Book: Invisible Links

S >> Selma Lagerlof >> Invisible Links




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?"

"What do you wish me to do, Maurits?"

"Oh, now there is nothing; now the game is spoiled. Think all I had
won this evening! But it is lost now."

"I will gladly ask Uncle's pardon, if you like, Maurits." And she
really meant it. She was honestly sorry to have hurt Uncle.

"That is of course the only right thing to do; but one can ask
nothing of any one as ridiculously shy as you are."

She had not answered, but had gone straight to the smoking-room,
which was almost empty. Uncle had thrown himself down in an
arm-chair.

"Why will you not dance with me?" she had asked.

Uncle Theodore's eyes were closed. He opened them and looked long
at her. It was a look full of pain that she met. It made her
understand how a prisoner must feel when he thinks of his chains.
It made her sorry for Uncle. It seemed as if he had needed her much
more than Maurits, for Maurits needed no one. He was very well as
he was. So she laid her hand on Uncle Theodore's arm quite gently
and caressingly.

Instantly new life awoke in his eyes. He began to stroke her hair
with his big hand. "Little mother," he had said.

Then "it" came over her while he stroked her hair. It came
stealing, it came creeping, it came rushing, as when elves pass
through dark woods.


III

One evening thin, soft clouds are floating in the sky; one evening
all is still and mild; one evening the air is filled with fine
white down from the aspens and poplars.

It is quite late, and no one is up except Uncle Theodore, who is
walking in the garden and is considering how he can separate the
young man and the young woman.

For never, never in the world shall it come to pass that Maurits
leaves his house with her at his side while Uncle Theodore stands
on the steps and wishes them a pleasant journey.

Is it a possibility to let her go at all, since she has filled the
house for three days with merry chirping, since she in her quiet
way has accustomed them to be cared for and petted by her, since
they have all grown used to seeing that soft, supple little
creature roving about everywhere. Uncle Theodore says to himself
that it is not possible. He cannot live without her.

Just then he strikes against a dandelion which has gone to seed,
and, like men's resolutions and men's promises, the white ball of
down is scattered, its white floss flies out and is dispersed.

The night is not cold as the nights generally are in that part of
the country. The warmth is kept in by the grey cloud blanket. The
winds show themselves merciful for once and do not blow.

Uncle Theodore sees her, Downie. She is weeping because Maurits has
forsaken her. But he draws her to him and kisses away her tears.

Soft and fine, the white down falls from the great ripe clusters of
the trees,--so light that the air will scarcely let them fall, so
fine and delicate that they hardly show on the ground.

Uncle Theodore laughs to himself when he thinks of Maurits. In
thought he goes in to him the next morning while he is still lying
in his bed. "Listen, Maurits," he means to say to him. "I do not
wish to inspire you with false hopes. If you marry this girl, you
need not expect a penny from me. I will not help to ruin your
future."

"Do you think so badly of her, uncle?" Maurits will say.

"No, on the contrary; she is a nice girl, but still not the one for
you. You shall have a woman like Elizabeth Westling. Be sensible,
Maurits; what will become of you if you break off your studies and
go into trade for that child's sake. You are not suited to it, my
boy. Something more is needed for such work than to be able to lift
your hat gracefully from your head and to say: 'Thank you, my
children!' You are cut out and made for a civil official. You can
become minister."

"If you have such a good opinion of me," Maurits will answer, "help
me with my examination and let us afterwards be married!"

"Not at all, not at all. What do you think would become of your
career if you had such a weight as a wife? The horse which drags
the bread wagon does not go fast ahead. Think of the girl from the
bakery as a minister's wife! No, you ought not to engage yourself
for at least ten years, not before you have made your place. What
would the result be if I helped you to be married? Every year you
would come to me and beg for money. You and I would both weary of
that."

"But, uncle, I am a man of honor. I have engaged myself."

"Listen, Maurits! Which is better? For her to go and wait for you
for ten years, and then find that you will not marry her, or for
you to break it off now? No, be decided, get up, take the chaise
and go home before she wakes. It will never do at any rate for a
betrothed couple to wander about the country by themselves. I will
take care of the girl if you only give up this madness. My old
friend will go home with her. You shall be supported by me so that
you do not need to worry about your future. Now be sensible; you
will please your parents by obeying me. Go now, without seeing her!
I will talk to her. She will not stand in the way of your
happiness. Do not try to see her before you leave, then you could
grow soft-hearted, for she is sweet."

And at those words Maurits makes an heroic decision and goes his way.

And when he has gone, what will happen then?

"Scoundrel," sounds in the garden, loud and threateningly, as if to
a thief. Uncle Theodore looks about him. Is it no one else? Is it
only he calling so at himself?

What will happen afterwards? Oh, he will prepare her for Maurits's
departure; show her that Maurits was not worthy of her; make her
despise him. And then when she has cried her heart out on his
breast, he shall so carefully, so skilfully make her understand
what he feels, lure her, win her.

The down still falls. Uncle Theodore stretches out his big hand and
catches a bit of it.

So fine, so light, so delicate! He stands and looks at it.

It falls about him, flake after flake. What will become of them?
They will be driven by the wind, soiled by the earth, trampled upon
by heavy feet.

He begins to feel as if that light down fell upon him with the
heaviest weight. Who will be the wind; who will be the earth; who
will be the shoe when it is a question of such defenceless little
things?

And as a result of his extraordinary knowledge of Noesselt's
"Popular Stories," an episode from one of them occurred to him like
what he had just been thinking.

It was an early morning, not falling night as now. It was a rocky
shore, and down by the sea sat a beautiful youth with a panther
skin over his shoulder, with vine leaves in his hair, with thyrsus
in his hand. Who was he? Oh, the god Bacchus himself.

And the rocky shore was Naxos. It was the seas of Greece the god
saw. The ship with the black sails swiftly sailing towards the
horizon was steered by Theseus and in the grotto, the entrance of
which opened high up in a projection of the steep cliff, slept
Ariadne.

During the night the young god had thought: "Is this mortal youth
worthy of that divine girl!" And to test Theseus he had in a dream
frightened him with the loss of his life, if he did not instantly
forsake Ariadne. Then the latter had risen up, hastened to the
ship, and fled away over the waves without even waking the girl to
say good-bye.

Now the god Bacchus sat there smiling, rocked by the tenderest
hopes, and waited for Ariadne.

The sun rose, the morning breeze freshened. He abandoned himself to
smiling dreams. He would know well how to console the forsaken one;
he, the god Bacchus himself.

Then she came. She walked out of the grotto with a beaming smile.
Her eyes sought Theseus, they wandered farther away to the
anchoring-place of the ship, to the sea--to the black sails.

And then with a piercing scream, without consideration, without
hesitation, down into the waves, down to death and oblivion.

And there sat the god Bacchus, the consoler.

So it was. Thus had it actually happened. Uncle Theodore remembers
that Noesselt adds in a few words that sympathetic poets affirm that
Ariadne let herself be consoled by Bacchus. But the sympathizers
were certainly wrong. Ariadne would not be consoled.

Good God, because she is good and sweet, so that he must love her,
shall she for that reason be made unhappy!

As a reward for the sweet little smiles she had given him; because
her soft little hand had lain so trustingly in his; because she had
not been angry when he jested, shall she lose her betrothed and be
made unhappy?

For which of all her misdemeanors shall she be condemned? Because
she has shown him a room in his innermost soul, which seems to have
stood fine and clean and unoccupied all these years awaiting just
such a tender and motherly little woman; or because she has already
such power over him that he hardly dares to swear lest she hear it;
or for what shall she be condemned?

Oh, poor Bacchus, poor Uncle Theodore! It is not easy to have to do
with such delicate, light bits of down.--They leap into the sea
when they see the black sails.

Uncle Theodore swears softly because Downie has not black hair, red
cheeks, coarse limbs.

Then another flake falls and it begins to speak: "It is I who would
have followed you all your days. I would have whispered a warning
in your ear at the card-table. I would have moved away the
wineglass. You would have borne it from me." "I would," he
whispers, "I would."

Another comes and speaks too: "It is I who would have reigned over
your big house and made it cheery and warm. It is I who would have
followed you through the desert of old age. I would have lighted
your fire, have been your eyes and your staff. Should I have been
fit for that?" "Sweet little Downie," he answers, "you would."

Again a flake comes and says: "I am so to be pitied. To-morrow my
betrothed is leaving me without even saying farewell. To-morrow I
shall weep, weep all day long, for I shall feel the shame of not
being good enough for Maurits. And when I come home--I do not
know how I shall be able to come home; how I can cross my father's
threshold after this. The whole street will be full of whispering
and gossip when I show myself. Every one will wonder what evil
thing I have done, to be so badly treated. Is it my fault that you
love me?" He answers with a sob in his throat: "Do not speak so,
little Downie! It is too soon to speak so."

He wanders there the whole night and towards midnight comes a
little darkness. He is in great trouble; the heavy, sultry air
seems to be still in terror of some crime which is to be committed
in the morning.

He tries to calm the night by saying aloud: "I shall not do it."

Then the most wonderful thing happens. The night is seized with a
trembling dread. It is no longer the little flakes which are
falling, but round about him rustle great and small wings. He hears
something flying but does not know whither.

They rush by him; they graze his cheek; they touch his clothes and
hands; and he understands what it is. The leaves are falling from
the trees; the flowers flee from their stalks; the wings fly away
from the butterflies; the song forsakes the birds.

And he understands that when the sun rises his garden will be a
waste. Empty, cold, and silent winter shall reign there; no play of
butterflies; no song of birds.

He remains until the light comes again, and he is almost astonished
when he sees the thick masses of leaves on the trees. "What is it,
then," he says, "which is laid waste if it was not the garden? Not
even a blade of grass is missing. It is I who must live in winter
and cold hereafter, not the garden. It is as if the mainspring of
life were gone. Ah, you old fool, this will pass like everything
else. It is too much ado about a little girl."


IV

How very improperly "it" behaved the morning they were to leave!
During the two days after the ball "it" had been rather something
inspiring, something exciting; but now when Downie is to leave,
when "it" realizes that the end has come, that "it" will never play
any part in her life, then it changes to a death thrust, to a
deathly coldness.

She feels as if she were dragging a body of stone down the stairs
to the breakfast-room. She stretches out a heavy, cold hand of
stone when she says good-morning; she speaks with a slow tongue of
stone; smiles with hard stone lips. It is a labor, a labor.

But who can help being glad when everything is arranged according
to old-fashioned faith and honor.

Uncle Theodore turns to Downie at breakfast and explains with a
strangely harsh voice that he has decided to give Maurits the
position of manager at Laxohyttan; but as the aforesaid young man,
continued Uncle, with a strained attempt to return to his usual
manner, is not much at home in practical occupations, he may not
enter upon the position until he has a wife at his side. Has she,
Miss Downie, tended her myrtle so well that she can have a crown
and wreath in September?

She feels how he is looking into her face. She knows that he wishes
to have a glance as thanks, but she does not look up.

Maurits leaps up. He embraces Uncle and makes a great deal of
noise. "But, Anne-Marie, why do you not thank Uncle? You must kiss
Uncle Theodore, Anne-Marie. Laxohyttan is the most beautiful place
in the world. Come now, Anne-Marie!"

She raises her eyes. There are tears in them, and through the tears
a glance full of despair and reproach falls on Maurits. She cannot
understand; he insists upon going with an uncovered light into the
powder magazine. Then she turns to Uncle Theodore; but not with the
shy, childish manner she had before, but with a certain nobleness,
with something of the martyr, of an imprisoned queen.

"You are much too good to us," she says only.

Thus is everything accomplished according to the demands of honor.
There is not another word to be said in the matter. He has not
robbed her of her faith in him whom she loves. She has not betrayed
herself. She is faithful to him who has made her his betrothed,
although she is only a poor girl from a little bakery in a back
street.

And now the chaise can be brought up, the trunks be corded, the
luncheon-basket filled.

Uncle Theodore leaves the table. He goes and places himself by a
window. Ever since she has turned to him with that tearful glance
he is out of his senses. He is quite mad, ready to throw himself
upon her, press her to his breast and call to Maurits to come and
tear her away if he can.

His hands are in his pockets. Through the clenched fists cramp-like
convulsions are passing.

Can he allow her to put on her hat, to say goodbye to the old lady?

There he stands again on the cliff of Naxos and wishes to steal the
beloved for himself. Nor, not steal! Why not honorably and manfully
step forward and say: "I am your rival, Maurits. Your betrothed
must choose between us. You are not married; there is no sin in
trying to win her from you. Look well after her. I mean to use
every expedient."

Then he would be warned, and she would know what alternative lay
before her.

His knuckles cracked when he clenched his fists again. How Maurits
would laugh at his old uncle when he stepped forward and explained
that! And what would be the good of it? Would he frighten her, so
that he would not even be allowed to help them in the future?

But how will it go now when she approaches to say good-bye to him?
He almost screams to her to take care, to keep three paces away
from him.

He remains at the window and turns his back on them all, while they
are busy with their wraps and their luncheon-basket. Will they
never be ready to go? He has already lived it through a thousand
times. He has taken her hand, kissed her, helped her into the
chaise. He has done it so many times that he believes she is
already gone.

He has also wished her happiness. Happiness--Can she be happy with
Maurits? She has not looked happy this morning. Oh yes, certainly
she has. She wept with joy.

While he is standing there Maurits suddenly says to Anne-Marie:
"What a dunce I am! I am quite forgetting to speak to Uncle about
father's shares."

"I think it would be best if you did not," Downie answers. "Perhaps
it is not right."

"Nonsense, Anne-Marie. The shares do not pay anything just now. But
who knows if they will not be better some day? And besides, what
does it matter to Uncle? Such a little thing--"

She interrupts with unusual eagerness, almost anxiously. "I beg of
you, Maurits, do not do it. Give in to me this once."

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