Book: Invisible Links

S >> Selma Lagerlof >> Invisible Links




But his mother's portrait, which looked out with the grimmest face
that sharp winds and salt sea-foam could carve, stood solemnly as
before. And with a voice which had been exercised and strengthened
for many years by offering fish in the town marketplace, it
repeated: "You must marry, Mattsson."

Old Mattsson then asked his mother's portrait to consider what kind
of a community it was they lived in.

All the hundred houses of the fishing-village had pointed roofs and
whitewashed walls; all the boats of the fishing-village were of the
same build and rig. No one there ever did anything unusual. His
mother would have been the first to oppose such a marriage if she
had been alive. His mother had held by habits and customs. And it
was not the habit and custom of the fishing-village for old men of
seventy years to marry.

His mother's picture stretched out her beringed hand and positively
commanded him to obey. There had always been something excessively
awe-inspiring in his mother when she came in her black silk dress
with many flounces. The big, shining gold brooch, the heavy,
rattling gold chain had always frightened him. If she had worn her
market-clothes, in a striped head-cloth and with an oil-cloth
apron, covered with fish-scales and fish eyes, he would not have
been quite so overawed by her. The end of it was that he promised
to get married. And then his mother's portrait crept up into the
frame again.

The next morning old Mattsson woke in great trouble. It never
occurred to him to disobey his mother's portrait; it knew of course
what was best for him. But he shuddered nevertheless at the time
that was now coming.

The same day he made an offer of marriage to the plainest daughter
of the poorest fisherman, a little creature, whose head was drawn
down between her shoulders and who had a projecting under-jaw. The
parents said yes, and the day when he was to go to the town and
publish the bans was appointed.

The road from the fishing-village to the town passes over windy
marshes and swampy cow-pastures. It is two miles long, and there is
a tradition that the inhabitants of the fishing-village are so rich
that they could pave it with shining silver coins. It would give
the road a strange attraction. Glimmering like a fish's belly, it
would wind with its white scales through clumps of sedge and pools
filled with water-bugs and melancholy bullfrogs. The daisies and
almond-blossoms which adorn that forsaken ground would be mirrored
in the shining silver coins; thistles would stretch out protecting
thorns over them, and the wind would find a ringing sounding-board
when it played on the thatched roof of the cow-barns and on
telephone-wires.

Perhaps old Mattsson would have found some comfort if he could have
set his heavy sea boots on ringing silver, for it is certain that
he for a time had to go that way oftener than he liked.

He had not had "clean papers." The bans could not be published. It
came from his having run away from his bride the last time. Some
time passed before the clergyman could write to the consistory
about him and get permission for him to contract a new marriage.

As long as this time of waiting lasted, old Mattsson came to the
town every week. He sat by the door of the pastor's room and
remained there in silent expectation until all had spoken in turn.
Then he rose and asked if the clergyman had anything for him. No,
he had nothing.

The pastor was amazed at the power that all-conquering love had
acquired over that old man. There he sat in a thick, knitted
jersey, high sea-boots and weather-beaten sou'wester with a sharp,
clever face and long, gray hair, and waited for permission to get
married. The clergyman thought it strange that the old fisherman
should have been seized by so eager a longing.

"You are in a hurry with this marriage, Mattsson," said the
clergyman.

"Oh yes, it is best to get it done soon."

"Could you not just as well give up the whole thing? You are no
longer young, Mattsson."

The clergyman must not be too surprised. He knew well enough that
he was too old, but he was obliged to be married. There was no help
for it.

So he came again week after week for a half year, until at last the
permission came.

During all that time old Mattsson was a persecuted man. Round the
green drying-place, where the brown fish-nets were hung out, along
the cemented walls by the harbor, at the fish-tables in the market,
where cod and crabs were sold, and far out in the sound among the
shoals of herring, raged a storm of wonder and laughter.

"So he is going to be married, he, Mattsson, who ran away from his
own wedding!"

Neither bride nor groom were spared.

But the worst thing for him was that no one could laugh more at the
whole thing than he himself. No one could find it more ridiculous.
His mother's portrait was driving him mad.

***

It was the afternoon of the first time of asking. Old Mattsson,
still pursued by talk and wonderings, went out on the long
breakwater as far as the whitewashed lighthouse, in order to be
alone. He found his betrothed there. She sat and wept.

He asked her whether she would have liked some one else better. She
sat and pried little bits of mortar from the lighthouse wall and
threw them into the water, answering nothing at first.

"Was there nobody you liked?"

"Oh no, of course not."

It is very beautiful out by the lighthouse. The clear water of the
sound laps about it. The low-lying shore, the little uniform houses
of the fishing-village, and the distant town are all shining in
wonderful beauty. Out of the soft mist that hovers on the western
horizon a fishing-boat comes gliding now and again. Tacking boldly,
it steers towards the harbor. The water roars gaily past its bow as
it shoots in through the narrow harbor entrance. The sail drops
silently at the same moment. The fishermen swing their hats in
joyous greeting, and on the bottom of the boat lies the glittering
spoil.

A boat came into the harbor while old Mattsson stood out by the
lighthouse. A young man sitting at the tiller lifted his hat and
nodded to the girl. The old man saw that her eyes were shining.

"Well," he thought, "have you fallen in love with the handsomest
young fellow in the fishing-village? Yes, you will never get him.
You may just as well marry me as wait for him."

He saw that he could not escape his mother's picture. If the girl
had cared for any one whom there was any possibility of getting, he
would have had a good motive to be rid of the whole business. But
now it was useless to set her free.

***

A fortnight later was the wedding, and a few days after came the
big November gale. One of the boats of the fishing-village was
swept out into the sound. It had neither rudder nor masts, so that
it was quite unmanageable. Old Mattsson and five others were on
board, and they drifted about without food for two days. When they
were rescued, they were in a state of exhaustion from hunger and
cold. Everything in the boat was covered with ice, and their wet
clothes were stiff. Old Mattsson was so chilled that he never was
well again. He lay ill for two years; then death came.

Many thought that it was strange that his idea of marrying came
just before the unlucky adventure, for the little woman he had got
took good care of him. What would he have done if he had been alone
when lying so helpless? The whole fishing-village acknowledged that
he had never done anything more sensible than marrying, and the
little woman won great consideration for the tenderness with which
she took care of her husband.

"She will have no trouble in marrying again," people said.

Old Mattsson told his wife, every day while he lay ill, the story
of the portrait.

"You must take it when I am dead, just as you must take everything
of mine," he said.

"Do not speak of such things."

"And you must listen to my mother's portrait when the young men
propose to you. Truly there is no one in the whole fishing-village
who understands getting married better than that picture."



A FALLEN KING

Mine was the kingdom of fancy, now I am a fallen king.
SNOILSKY.


The wooden shoes clattered in uneasy measure on the pavements. The
street boys hurried by. They shouted, they whistled. The houses
shook, and from the courts the echo rushed out like a chained dog
from his kennel.

Faces appeared behind the window-panes. Had anything happened? Was
anything going on? The noise passed on towards the suburbs. The
servant girls hastened after, following the street boys. They
clasped their hands and screamed: "Preserve us, preserve us! Is it
murder, is it fire?" No one answered. The clattering was heard far
away.

After the maids came hurrying wise matrons of the town. They asked:
"What is it? What is disturbing the morning calm? Is it a wedding?
Is it a funeral? Is it a conflagration? What is the watchman doing?
Shall the town burn up before he begins to sound the alarm?"

The whole crowd stopped before the shoemaker's little house in the
suburbs, the little house that had vines climbing about the doors
and windows, and in front, between street and house, a yard-wide
garden. Summer-houses of straw, arbors fit for a mouse, paths for a
kitten. Everything in the best of order! Peas and beans, roses and
lavender, a mouthful of grass, three gooseberry bushes and an
apple-tree.

The street boys who stood nearest stared and consulted. Through the
shining, black window-panes their glances penetrated no further
than to the white lace curtains. One of the boys climbed up on the
vines and pressed his face against the pane. "What do you see?"
whispered the others. "What do you see?" The shoemaker's shop and
the shoemaker's bench, grease-pots and bundles of leather, lasts
and pegs, rings and straps. "Don't you see anybody?" He sees the
apprentice, who is repairing a shoe. Nobody else, nobody else? Big,
black flies crawl over the pane and make his sight uncertain. "Do
you see nobody except the apprentice?" Nobody. The master's chair
is empty. He looked once, twice, three times; the master's chair
was empty.

The crowd stood still, guessing and wondering. So it was true; the
old shoemaker had absconded. Nobody would believe it. They stood
and waited for a sign. The cat came out on the steep roof. He
stretched out his claws and slid down to the gutter. Yes, the
master was away, the cat could hunt as he pleased. The sparrows
fluttered and chirped, quite helpless.

A white chicken looked round the corner of the house. He was almost
full-grown. His comb shone red as wine. He peered and spied, crowed
and called. The hens came, a row of white hens at full speed,
bodies rocking, wings fluttering, yellow legs like drumsticks. The
hens hopped among the stacked peas. Battles began. Envy broke out.
A hen fled with a full pea-pod. Two cocks pecked her in the neck.
The cat left the sparrow nests to look on. Plump, there he fell
down in the midst of the flock. The hens fled in a long, scurrying
line. The crowd thought: "It must be true that the shoemaker has
run away. One can see by the cat and the hens that the master is
away."

The uneven street, muddy from the autumn rains, resounded with
talk. Doors stood open, windows swung. Heads were put together in
wondering whisperings. "He has run off." The people whispered, the
sparrows chirped, the wooden shoes clattered: "He has run away. The
old shoemaker has run away. The owner of the little house, the
young wife's husband, the father of the beautiful child, he has
run away. Who can understand it? who can explain it?"

There is an old song: "Old husband in the cottage; young lover in
the wood; wife, who runs away, child who cries; home without a
mistress." The song is old. It is often sung. Everybody understands it.

This was a new song. The old man was gone. On the workshop table
lay his explanation, that he never meant to come back. Beside it a
letter had also lain. The wife had read it, but no one else.

The young wife was in the kitchen. She was doing nothing. The
neighbors went backwards and forwards, arranging busily, set out
the cups, made up the fire, boiled the coffee, wept a little and
wiped away the tears with the dish-towel.

The good women of the quarter sat stiffly about the walls. They
knew what was suitable in a house of mourning. They kept silent by
force, mourned by force. They celebrated their holiday by
supporting the forsaken wife in her grief. Coarse hands lay quiet
in their laps, weather-beaten skin lay in deep wrinkles, thin lips
were pressed together over toothless jaws.

The wife sat among the bronze-hued women, gently blonde, with a
sweet face like a dove. She did not weep, but she trembled. She was
so afraid, that the fear was almost killing her. She bit her teeth
together, so that no one should hear how they chattered. When steps
were heard, when the clattering sounded, when some one spoke to
her, she started up.

She sat with her husband's letter in her pocket. She thought of now
one line in it and now another. There stood: "I can bear no longer
to see you both." And in another place: "I know now that you and
Erikson mean to elope." And again: "You shall not do that, for
people's evil talk would make you unhappy. I shall disappear, so
that you can get a divorce and be properly married. Erikson is a
good workman and can support you well." Then farther down: "Let
people say what they will about me. I am content if only they do
not think any evil of you, for you could not bear it."

She did not understand it. She had not meant to deceive him. Even
if she had liked to chat with the young apprentice, what had her
husband to do with that? Love is an illness, but it is not mortal.
She had meant to bear it through life with patience. How had her
husband discovered her most secret thoughts?

She was tortured at the thought of him! He must have grieved and
brooded. He had wept over his years. He had raged over the young
man's strength and spirits. He had trembled at the whisperings, at
the smiles, at the hand pressures. In burning madness, in glowing
jealousy, he had made it into a whole elopement history, of which
there was as yet nothing.

She thought how old he must have been that night when he went. His
back was bent, his hands shook. The agony of many long nights had
made him so. He had gone to escape that existence of passionate
doubting.

She remembered other lines in the letter: "It is not my intention
to destroy your character. I have always been too old for you." And
then another: "You shall always be respected and honored. Only be
silent, and all the shame will fall on me!"

The wife felt deeper and deeper remorse. Was it possible that
people would be deceived? Would it do to lie so too before God? Why
did she sit in the cottage, pitied like a mourning mother, honored
like a bride on her wedding day? Why was it not she who was
homeless, friendless, despised? How can such things be? How can God
let himself be so deceived?

Over the great dresser hung a little bookcase. On the top shelf
stood a big book with brass clasps. Behind those clasps was hidden
the story of a man and a woman who lied before God and men. "Who
has suggested to you, woman, to do such things? Look, young men
stand outside to lead you away."

The woman stared at the book, listened for the young men's
footsteps. She trembled at every knock, shuddered at every step.
She was ready to stand up and confess, ready to fall down and die.

The coffee was ready. The women glided sedately forward to the
table. They filled their cups, took a lump of sugar in their mouths
and began to sip their boiling coffee, silently and decently, the
wives of mechanics first, the scrub-women last. But the wife did
not see what was going on. Remorse made her quite beside herself.
She had a vision. She sat at night out in a freshly ploughed field.
Round about her sat great birds with mighty wings and pointed
beaks. They were gray, scarcely perceptible against the gray
ground, but they held watch over her. They were passing sentence
upon her. Suddenly they flew up and sank down over her head. She
saw their sharp claws, their pointed beaks, their beating wings
coming nearer and nearer. It was like a deadly rain of steel. She
bent her head and knew that she must die. But when they came near,
quite near to her, she had to look up. Then she saw that the gray
birds were all these old women.

One of them began to speak. She knew what was proper, what was
fitting in a house of mourning. They had now been silent long
enough. But the wife started up as from a blow. What did the woman
mean to say? "You, Matts Wik's wife, Anna Wik, confess! You have
lied long enough before God and before us. We are your judges. We
will judge you and rend you to pieces."

No, the woman began to speak of husbands. And the others chimed in,
as the occasion demanded. What was said was not in the husbands'
praise. All the evil husbands had done was dragged forward. It was
as consolation for a deserted wife.

Injury was heaped upon injury. Strange beings these husbands! They
beat us, they drink up our money, they pawn our furniture. Why on
earth had Our Lord created them?

The tongues became like dragons' fangs; they spat venom, they
spouted fire. Each one added her word. Anecdotes were piled upon
anecdotes. A wife fled from her home before a drunken husband.
Wives slaved for idle husbands. Wives were deserted for other
women. The tongues whistled like whip lashes. The misery of homes
was laid bare. Long litanies were read. From the tyranny of the
husband deliver us, good Lord!

Illness and poverty, the children's death, the winter's cold,
trouble with the old people, everything was the husband's fault.
The slaves hissed at their masters. They turned their stings
against them, before whose feet they crept.

The deserted wife felt how it cut and stabbed in her ears. She
dared to defend the incorrigible ones. "My husband," she said, "is
good." The women started up, hissed and snorted. "He has run away.
He is no better than anybody else. He, who is an old man, ought to
know better than to run away from wife and child. Can you believe
that he is better than the others?"

The wife trembled; she felt as if she was being dragged through
prickly bramble-bushes. Her husband considered a sinner! She
flushed with shame, wished to speak, but was silent. She was
afraid; she had not the power. But why did God keep silent? Why
did God let such things be?

If she should take the letter and read it aloud, then the stream
of poison would be turned. The venom would sprinkle upon her. The
horror of death came over her. She did not dare. She half wished
that an insolent hand had been thrust into her pocket and had drawn
out the letter. She could not give herself as a prize. Within the
workshop was heard a shoemaker's hammer. Did no one hear how it
hammered in triumph? She had heard that hammering and had been
vexed by it the whole day. But none of the women understood it.
Omniscient God, hast Thou no servant who could read hearts? She
would gladly accept her sentence, if only she did not need to
confess. She wished to hear some one say: "Who has given you the
idea to lie before God?" She listened for the sound of the young
men's footsteps in order to fall down and die.

***

Several years after this a divorced woman was married to a
shoemaker, who had been apprentice to her husband. She had not
wished it, but had been drawn to it, as a pickerel is drawn to the
side of a boat when it has been caught on the line. The fisherman
lets it play. He lets it rush here and there. He lets it believe it
is free. But when it is tired out, when it can do no more, then he
drags with a light pull, then he lifts it up and jerks it down into
the bottom of the boat before it knows what it is all about.

The wife of the absconded shoemaker had dismissed her apprentice
and wished to live alone. She had wished to show her husband that
she was innocent. But where was her husband? Did he not care for
her faithfulness. She suffered want. Her child went in rags. How
long did her husband think that she could wait? She was unhappy
when she had no one upon whom she could depend.

Erikson succeeded. He had a shop in the town. His shoes stood on
glass shelves behind broad plate-glass windows. His workshop grew.
He hired an apartment and put plush furniture in the parlor.
Everything waited only for her. When she was too wearied of
poverty, she came.

She was very much afraid in the beginning. But no misfortunes
befell her. She became more confident as time went on and more
happy. She had people's regard, and knew within herself that she
had not deserved it. That kept her conscience awake, so that she
became a good woman.

Her first husband, after some years, came back to the house in the
suburbs. It was still his, and he settled down again there and
wished to begin work. But he got no work, nor would anybody have
anything to do with him. He was despised, while his wife enjoyed
great honor. It was nevertheless he who had done right, and she who
had done wrong.

The husband kept his secret, but it almost suffocated him. He felt
how he sank, because everybody considered him bad. No one had any
confidence in him, no one would trust any work to him. He took what
company he could get, and learned to drink.

While he was going down hill, the Salvation Army came to the town.
It hired a big hall and began its work. From the very first evening
all the loafers gathered at the meetings to make a disturbance.
When it had gone on for about a week, Matts Wik came too to take
part in the fun.

There was a crowd in the street, a crowd in the door-way. Sharp
elbows and angry tongues were there; street boys and soldiers,
maids and scrub-women; peaceable police and stormy rabble. The
army was new and the fashion. The well-to-do and the wharf-rats,
everybody went to the Salvation Army. Within, the hall was
low-studded. At the farthest end was an empty platform; unpainted
benches, borrowed chairs, an uneven floor, blotches on the ceiling,
lamps that smoked. The iron stove in the middle of the floor gave
out warmth and coal gas. All the places were filled in a moment.
Nearest the platform sat the women, demure as if in church, and
back of them workmen and sewing-women. Farthest away sat the boys
on one another's knees, and in the door-way there was a fight among
those who could not get in.

The platform was empty. The clock had not struck, the entertainment
had not begun. One whistled, one laughed. The benches were kicked
to pieces. "The War-cry" flew like a kite between the groups. The
public were enjoying themselves.

A side-door opened. Cold air streamed into the room. The fire flamed
up. There was silence. Attentive expectation filled the hall. At
last they came, three young women, carrying guitars and with faces
almost hidden by broad-brimmed hats. They fell on their knees as
soon as they had ascended the steps of the platform.

One of them prayed aloud. She lifted her head, but closed her eyes.
Her voice cut like a knife. During the prayer there was silence.
The street-boys and loafers had not yet begun. They were waiting
for the confessions and the inspiring music.

The women settled down to their work. They sang and prayed, sang
and preached. They smiled and spoke of their happiness. In front of
them they had an audience of ruffians. They began to rise, they
climbed upon the benches. A threatening noise passed through the
throng. The women on the platform caught glimpses of dreadful faces
through the smoky air. The men had wet, dirty clothes, which smelt
badly. They spat tobacco every other second, swore with every word.
Those women, who were to struggle with them, spoke of their happiness.

How brave that little army was! Ah, is it not beautiful to be brave?
Is it not something to be proud of to have God on one's side? It
was not worth while to laugh at them in their big hats. It was most
probable that they would conquer the hard hands, the cruel faces,
the blaspheming lips.

"Sing with us!" cried the Salvation Army soldiers; "sing with us!
It is good to sing." They started a well-known melody. They struck
their guitars and repeated the same verse over and over. They got
one or two of those sitting nearest to join in, but now sounded
down by the door a light street song. Notes struggled against
notes, words against words, guitar against whistle. The women's
strong, trained voices contested with the boys' hoarse falsetto,
with the men's growling bass. When the street song was almost
conquered, they began to stamp and whistle down by the door. The
Salvation Army song sank like a wounded warrior. The noise was
terrifying. The women fell on their knees.

They knelt as if powerless. Their eyes were closed. Their bodies
rocked in silent pain. The noise died down. The Salvation Army
captain began instantly: "Lord, all these Thou wilt make Thine own.
We thank Thee, Lord, that Thou wilt lead them all into Thy host! We
thank Thee, Lord, that it is granted to us to lead them to Thee!"

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