dress rehearsal of the evening’s play.

The first arrivals, Herr Nilsson, his wife and four children, are already seated on the veranda. They always come too early to parties, but never so much so as on the seventeenth of August. The little girls do not wonder at that; for everyone must long to come to Mårbacka on such a day.

The time seems a bit long, perhaps, to the guests and their little hostesses before the next vehicle rolls up and the homefolk put in an appearance. But to-day is the Seventeenth, and one does not catch at trifles.

The next arrivals are Pastor Alfred Unger and family from West Ämtervik. They come in a two-horse carriage and have driven about thirteen English miles. The wagon is full of women and children; the parson himself, who is a real horseman, is handling the reins. Lieutenant Lagerlöf, ready at last, comes out on the veranda as the pastor drives in on the grounds.

“Say, Alfred!” he shouts, “what the deuce have you done to your horses? They’re as like as two blackberries.”

“Chut, chut! You mustn’t betray any secrets on your birthday,” Pastor Unger shouts back.

As a matter of fact, the parson had two fine carriage horses which would have been exactly alike but for a white spot on the forehead of one of them. He had hit upon the idea of inserting between the blinder-straps of each a piece of white leather, to make it appear that the horses were perfectly matched. No one would have detected the artifice if the pastor had not been so proud of his device that he had talked of it to right and left, and of course the Lieutenant had heard all about it.

But besides this conveyance from West Ämtervik comes a hayrick packed full of young people, relatives from Karlstad. Then wagon after wagon draws up. Here come the Gårdsjö folk—most delightful of guests! They have a long line of vehicles. They are a large family, and besides themselves they have brought Oriel and Georgina Afzelius, and Kristofer Wallroth and his young sister, Julia, who are staying with them.

In one of the Gårdsjö wagons there are some odd looking large white bundles, to be taken upstairs to the theatre. Selma and Gerda are very curious to know what those are for. The little Wallroth girls are sworn to secrecy; all they dare divulge is that Uncle Oriel has thought of something perfectly gorgeous.

Then who should come up but old Engineer Ivan Warberg from Angersby, with a cartful of pretty girls! A jubilant whoop from the veranda! What, a confirmed old bachelor like Ivan Warberg? Who would have thought it! They all know, to be sure, that the girls are his nieces, and his guests for the summer; but they can’t resist the fun of teasing Ivan a bit.

The little Lagerlöf girls think it strange Fru Hedda does not appear. True, she no longer lives at East Ämtervik; but they hope she will come and do something jolly. Somehow, it would not be a real seventeenth of August unless she were there.

And now come the nearest neighbours. Pastor Milén and his boys have moved to another parish. To-day, it is the tall, handsome Pastor Lindegren and his sweet little wife who stroll over from the parsonage. From Där Ner in Mårbacka come Mother Kersten and Father Olof; but they are not the only peasant-folk who want to felicitate the Lieutenant. Old man Larsson of Ås, the richest man in the parish, has come with his daughters; the Senator from Bävik with his wife, and the church warden of Västmyr with his.

The little girls are in a perfect twitter of excitement as they stand beside their father and see all who come. One whom they most anxiously await is Jan Asker. They do hope he is not hurt about something and will stay away. They try to count heads, but as people keep pouring in from every direction they soon lose the count. Maybe there are already a hundred guests! They hope it will be a gay party. It sounds so grand to the children when somebody says there were a hundred persons gathered at Mårbacka on the seventeenth of August.

But this receiving is merely an introduction to that which is to follow. It is the same with the coffee-drinking on the lawn. The children wish all such things were over.

Ah, at last it is going to begin! The brass sextette line up in position below the steps. A march is struck. The gentlemen offer an arm to the ladies and, led by the band, the couples march through the garden down to the little park.

There they gather round a table on which stand glasses of punch and claret-cup. Obviously, the moment has come for the birthday speech and the toast to Lieutenant Lagerlöf. Engineer Noreen, Senator Nils Andersson, and Herr Nilsson of Visteberg have all come prepared to speak. Each wonderingly looks at the others, and hesitates, not wanting to push forward and take the word from his rivals.

“Well, are we to have something?” the Lieutenant asks. These high-flown set speeches are not to his taste, and he is anxious to have that part of the programme over as quickly as possible. Just then from behind him comes a clear voice, with musical Stockholm intonations, and out of the thicket steps a beautiful Zingara. She asks if she may tell his fortune. Taking his left hand between her two pretty hands, she reads the lines of his palm.

Lieutenant Lagerlöf had been very ill during the winter, and to regain his health had spent part of the summer at Strömstad. All his exploits and divertissements on that sojourn the Zingara now reads in his hand, and, moreover, she reveals them in lilting verse.

It is a bit pert and naughty, to be sure, but it provokes laughter and the Lieutenant is charmed.

“Anyhow, you’re Number One, Hedda!” he says.

But when Fru Hedda has proposed a health to the host, and has led the fourfold hurrahs, and the sextette has tooted a fanfare, she gives the three speakers from East Ämtervik a sweeping glance, and says: “Pray, pardon my intrusion. Now it is the turn of the natives.”

“The ‘natives’ are already beaten, Fru Hedberg,” replies Engineer Noreen.

Far back in the garden sounds old Jan Asker’s clarinet, and the glitter of helmets and shining armour is seen among the trees. Jan Asker and Sexton Melanoz must have come upon three of the Immortal Ases, Odin, Thor, and Freja, who were bound for Mårbacka but had somehow lost their way. Jan and the Sexton have guided them safely hither, so that the shining gods may speak for themselves.

No, they do not speak. The three gods break into song; they chant to the old familiar melody “Come lovely May,” a pæan to all that has been wrought here at Mårbacka in the time of Lieutenant Lagerlöf—every word of which is true. Tears glisten in many an eye, and the Lieutenant himself is deeply moved by his old friend’s lyric.

“Melanoz is superb to-day!” he says. “After all, Hedda, I believe the natives will carry off the palm.”

With this, the fête has been impressively and happily opened. The guests now scatter about the grounds. Some visit the berry bushes and cherry trees, and others want to see whether the fine Mårbacka peaches are ripening.

In a little while comes another fanfare. The gentlemen now escort the ladies back to the house and up the perilous attic stairs. The loft has been converted into a theatre, its small stage screened off with white draperies. The theatre is the work of Fru Lagerlöf, and is the cutest little place imaginable.

A moment’s suspense, and the curtain goes up on a musical allegory written in the forenoon of that very day by Oriel Afzelius. It is entitled, “The Monk and the Dancer.” The action takes place on the day of Lieutenant Lagerlöf’s birth, August 17, 1819. Beside the cradle of the new-born babe, instead of the usual fairies, stand two symbolical figures, a monk and a dancer.

The Dancer would have the boy grow up a merry, dashing cavalier. The Monk, on the contrary, would make of him a serious ascetic. After a spirited controversy, they finally come to an agreement. Each shall direct one half of the little Mårbacka child’s span of life. So for a time he is destined to lead the jolly life of a young officer; in his later years he is to settle down quietly, and practise abstinence and good deeds, with Mårbacka as cloister. Oriel Afzelius as the Monk and Kristofer Wallroth in draperies and veils as the Dancer, sing solos and duets from the popular operas. They gesticulate and declaim with emotional fervour, and wind up their quarrel with a lively pas-de-deux.

As the curtain falls there is wild applause. People shout, stamp their feet, and wave their handkerchiefs. Fru Lagerlöf sits in fear and trembling lest the floor give way under the storm. The Lieutenant cries out:

“Yi, yi, Melanoz! It’s none of the outlanders winning now!”

The young folk at Mårbacka have rehearsed a little play, but the players feel rather disheartened as they are about to appear; they have nothing to offer comparable to Uncle Oriel’s allegory.

Anna Lagerlöf is now fourteen, and this is her first appearance in a regular part. The piece is called “A Cigar,” and she is cast for the rôle of the young wife.

Indeed, the performance is far from a failure, thanks to the acting of little Anna Lagerlöf! “How does that child come by her histrionic talent?” people wonder. She acts with such ease, naturalness, and charm, the spectators cannot get over their surprise. “That little girl is going to be a heart-breaker,” some are heard to say. “Why, the lass is really pretty!” comes from another quarter. “And how well she acts, too!”

It seemed as if the plaudits and curtain calls would never end.

“Do you see, Lieutenant,” shouts Sexton Melanoz above the tumult, “that the natives can hold their own?”

But at last they clamber down the break-neck attic stairs. Then they dance again, and chatter, and drink toddies, and some of them take to story-telling, for which up to then there has been no time.

After supper, at midnight, the Chinese lanterns are lit. This is done every year now, and must never be omitted. For a change, they have the illumination on the front lawn.

Ah! how lovely it looks—as Mamselle Lovisa’s flower beds stand out in the vari-coloured light; as the weeping ash, like a huge lamp, sends forth its rays through the lacy branches; as the dark copses gleam as if with fire-flowers!

Now all have come out to see the illuminations. They find themselves in a fairyland. The sweet harmonies of the quartette intensify the spell of enchantment.

Then comes a wonderful thing! It is like the soft caress of a balmy wind. No, one cannot say what it is. But they who have been together these ten hours, chatting, dancing, playing, listening to music and speeches, are now prepared for it. As they drink in the song and the beauty of the night, they are filled with a blissful rapture. Ah, life is so beautiful! How precious the moments! Every breath is a joy!

Now out of the throng steps Fru Hedda. In a moment she appears on the veranda, and starts the Värmland Anthem. All join in the singing, for in this way they are able to express what they feel: Ack, Värmeland, du sköna, du härliga land! They seem to hear voices back in the thickets and copses, and surmise that the Mårbacka elves and fairies are dancing a contra-dance under the maple trees to the lovely melody.

Hands press hands; eyes meet eyes through a mist of tears. And no one is surprised, for it is such an unspeakable happiness just to be!

At the close of the song, as Fru Hedda withdraws, Herr Noreen steps forward: he, too, would interpret the spirit of the hour.

“It is this that is the seventeenth of August,” he says; “not the singing nor the play-acting, not the dancing nor the feasting, but that which we now feel—the sweet solemn joy which has stolen into our hearts, the love which permeates this blessed night. It was for this we longed when we came; it is for this we shall come again next year.

“Why is it, dear Brother Eric Gustaf, that we must come here to you in order to feel reconciled to our fate, proud of our country, happy with ourselves and with those about us? You are no big important man. You have done no great outstanding thing. But you have within you the best of good-will and an open heart. We know that, were it in your power, you would take the whole world in your embrace. This is why you can give us each year a few hours of bliss, a little glimpse of Paradise, which we of East Ämtervik call the Seventeenth of August.”