Lagerlöf Selma
Invisible Links
But that is only a passing mood. That generation in their heart of hearts is just as convinced of Uncle Reuben's greatness as the preceding one and obey him just as they did. The day will come when those scoffers will go down to the home of their ancestors, try to find the old stone steps, and raise on it a tablet with a golden inscription.
They joke about Uncle Reuben for a few years, but as soon as they are grown and have children to bring up, they will become convinced of the use and need of the great man.
"Oh, my little child, do not sit on those stone steps! Your mother's mother had an uncle whose name was Reuben. He died when he was your age, because he sat down to rest on just such steps."
So will it be as long as the world lasts.
DOWNIE
I
I think I can see them as they drive away. Quite distinctly I can see his stiff, silk hat with its broad, curving brim, such as they had in the forties, his light waistcoat and his stock. I also see his handsome, clean-shaven face with its small, small whiskers, his high stiff collar, and the graceful dignity of his slightest movement. He is sitting on the right in the chaise and is just taking up the reins, and beside him is sitting that little woman. God bless her! I see her even more distinctly. Like a picture I have before me that narrow, little face, and the hat that frames it, tied under the chin, the dark-brown, smoothly combed hair, and the big shawl with the embroidered silk flowers. The chaise in which they are driving has a seat with a green, fluted back, and of course the innkeeper's horse which is to take them the first six miles is a little fat sorrel.
I lost my heart to her from the very first moment. There is no sense in it, for she is the most insignificant little person; but I was won by seeing all the eyes that followed her when she drove away. In the first place, I see how her father and mother look after her from where they stand in the doorway of the baker's shop. Her father even has tears in his eyes, but her mother has no time to weep yet. She must use her eyes to look at her daughter as long as the latter can wave and nod to her. And then of course there are merry greetings from the children in the little street and roguish glances from all the pretty, little factory girls from behind windows and doors, and dreamy looks from some of the young salesmen and apprentices. But all nod good-will and god-speed to her. And then there are anxious glances from some poor, old women, who come out and curtsey and take off their spectacles to be able to see her as she drives by in state. But I cannot see a single unfriendly look following her; no, not in the whole length of the street.
When she is out of sight, her father wipes the tears from his eyes with his sleeve.
"Don't be sad now, mother!" he says. "You will see that she will come out all right. Downie will manage, mother, even if she is so little."
"Father," says the mother with great emphasis, "you speak in a strange way. Why should Anne-Marie not be able to manage it? She is as good as anybody."
"Of course she is, mother; but still, mother, still – I would not be in her shoes, nor go where she is going. No, that I would not!"
"Well, and what good would that do, you ugly old baker!" says mother, who sees that he is so uneasy about the girl that he needs to be cheered with a little joke. And father laughs, for he does that as easily as he cries. And then the old people go back into their shop.
In the meantime Downie, the little silken flower, is in very good spirits as she drives along the road. A little afraid of her betrothed, perhaps; but in her heart Downie is a little afraid of everybody, and that is a great help to her, for on account of it every one tries to show her that they are not dangerous.
Never has she had such respect for Maurits as to-day. Now that they have left the back street, and all her friends are behind them, it seems to her that Maurits really grows to something big. His hat and collar and whiskers stiffen, and the bow of his necktie swells. His voice grows thick in his throat, and he speaks with difficulty. She feels a little depressed by it, but it is splendid to see Maurits so impressive.
Maurits is so clever; he has so much advice to give! – it is hard to believe – but Maurits talks only sense the whole way. But that is just like Maurits. He asks her if she understands clearly what this journey means to him. Does she think it is only a pleasure trip along the country road? Thirty miles in a good chaise with her betrothed by her side did seem quite like a pleasure trip, and a beautiful place to drive to, a rich uncle to visit – perhaps she has thought that it was only for amusement?
Fancy if he knew that she had prepared herself for this journey by a long conference with her mother before they went to bed; and by a long succession of anxious dreams through the night, and with prayers, and with tears! But she pretends to be stupid, in order to get more enjoyment out of Maurits's wisdom. He likes to show it, and she is glad to let him.
"The real trouble is that you are so sweet," says Maurits; for that was how he had come to care for her, and it was really very stupid of him. His father was not at all in favor of it. And his mother! He hardly dared to think of what a fuss she had made when Maurits had informed her that he had engaged himself to a poor girl from a back street – a girl who had no education, no accomplishments, and who was not even pretty; only sweet.
In Maurits's eyes, of course, the daughter of a baker was just as good as the son of a burgomaster, but every one did not have such liberal views as he. If Maurits had not had his rich uncle, it could never have come to anything; for he was only a student, and had nothing to marry on. But if they now could win his uncle over their way was clear.
I see them so plainly as they drive along the road. She looks a little unhappy as she listens to his wisdom. But she is content in her thoughts! How sensible Maurits is! And when he speaks of the sacrifices he is making for her, it is only his way of saying how much he cares for her.
And if she had expected that alone together on such a beautiful day he perhaps might be not quite the same as when they sat at home with her mother – but that would not have been right of Maurits. She is proud of him.
He is telling her what kind of a man his uncle is. If he will befriend them their fortune is made. Uncle Theodore is incredibly rich. He owns eleven smelting-furnaces, and farms and houses besides, and mines and stocks. To all these Maurits is the proper heir. But Uncle Theodore is a little uncertain to have to do with when it concerns any one he does not like. If he is not pleased with Maurits's wife, he can will away everything.
The little face grows paler and smaller, but Maurits only stiffens and swells. There is not much chance of Anne-Marie's turning his uncle's head as she did his. His uncle is quite a different kind of man. His taste – well, Maurits does not think much of his taste but he thinks that it would be something loud-voiced, something flashing and red which would strike Uncle. Besides, he is a confirmed old bachelor – thinks women are only a bother. The most important thing is that he shall not dislike her too much. Maurits will take care of the rest. But she must not be silly. Is she crying – ! Oh, if she does not look better by the time they arrive, Uncle will send them off inside of a minute. She is glad for their sakes that Uncle is not as clever as Maurits. She hopes it is no sin against Maurits to think that it is good that Uncle is quite a different sort of person. For fancy, if Maurits had been Uncle, and two poor young people had come driving to him to get aid in life; then Maurits, who is so sensible, would certainly have begged them to return whence they came, and wait to get married until they had something to marry on.
Uncle, however, was decidedly terrifying in his own way. He drank, and gave great parties, where everybody was very lively, and he did not at all understand how to manage his affairs. He must know that every one cheated him, but he was none the less cheerful. And heedless! – the burgomaster had sent by Maurits some shares in an undertaking that was not prosperous; but Uncle would buy them of him, Maurits had said. Uncle did not care where he threw his money away. He had stood in town in the market-place and tossed silver to the street boys. Playing away a couple of thousand crowns in a single night, or lighting his pipe with ten-crown notes, were among the things Uncle did.
Thus they drove on, and thus they talked while they were driving.
They arrived toward evening. Uncle's "residence," as he called it, did not stand by the ironworks. It lay far from all smoke and hammering, on the slope of the mountain, looking over a wide view of lakes and long hills. It was a stately building, with wooded lawns and groves of birches round about it, but few cultivated fields, for the place was a pleasure palace, not a farm.
The young people drove up an avenue lined with birches and elms. Then they drove between two low, thick rows of hedges and were about to turn up to the house.
But just where the road turned, a triumphal arch was raised, and there stood Uncle with his dependents to greet them. Downie never could have believed that Maurits would have prepared such a reception for her. Her heart grew light, and she seized his hand and pressed it in gratitude. More she could not do then, for they were just under the arch.
And there he stood, the well-known man, the ironmaster, Theodore Fristeat, big and black-bearded, and beaming with good-will. He waved his hat and shouted hurrah, and all the people shouted hurrah, and tears rose in Anne-Marie's eyes, although she was smiling. And of course they all had to like her from the very first moment, if only for her way of looking at Maurits. For she thought that they were all there for his sake, and she had to turn her eyes away from the whole spectacle to look at him, as he took off his hat with a sweep and bowed so beautifully and royally. Oh, such a look as she gave him! Uncle Theodore almost left off hurrahing and felt like swearing when he saw it.
No, she wished no harm to any one on earth, but if the estate really had been Maurits's, it would have been very suitable. It was most impressive to see him, as he stood on the steps of the porch and turned to the people to thank them. The ironmaster was stately too, but what was his manner compared to Maurits's. He only helped her down from the carriage, and took her shawl and hat like a footman, while Maurits lifted his hat from his white brow and said: "Thank you, my children!" No, the ironmaster certainly had no manners; for as he profited by his rights as an uncle and took her in his arms, he noticed that she managed to look at Maurits while he was kissing her, and he swore, really swore quite fiercely. Downie was not accustomed to find any one disagreeable, but it certainly would be no easy task to please Uncle Theodore.
"To-morrow," says uncle, "there will be a big dinner here, and a ball, but to-day you young people must rest after your journey. Now we will eat our supper, and then we will go to bed."
They are escorted into a drawing-room, and there they are left alone. The ironmaster rushes out like a wind which is afraid of being shut in. Five minutes later he is rolling down the avenue in his big carriage, and the coachman is driving so that the horses seem to be lying along the ground. After another five minutes uncle is there again, and now an old lady is sitting beside him in the carriage.
And in he comes, with a kind, talkative old lady on his arm. And she takes Anne-Marie and embraces her, but Maurits she greets more stiffly. No one can take any liberties with Maurits.
However, Anne-Marie is very glad that this pleasant old lady has come. She and the ironmaster have such a merry way of joking with one another.
But when they have said good-night and Anne-Marie has come into her little room, something too tiresome and provoking happens.
Uncle and Maurits are walking in the garden, and she knows that Maurits is unfolding his plans for the future. Uncle does not seem to be saying anything at all; he is only walking and striking the blades of grass with his stick. But Maurits will persuade him fast enough that the best thing for him to do is to give Maurits a position as manager of one of his steel-works, if he does not care to give him the works outright. Maurits has grown so practical since he has been in love. He often says: "Is it not best for me, who am to be a great landowner, to make myself familiar with it all? What is the use of taking my bar examinations?"
They are walking directly under the window and nothing prevents them from seeing that she is sitting there; but as they do not mind it, no one can ask that she shall not hear what they are saying. It is really just as much her affair as it is Maurits's.
Then Uncle Theodore suddenly stops and he looks angry. He looks quite furious, she thinks, and she almost calls to Maurits to take care. But it is too late, for Uncle Theodore has seized Maurits, crushed his ruffle, and is shaking him till he twists like an eel. Then he slings him from him with such force that Maurits staggers backwards any! would have fallen if he had not found support in a tree trunk. And there Maurits stands and gasps "What?" Yes, what else should he say?
Ah, never has she admired Maurits's self-control so much! He does not throw himself upon Uncle Theodore and fight him. He only looks calmly superior, merely innocently surprised. She understands that he controls himself so that the journey may not be for nothing. He is thinking of her, and is controlling himself.
Poor Maurits! it seems that his uncle is angry with him on her account. He asks if Maurits does not know that his uncle is a bachelor when he brings his betrothed here without bringing her mother with him. Her mother! Downie is offended in Maurits's behalf. It was her mother who had excused herself and said that she could not leave the bakery. Maurits answers so too, but his uncle will accept no excuses. – Well, his mother, then; she could have done her son that service. Yes, if she had been too haughty they had better have stayed where they were. What would they have done if his old lady had not been able to come? And how could a betrothed couple travel alone through the country? – Really, Maurits was not dangerous. No, that he had never believed, but people's tongues are dangerous. – Well, and finally it was that chaise! Had Maurits ferreted out the most ridiculous vehicle in the whole town? To let that child shake thirty miles in a chaise, and to let him raise a triumphal arch for a chaise! – He would like to shake him again! To let his uncle shout hurrah for a tip-cart! He was getting too unreasonable. How she admired Maurits for being so calm! She would like to join in the game and defend Maurits, but she does not believe that he would like it.
And before she goes to sleep, she lies and thinks out everything she would have said to defend Maurits. Then she falls asleep and starts up again, and in her ears rings an old saying: —
"A dog stood on a mountain-top,
He barked aloud and would not stop.
His name was you, His name was I,
His name was all in Earth and Sky.
What was his name?
His name was why."
The saying had irritated her many a time. Oh, how stupid she had thought the dog was! But now half asleep, she confuses the dog "What" with Maurits and she thinks that the dog has his white forehead. Then she laughs. She laughs as easily as she cries. She has inherited that from her father.
II
How has "it" come? That which she dares not call by name?
"It" has come like the dew to the grass, like the color to the rose, like the sweetness to the berry, imperceptibly and gently without announcing itself beforehand.
It is also no matter how "it" came or what "it" is. Were it good or evil, fair or foul, still it is forbidden; that which never ought to exist. "It" makes her anxious, sinful, unhappy.
"It" is that of which she never wishes to think. "It" is what shall be torn away and thrown out; and yet it is nothing that can be seized and caught. She shuts her heart to "it," but it comes in just the same. "It" turns back the blood in her veins and flows there, drives the thoughts from her brain and reigns there, dances through her nerves and trembles in her finger-tips. It is everywhere in her, so that if she had been able to take away everything else of which her body consisted and to have left "it" behind, there would remain a complete impression of her. And yet "it" was nothing.
She wishes never to think of "it," and yet she has to think of "it" constantly. How has she become so wicked? And then she searches and wonders how "it" came.
Ah Downie! How tender are our souls, and how easily awakened are our hearts!
She was sure that "it" had not come at breakfast, surely not at breakfast.
Then she had only been frightened and shy. She had been so terrified when she came down to breakfast and found no Maurits, only Uncle Theodore and the old lady.
It had been a clever idea of Maurits to go hunting; although it was impossible to discover what he was hunting in midsummer, as the old lady remarked. But he knew of course that it was wise to keep away from his uncle for a few hours until the latter became calm again. He could not know that she was so shy, nor that she had almost fainted when she had found him gone and herself left alone with uncle and the old lady. Maurits had never been shy. He did not know what torture it is.
That breakfast, that breakfast! Uncle had as a beginning asked the old lady if she had heard the story of Sigrid the beautiful. He did not ask Downie, neither would she have been able to answer. The old lady knew the story well, but he told it just the same. Then Anne-Marie remembered that Maurits had laughed at his uncle because in all his house he only had two books, and those were Afzelius' "Fairy Tales" and Nösselt's "Popular Stories for Ladies." "But those he knows," Maurits had said.
Anne-Marie had found the story pretty. She liked it when Bengt Lagman had pearls sewn on the breadth of homespun. She saw Maurits before her; how royally proud he would have looked when ordering the pearls! That was just the sort of thing Maurits would have done well.
But when uncle had come to that part of the story where Bengt Lagman went into the woods to avoid the meeting with his angry brother, and instead let his young wife meet the storm, then it became so plain that uncle understood Maurits had gone hunting to escape his wrath and that he knew how she thought to win him over. – Yes, yesterday, then they had been able to make plans, Maurits and she, how she should coquet with uncle, but to-day she had no thought of carrying them out. Oh, she had never behaved so foolishly! Every drop of blood streamed into her face, and her knife and fork fell with a terrible clatter out of her hands down on her plate.
But Uncle Theodore had shown no mercy and had gone on with the story until he came to that princely speech: "Had my brother not done it, I would have done it myself." He said it with such a strange emphasis that she was forced to look up and to meet his laughing brown eyes.
And when he saw the trouble staring from her eyes, he began to laugh like a boy. "What do you think," he cried, "Bengt Lagman thought when he came home and heard that 'Had my brother?' I think he stopped at home the next time."
Tears rose to Downie's eyes, and when Uncle saw that he laughed louder. "Yes, it is a fine partisan my nephew has chosen," he seemed to say, "You are not playing your part, my little girl." And every time she had looked at him the brown eyes had repeated: "Had my brother not done it, I would have done it myself." Downie was not quite sure that the eyes did not say "nephew." And fancy how she behaved. She began to cry, and rushed from the room.
But it was not then that "it" came, nor during the walk of the forenoon.
Then she was occupied with something quite different. Then she was overcome with pleasure at the beautiful place and that nature was so wonderfully near. She felt as if she had found again something she had lost long, long ago.
People thought she was a city girl. But she had become a country lass as soon as she put her foot on the sandy path. She felt instantly that she belonged to the country.
As soon as she had calmed down a little she had ventured out by herself to inspect the place. She had looked about her on the lawn in front of the door. Then she suddenly began to whirl about; she hung her hat on her arm and threw her shawl away. She drew the air into her lungs so that her nostrils were drawn together and whistled.
Oh, how brave she felt!
She made a few attempts to go quietly and sedately down to the garden, but that was not what attracted her. Turning off to one side, she started towards the big groups of barns and out-houses. She met a farm-girl and said a few words to her. She was surprised to hear how brisk her own voice sounded; it was like an officer at the front. And she felt how smart she looked when, with head proudly raised and a little on one side, moving with a quick, free motion and with a little switch in her hand, she entered the barn.
It was not, however, what she had expected. No long rows of horned creatures were there to impress her, for they were all out at pasture. A single calf stood in its pen and seemed to expect her to do something for him. She went up to him, raised herself on tiptoe, held her dress together with one hand and touched the calf's forehead with the finger-tips of the other.
As the calf still did not seem to think that she had done enough and stretched out his long tongue, she graciously let him lick her little finger. She could not resist looking about her, as if to find some one to admire her bravery. And she discovered that Uncle Theodore stood at the barn-door and laughed at her.
Then he had gone with her on her walk. But "it" did not come then, not then at all. It had only wonderfully come to pass that she was no longer afraid of Uncle Theodore. He was like her mother; he seemed to know all her faults and weaknesses, and it was so comfortable. She did not need to show herself better than she was.
Uncle Theodore wished to take her to the garden and to the terraces by the pond, but that was not to her mind. She wished to know what there could be in all those big buildings.
So he went patiently with her to the dairy and to the ice-house; to the wine-cellar and to the potato bins. He took the things in order, and showed her the larder, and the wood shed, and the carriage-house, and the laundry. Then he led her through the stable of the draught-horses, and that of the carriage horses; let her see the harness-room and the servants' rooms; the laborers' cottages and the wood-carving room. She became a little confused by all the different rooms that Uncle Theodore had considered necessary to establish on his estate; but her heart was glowing with enthusiasm at the thought of how splendid it must be to have all that to rule over. So she was not tired, although they walked through the sheep-houses and the piggeries, and looked in at the hens and the rabbits. She faithfully examined the weaving-rooms and the dairies, the smoke-house and the smithy, all with growing enthusiasm. Then they visited the big lofts; drying-rooms for the clothes and drying-rooms for the wood; hay-lofts, and lofts for dried leaves for the sheep to eat.
The dormant housewife in her awoke to life and consciousness at all this perfection. But most of all, she was moved by the great brewhouse and the two neat bakeries with the wide oven and the big table.
"Mother ought to see that," she said.
In the bakehouse they had sat down and rested, and she had told of her home. He was already like a friend, although his brown eyes laughed at everything she said.
At home everything was so quiet; no life, no variety. She had been a delicate child, and her parents had watched over her on account of it, and let her do nothing. It was only as play that she was allowed to help in the baking and in the shop. Somehow she came to tell him that her father called her Downie. She had also said: "Everybody spoils me at home except Maurits, and that is why I like him so much. He is so sensible with me! He never calls me Downie; only Anne-Marie. Maurits is so admirable."
Oh, how it had danced and laughed in uncle's eyes! She could have struck him with her switch. She repeated almost with a sob: "Maurits is so admirable."
"Yes, I know, I know," Uncle had answered. "He is going to be my heir." Whereupon she had cried: "Ah; Uncle Theodore, why do you not marry? Think how happy any one would be to be mistress of such an estate!"
"How would it be then with Maurits's inheritance?" uncle had asked quite softly.
Then she had been silent for a long while, for she could not say to Uncle that she and Maurits did not ask for the inheritance, for that was just what they did do. She wondered if it was very ugly for them to do so. She suddenly had a feeling as if she ought to beg Uncle for forgiveness for some great wrong that they had done him. But she could not do that either.
When they came in again, Uncle's dog came to meet them. It was a tiny, little thing on the thinnest legs, with fluttering ears and gazelle-like eyes; a nothing with a shrill, little voice.
"You wonder, perhaps, that I have such a little dog," Uncle
Theodore had said.
"I suppose I do," she had answered.
"But, you see, it is not I who have chosen Jenny for my dog, but Jenny who has taken me as a master. You would like to hear the story, Downie?" That name he had instantly seized upon.
Yes, she would like it, although she understood that it would be something irritating he would say.
"Well, you see, when Jenny came here the first time she lay on the knees of a fine lady from the town, and had a blanket on her back and a cloth about her head. Hush, Jenny; it is true that you had it! And I thought what a little rat it was. But do you know when that little creature was put down on the ground here some memories of her childhood or something must have wakened in her. She scratched, and kicked, and tried to rub off her blanket. And then she behaved like the big dogs here; so we said that Jenny must have grown up in the country.
"She lay out on the doorstep and never even looked at the parlor sofa, and she chased the chickens, and stole the cat's milk, and barked at beggars, and darted about the horses' legs when we had guests. It was a pleasure and a joy to us to see how she behaved. You must understand, a little thing that had only lain in a basket and been carried on the arm! It was wonderful. And so when they were going to leave, Jenny would not go. She stood on the steps and whined so pitifully and jumped up on me, and really asked to be allowed to stay. So there was nothing for us to do but to let her stay. We were touched by the little creature; it was so small, and yet wished to be a country dog. But I had never thought that I should ever keep a lap-dog. Soon, perhaps, I shall get a wife too."
Oh, how hard it is to be shy, to be uneducated! She wondered if Uncle had been very surprised when she rushed away so hurriedly. But she had felt as if he had meant her when he spoke of Jenny. And perhaps he had not at all. But any way – yes she had been so embarrassed. She could not have stayed.
But it was not then "it" came, not then.
Perhaps it was in the evening at the ball. Never had she had such a good time at any ball! But if any one had asked her if she had danced much, she would have needed to reconsider and acknowledge that she had not. But it was the best proof that she had really enjoyed herself when she had not even noticed that she had been a little neglected.
She had so much enjoyed looking at Maurits. Just because she had been a little bit severe to him at breakfast and laughed at him yesterday, it was such a pleasure to her to see him at the ball. He had never seemed to her so handsome and so superior.
He had seemed to feel that she would consider herself injured because he had not talked and danced only with her. But it had been pleasure enough for her to see how every one liked Maurits. As if she had wished to exhibit their love to the general gaze! Oh, Downie was not so foolish!
Maurits danced many dances with the beautiful Elizabeth Westling. But that had not troubled her at all, for Maurits had time after time come up and whispered: "You see, I can't get away from her. We are old friends. Here in the country they are so unaccustomed to have a partner who has been in society and can both dance and talk. You must lend me to the daughters of the county magnates for this evening, Anne-Marie."
But Uncle, too, gave way to Maurits. "Be host for this evening," he said to him, and Maurits was. He was everywhere. He led the dance, he led the drinking, and he made a speech for the county and for the ladies. He was wonderful. Both Uncle and she had watched Maurits, and then their eyes had met. Uncle had smiled and nodded to her. Uncle certainly was proud of Maurits. She had felt badly that Uncle did not really do justice to his nephew. Towards morning Uncle had been loud and quarrelsome. He had wanted to join the dance, but the girls drew back from him when he came up to them and pretended to be engaged.
"Dance with Anne-Marie," Maurits had said to his uncle, and it had sounded rather patronising. She was so frightened that she quite shrank together.
Uncle was offended too, turned on his heel and went into the smoking-room.
Maurits came up to her and said with a hard, hard voice: —
"You are ruining everything, Anne-Marie. Must you look like that when Uncle wishes to dance with you? If you could know what he said to me yesterday about you! You must do something too, Anne-Marie. Do you think it is right to leave everything to me?"
