Book: Invisible Links

S >> Selma Lagerlof >> Invisible Links




"No!" said Axel; "I want to know if there is any one else whom he
tortures, for I think he is the most troublesome of all uncles."

That one brave word broke the dam which had held in the indignation
of those tormented childhearts. There was a great murmuring and
shouting. So must a crowd of nihilists look when they revile an
autocrat.

The poor, great man's register of sins was unrolled. Uncle Reuben
persecuted the children of all his brothers and sisters. Uncle
Reuben died wherever he chose. Uncle Reuben was always the same age
as the child whose peace he wished to disturb.

And they had to show respect to him, although he was quite plainly
a liar. They might hate him in the most silent depths of their
heart, but overlook him or show him disrespect, no, then they were
stopped.

What an air the old people put on when they spoke of him! Had he
ever really done anything so wonderful? To sit down and die was
nothing so surprising. And whatever great thing he may have done,
it was certain that he was now abusing his power. He opposed the
children in everything that they wanted to do, the old scarecrow.
He drove them from a noonday nap in the grass. He had discovered
their best hiding places in the park and forbidden them to go
there. His last performance was to ride on barebacked horses and to
drive in the hay-rigging.

They were all sure that the poor thing had never been more than
three years old. And now he fell upon the big children of fourteen
and insisted that he was their age. It was the most provoking thing.

It was perfectly incredible what came to light about him. He had
fished from the dam; he had rowed in the little flat-bottomed boat;
he had climbed up in the willow which hangs over the water, and in
which it was so nice to sit; yes, he had even slept on the powder-horn.

But they were all certain that there was no escape from his
tyranny. It was a relief to have spoken out, but not a remedy. They
could not rebel against Uncle Reuben.

You never would have believed it, but when these children grew to
be big and had children of their own, they immediately began to
make use of Uncle Reuben, just as their parents had done before them.

And their children again, the young people who are growing up now,
have learned their lesson so well, that it happened one summer out
in the country that a five-year-old boy came up to his old
grandmother Berta, who had sat down on the steps while waiting for
the carriage:--

"Grandmother once had a brother whose name was Reuben."

"You are quite right, my little boy," grandmother said, and stood
up instantly.

That was as much of a sign to the young people as if they had seen
an old Royalist bow before King Charles's portrait. It made them
understand that Uncle Reuben always must remain great, however he
abused his position, only because he had been so deeply loved.

In these days, when all greatness is so carefully examined, he has
to be used with greater moderation than formerly. The limit for his
age is lower; trees, boats and powder-horns 'are safe from him, but
nothing of stone which can be sat upon can escape him.

And the children, the children of the day, treat him quite
otherwise than their parents did. They criticise him openly and
frankly. Their parents no longer understand how to inspire blind,
terrified obedience. Little boarding-school girls discuss Uncle
Reuben and wonder if he is anything but a myth. A six-year-old
child proposes that he should prove by experiment that it is
impossible to catch a mortal cold on stone steps.

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 Noesselt'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.

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