Book: Invisible Links

S >> Selma Lagerlof >> Invisible Links




One Christmas he came to Loefdala, where Liljekrona, the great
violinist, had his home. Liljekrona had also been one of the
pensioners of Ekeby, but after the death of the major's wife, he
returned to his quiet farm and remained there. Ruster came to him a
few days before Christmas, in the midst of all the preparations,
and asked for work. Liljekrona gave him a little copying to keep
him busy.

"You ought to have let him go immediately," said his wife; "now he
will certainly take so long with that that we will be obliged to
keep him over Christmas."

"He must be somewhere," answered Liljekrona.

And he offered Ruster toddy and brandy, sat with him, and lived
over again with him the whole Ekeby time. But he was out of spirits
and disgusted by him, like every one else, although he would not
let it be seen, for old friendship and hospitality were sacred to
him.

In Liljekrona's house for three weeks now they had been preparing
to receive Christmas. They had been living in discomfort and
bustle, had sat up with dip-lights and torches till their eyes grew
red, had been frozen in the out-house with the salting of meat and
in the brew-house with the brewing of the beer. But both the
mistress and the servants gave themselves up to it all without
grumbling.

When all the preparations were done and the holy evening come, a
sweet enchantment would sink down over them. Christmas would loosen
all tongues, so that jokes and jests, rhymes and merriment would
flow of themselves without effort. Every one's feet would wish to
twirl in the dance, and from memory's dark corners words and
melodies would rise, although no one could believe that they were
there. And then every one was so good, so good!

Now when Ruster came the whole household at Loefdala thought that
Christmas was spoiled. The mistress and the older children and the
old servants were all of the same opinion. Ruster caused them a
suffocating disgust. They were moreover afraid that when he and
Liljekrona began to rake up the old memories, the artist's blood
would flame up in the great violinist and his home would lose him.
Formerly he had not been able to remain long sit home.

No one can describe how they loved their master on the farm, since
they had had him with them a couple of years. And what he had to
give! How much he was to his home, especially at Christmas! He did
not take his place on any sofa or rocking-stool, but on a high,
narrow wooden bench in the corner of the fireplace. When he was
settled there he started off on adventures. He travelled about the
earth, climbed up to the stars, and even higher. He played and
talked by turns, and the whole household gathered about him and
listened. Life grew proud and beautiful when the richness of that
one soul shone on it.

Therefore they loved him as they loved Christmas time, pleasure,
the spring sun. And when little Ruster came, their Christmas peace
was destroyed. They had worked in vain if he was coming to tempt
away their master. It was unjust that the drunkard should sit at
the Christmas table in a happy house and spoil the Christmas
pleasure.

On the forenoon of Christmas Eve little Ruster had his music
written out, and he said something about going, although of course
he meant to stay.

Liljekrona had been influenced by the general feeling, and
therefore said quite lukewarmly and indifferently that Ruster had
better stay where he was over Christmas.

Little Ruster was inflammable and proud. He twirled his moustache
and shook back the black artist's hair that stood like a dark cloud
over his head. What did Liljekrona mean? Should he stay because he
had nowhere else to go? Oh, only think how they stood and waited
for him in the big ironworks in the parish of Bro! The guest-room
was in order, the glass of welcome filled. He was in great haste.
He only did not know to which he ought to go first.

"Very well," answered Liljekrona, "you may go if you will."

After dinner little Ruster borrowed horse and sleigh, coat and
furs. The stable-boy from Loefdala was to take him to some place in
Bro and drive quickly back, for it threatened snow.

No one believed that he was expected, or that there was a single
place in the neighborhood where he was welcome. But they were so
anxious to be rid of him that they put the thought aside and let
him depart. "He wished it himself," they said; and then they
thought that now they would be glad.

But when they gathered in the dining room at five o'clock to drink
tea and to dance round the Christmas-tree, Liljekrona was silent
and out of spirits. He did not seat himself on the bench; he touched
neither tea nor punch; he could not remember any polka; the violin
was out of order. Those who could play and dance had to do it
without him.

Then his wife grew uneasy; the children were discontented,
everything in the house went wrong. It was the most lamentable
Christmas Eve.

The porridge turned sour; the candles sputtered; the wood smoked;
the wind stirred up the snow and blew bitter cold into the rooms.
The stable-boy who had driven Ruster did not come home. The cook
wept; the maids scolded.

Finally Liljekrona remembered that no sheaves had been put out for
the sparrows, and he complained aloud of all the women about him
who abandoned old customs and were new-fangled and heartless. They
understood well enough that what tormented him was remorse that he
had let little Ruster go away from his home on Christmas Eve.

After a while he went to his room, shut the door and began to play
as he had not played since he had ceased roaming. It was full of
hate and scorn, full of longing and revolt. You thought to bind me,
but you must forge new fetters. You thought to make me as small-minded
as yourselves, but I turn to larger things, to the open. Commonplace
people, slaves of the home, hold me prisoner if it is in your
power!

When his wife heard the music, she said: "Tomorrow he is gone, if
God does not work a miracle in the night. Our inhospitableness has
brought on just what we thought we could avoid."

In the meantime little Ruster drove about in the snowstorm. He went
from one house to the other and asked if there was any work for him
to do, but he was not received anywhere. They did not even ask him
to get out of the sledge. Some had their houses full of guests,
others were going away on Christmas Day. "Drive to the next
neighbor," they all said.

He could come and spoil the pleasure of an ordinary day, but not of
Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve came but once a year, and the children
had been rejoicing in the thought of it all the autumn. They could
not put that man at a table where there were children. Formerly
they had been glad to see him, but not since he had become a
drunkard. Where should they put the fellow, moreover? The servants'
room was too plain and the guest-room too fine.

So little Ruster had to drive from house to house in the blinding
snow. His wet moustache hung limply down over his mouth; his eyes
were bloodshot and blurred, but the brandy was blown out of his
brain. He began to wonder and to be amazed. Was it possible, was it
possible that no one wished to receive him?

Then all at once he saw himself. He saw how miserable and degraded
he was, and he understood that he was odious to people. "It is the
end of me," he thought. "No more copying of music, no more
flute-playing. No one on earth needs me; no one has compassion on
me."

The storm whirled and played, tore apart the drifts and piled them
up again, took a pillar of snow in its arms and danced out into the
plain, lifted one flake up to the clouds and chased another down
into a ditch. "It is so, it is so," said little Ruster; "while one
dances and whirls it is play, but when one must be buried in the
drift and forgotten, it is sorrow and grief." But down they all
have to go, and now it was his turn. To think that he had now come
to the end!

He no longer asked where the man was driving him; he thought that
he was driving in the land of death.

Little Ruster made no offerings to the gods that night. He did not
curse flute-playing or the life of a pensioner; he did not think
that it had been better for him if he had ploughed the earth or
sewn shoes. But he mourned that he was now a worn-out instrument,
which pleasure could no longer use. He complained of no one, for he
knew that when the horn is cracked and the guitar will not stay in
tune, they must go. He became all at once a very humble man. He
understood that it was the end of him, on this Christmas Eve.
Hunger and cold would destroy him, for he understood nothing, was
good for nothing and had no friends.

The sledge stops, and suddenly it is light about him, and he hears
friendly voices, and there is some one who is helping him into a
warm room, and some one who is pouring warm tea into him. His coat
is pulled off him, and several people cry that he is welcome, and
warm hands rub life into his benumbed fingers.

He was so confused by it all that he did not come to his senses for
nearly a quarter of an hour. He could not possibly comprehend that
he had come back to Loefdala. He had not been at all conscious that
the stable-boy had grown tired of driving about in the storm and
had turned home.

Nor did he understand why he was now so well received in Liljekrona's
house. He could not know that Liljekrona's wife understood what a
weary journey he had made that Christmas Eve, when he had been
turned away from every door where he had knocked. She felt such
compassion on him that she forgot her own troubles.

Liljekrona went on with the wild playing up in his room; he did not
know that Ruster had come. The latter sat meanwhile in the dining-room
with the wife and the children. The servants, who used also to be
there on Christmas Eve, had moved out into the kitchen away from
their mistress's trouble.

The mistress of the house lost no time in setting Ruster to work.
"You hear, I suppose," she said, "that Liljekrona does nothing but
play all the evening, and I must attend to setting the table and
the food. The children are quite forsaken. You must look after
these two smallest."

Children were the kind of people with whom little Ruster had had
least intercourse. He had met them neither in the bachelor's wing
nor in the campaign tent, neither in wayside inns nor on the
highways. He was almost shy of them, and did not know what he ought
to say that was fine enough for them.

He took out his flute and taught them how to finger the stops and
holes. There was one of four years and one of six. They had a
lesson on the flute and were deeply interested in it. "This is A,"
he said, "and this is C," and then he blew the notes. Then the
young people wished to know what kind of an A and C it was that was
to be played.

Ruster took out his score and made a few notes.

"No," they said, "that is not right." And they ran away for an A B C book.

Little Ruster began to hear their alphabet. They knew it and they
did not know it. What they knew was not very much. Ruster grew
eager; he lifted the little boys up, each on one of his knees, and
began to teach them. Liljekrona's wife went out and in and listened
quite in amazement. It sounded like a game, and the children were
laughing the whole time, but they learned.

Ruster kept on for a while, but he was absent from what he was
doing. He was turning over the old thoughts from out in the storm.
It was good and pleasant, but nevertheless it was the end of him.
He was worn .out. He ought to be thrown away. And all of a sudden
he put his hands before his face and began to weep.

Liljekrona's wife came quickly up to him.

"Ruster," she said, "I can understand that you think that all is
over for you. You cannot make a living with your music, and you are
destroying yourself with brandy. But it is not the end, Ruster."

"Yes," sobbed the little flute-player.

"Do you see that to sit as to-night with the children, that would
be something for you? If you would teach children to read and
write, you would be welcomed everywhere. That is no less important
an instrument on which to play, Ruster, than flute and violin. Look
at them, Ruster!"

She placed the two children in front of him, and he looked up,
blinking as if he had looked at the sun. It seemed as if his
little, blurred eyes could not meet those of the children, which
were big, clear and innocent.

"Look at them, Ruster!" repeated Liljekrona's wife.

"I dare not," said Ruster, for it was like a purgatory to look
through the beautiful child eyes to the unspotted beauty of their
souls.

Liljekrona's wife laughed loud and joyously. "Then you must
accustom yourself to them, Ruster. You can stay in my house as
schoolmaster this year."

Liljekrona heard his wife laugh and came out of his room.

"What is it?" he said. "What is it?"

"Nothing," she answered, "but that Ruster has come again, and that
I have engaged him as schoolmaster for our little boys."

Liljekrona was quite amazed. "Do you dare?" he said, "do you dare?
Has he promised to give up--"

"No," said the wife; "Ruster has promised nothing. But there is
much about which he must be careful when he has to look little
children in the eyes every day. If it had not been Christmas,
perhaps I would not have ventured; but when our Lord dared to place
a little child who was his own son among us sinners, so can I also
dare to let my little children try to save a human soul."

Liljekrona could not speak, but every feature and wrinkle in his
face twitched and twisted as always when he heard anything noble.

Then he kissed his wife's hand as gently as a child who asks for
forgiveness and cried aloud: "All the children must come and kiss
their mother's hand."

They did so, and then they had a happy Christmas in Liljekrona's
house.



UNCLE REUBEN

There was once, nearly eighty years ago, a little boy who went out
into the market-place to spin his top. The little boy's name was
Reuben. He was not more than three years old, but he swung his
little whip as bravely as anybody and made the top spin so that it
was a pleasure to see it.

On that day, eighty years ago, it was beautiful spring weather. It
was in the month of March, and the town was divided into two
worlds; one white and warm, where the sun shone, and one cold and
dark, where it was in shadow. The whole market-place was in the sun
except a narrow edge along one row of houses.

Now it happened that the little boy, brave as he was, grew tired of
spinning his top and looked about for some place to rest. It was
not hard to find. There were no benches or seats, but every house
was supplied with stone steps. Little Reuben could not imagine
anything better.

He was a conscientious little fellow. He had a vague feeling that
his mother did not like to have him sit on strange people's steps.
His mother was poor, but just on that account it must never look as
if they wanted to take anything of anybody. So he went and sat on
their own stone steps, for they also lived on the market-place.

The steps lay in the shadow, and it was very cold there. The little
fellow leaned his head against the railing, drew up his legs and
made himself comfortable. For a little while he watched the
sunlight dance out in the market-place and the boys running and
spinning tops--then he shut his eyes and went to sleep.

He must have slept an hour. When he awoke he did not feel so well
as when he fell asleep; everything felt so dreadfully uncomfortable.
He went in to his mother crying, and his mother saw that he was ill
and put him to bed. And in a couple of days the boy was dead.

But that is not the end of his story. It happened that his mother
mourned for him from the depths of her heart with a sorrow which
defies years and death. His mother had several other children, many
cares occupied her time and thoughts, but there was always a corner
in her heart where her son Reuben dwelt undisturbed. He was ever
alive to her. When she saw a group of children playing in the
market-place, he too was running there, and when she went about her
house, she believed fully and firmly that the little boy was still
sitting and sleeping out on those dangerous stone steps. Certainly
none of her living children were so constantly in her thoughts as
her dead one.

Some years after his death little Reuben had a sister, and when she
grew to be old enough to run out on the market-place and spin tops,
it happened that she too sat down on the stone steps to rest. But
her mother felt instantly as if some one had pulled her skirt. She
came out and seized the little sister so roughly, when she lifted
her up, that she remembered it as long as she lived.

And as little did she forget how strange her mother's face was and
how her voice trembled, when she said: "Do you know that you once
had a little brother, whose name was Reuben, and he died because he
sat on these stone steps and caught cold? You do not want to die
and leave your mother, Berta?"

Brother Reuben soon became just as living to his brothers and
sisters as to his mother. She was able to make them see with her
eyes and they too soon saw him sitting out on the stone steps. And
it naturally never occurred to them to sit down there. Yes,
whenever they saw any one sitting on stone steps, or on a stone
railing, or on a stone by the roadside, they felt a prick in their
heart and thought of Brother Reuben.

Besides, Brother Reuben was always placed highest of all the
children when they spoke of him among themselves. For they all knew
that they were a troublesome and fatiguing family, who only gave
their mother care and inconvenience. They could not believe that
she would grieve much at losing any of them. But as she really
mourned for Brother Reuben, it was certain that he must have been
much better than they were.

They would often think: "Oh, if we could only give mother as much
joy as Brother Reuben!" And yet no one knew anything more about him
than that he had played top and caught cold on the stone steps. But
he must have been something wonderful, as their mother had such a
love for him.

He was wonderful too; he was more of a joy to his mother than any
of the children. Her husband died and she worked in care and want.
But the children had so strong a faith in their mother's grief for
the little three-year-old boy, that they were convinced that if he
had lived she would not have mourned over her misfortunes. And
every time they saw their mother weep, they thought that it was
because Brother Reuben was dead, or because they were not like
Brother Reuben. Soon enough an ever-growing desire was born in them
to rival their little dead brother in their mother's affection.
There was nothing that they would not have done for her, if she had
only cared as much for them as for him. And it was on account of
that longing, I think, that Brother Reuben did more good than any
of the other children.

Fancy that when the eldest brother had earned his first money by
rowing a stranger over the river, he came and gave it to his mother
without reserving a penny! Then his mother looked so happy that he
swelled with pride, and could not help betraying how ambitious
beyond measure he had been.

"Mother, am I not now as good as Brother Reuben?" His mother looked
at him questioningly. She seemed as if she was comparing his fresh,
glowing face with the little pale boy out on the stone steps. And
she would have liked to have answered yes, if she had been able,
but she could not.

"I am very fond of you, Ivan, but you will never be like Reuben."

It was beyond their powers; all the children realized it, and yet
they could not help trying.

They grew up strong and capable; they worked their way up to wealth
and consideration, while Brother Reuben only sat still on his stone
steps. But he still had a start; he could not be overtaken.

And at every success, every improvement, as they by degrees were
able to offer their mother a good home and comfort, it had to be
reward enough for them for their mother to say: "Ah, if my little
Reuben could have seen that!"

Brother Reuben followed his mother through the whole of her life,
even to her deathbed. It was he who robbed the death pangs of their
sting, since she knew that they bore her to him. In the midst of
her greatest suffering the mother could smile at the thought that
she was going to meet little Reuben.

And so died one whose faithful love had exalted and deified a poor
little three-year-old boy.

But neither was that the end of little Reuben's story. To all the
brothers and sisters he had become a symbol of their life of
endeavor, of their love for their mother, of all the touching
memories from the years of struggle and failure. There was always
something rich and warm in their voices when they spoke of him.

So he also glided into the lives of the children of his brothers
and sisters. His mother's love had raised him to greatness, and the
great influence generation after generation.

Sister Berta had a son, who had much to do with Uncle Reuben.

He was four years old the day he sat on the curbstone and stared
down into the gutter. It was full of rain water. Sticks and straws
were carried past in wild swirlings down to the sea. The little boy
sat and looked on with that pleasant calm that people feel in
following the adventurous existence of others, when they themselves
are in safety.

But his peaceful philosophizing was interrupted by his mother, who,
the moment she saw him, thought of the stone steps at home and of
her brother.

"Oh, my dear little boy," she said, "do not sit there! Do you know
that your mamma had a little brother whose name was Reuben, and he
was four years old just like you? He died because he sat on just
such a curbstone and caught cold."

The little boy did not like being disturbed in his pleasant
thoughts. He sat still and philosophized, while his yellow, curly
hair fell down into his eyes.

Berta would not have done it for any one else, but for her dear
brother's sake she shook her little boy quite roughly. And so he
learned respect for Uncle Reuben.

Another time this little yellow-haired man had fallen on the ice;
he had been thrown down out of sheer spite by a big, naughty boy,
and there he sat and cried to show how badly he had been treated,
especially as his mother could not be very far off.

But he had forgotten that his mother was first and last Uncle
Reuben's sister. When she caught sight of Axel sitting on the ice,
she did not come with anything soothing or consoling, but only with
that everlasting:

"Do not sit so, my little boy! Think of Uncle Reuben, who died when
he was five years old, just as you are now, because he sat down in
a snowdrift."

The boy stood up instantly when he heard her speak of Uncle Reuben,
but he felt a chill in his very heart. How could mamma talk about
Uncle Reuben when her little boy was in such distress! Axel had no
objection to his sitting and dying wherever he pleased, but now it
seemed as if he wished to take his own mamma away from him, and
that Axel could not bear. So he learned to hate Uncle Reuben.

High up on the stairway in Axel's home was a stone railing, which
was dizzily beautiful to sit on. Far below lay the stone floor of
the hall, and he who sat astride up there could dream that he was
being borne along over abysses. Axel called the balustrade the good
steed Grane. On his back he bounded over burning ramparts into an
enchanted castle. There he sat proud and bold with his long curls
waving, and fought Saint George's fight with the dragon. And as yet
it had not occurred to Uncle Reuben to want to ride there.

But of course he came. Just as the dragon was writhing in the agony
of death and Axel sat in lofty consciousness of victory, he heard
his nurse call: "Little Axel, do not sit there! Think of Uncle
Reuben, who died when he was eight years old, just as you are now,
because he sat and rode on a stone railing. You must never sit
there again."

Such a jealous old pudding-head, that Uncle Reuben! He could not
bear it, of course, because Axel was killing dragons and rescuing
princesses. If he did not look out, he, Axel, would show that he
could win glory too. If he should jump down to that stone floor and
dash his brains out, he would feel himself thrown into the shade,
that big liar.

Poor Uncle Reuben! The poor, good little boy who went to play top
out in the sunny market-place! Now he was to learn what it was to
be a great man.

It was in the country at Uncle Ivan's. A number of the cousins had
gathered in the beautiful garden. Axel was there, filled with his
hatred of his Uncle Reuben. He was longing to know if he was
tormenting any other besides himself, but there was something which
made him afraid to ask. It was as if he was going to commit some
sacrilege.

At last the children were left to themselves. No big people were
present. Then Axel asked if they had ever heard of Uncle Reuben.

He saw how all the eyes flashed and that many small fists were
clenched, but it seemed as if the little mouths had been taught
respect for Uncle Reuben. "Hush!" said the whole crowd.

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