Book: Invisible Links

S >> Selma Lagerlof >> Invisible Links




He was really there again, the old, mad Petter Nord. As soon as he
approached the village the Spirit of Fasting went away from him
with disgust and contempt.

Halfvorson could not keep still for a moment. The heavy gale, which
he alone perceived, swept him forward and back on the deck. As he
passed Petter, he murmured a few words, so that the latter could
know by what paths his despairing thoughts wandered.

"They found her on the ground, half dead--blood everywhere about
her," he said once. And another time: "Was she not good? Was she
not beautiful? How could such things come to her?" And again: "She
has made me good too. Could not see her sitting in sorrow all day
long and ruining the account-book with her tears." Then this came:
"A clever child, besides. Won her way with me. Made my home
pleasant. Got me acquaintances among fine people. Understood what
she was after, but could not resist her." He wandered away to the
bow of the boat. When he came back he said: "I cannot bear to have
her die."

He said it all with that helpless voice, which he could not subdue
or control. Petter Nord had a proud feeling that such a man as he
who wore a royal crown on his brow had no right to be angry with
Halfvorson. The latter was separated from men by his infirmity, and
could not win their love. Therefore he had to treat them all as
enemies. He was not to be measured by the same standard as other
people.

Petter Nord sank again into his dreams. _She_ had remembered him
all these years, and now she could not die before she had seen him.
Oh, fancy that a young girl for all these years had been thinking
of him, loving him, missing him!

As soon as they landed and reached the tradesman's house, he was
taken to Edith, who was waiting for him in the arbor.

The happy Petter Nord woke from his dreams when he saw her. She was
a fair vision, this girl, withering away in emulation with the
rootless birches around her. Her big eyes had darkened and grown
clearer. Her hands were so thin and transparent that one feared to
touch them for their fragility.

And it was she who loved him. Of course he had to love her
instantly in return, deeply, dearly, ardently! It was bliss, after
so many years, to feel his heart glow at the sight of a fellow-being.

He had stopped motionless at the entrance of the arbor, while eyes,
heart and brain worked most eagerly. When she saw how he stood and
stared at her, she began to smile with that most despairing smile
in the world, the smile of the very ill, that says: "See, this is
what I have become, but do not count on me! I cannot be beautiful
and charming any longer. I must die soon."

It brought him back to reality. He saw that he had to do not with a
vision, but with a spirit which was about to spread its wings, and
therefore had made the walls of its prison so delicate and
transparent. It now showed so plainly in his face and in the way he
took Edith's hand, that he all at once suffered with her suffering,--
that he had forgotten everything but grief, that she was going to
die. The sick girl felt the same pity for herself, and her eyes
filled with tears.

Oh, what sympathy he felt for her from the first moment. He
understood instantly that she would not wish to show her emotion.
Of course it was agitating for her to see him, whom she had longed
for so long, but it was her weakness that had made her betray
herself. She naturally would not like him to pay any attention to
it. And so he began on an innocent subject of conversation.

"Do you know what happened to my white mice?" he said.

She looked at him with admiration. He seemed to wish to make the
way easier for her. "I let them loose in the shop," she said. "They
have thriven well."

"No, really! Are there any of them left?"

"Halfvorson says that he will never be rid of Petter Nord's mice.
They have revenged you, you understand," she said with meaning.

"It was a very good race," answered Petter Nord, proudly.

The conversation lagged for a while. Edith closed her eyes, as if
to rest, and he kept a respectful silence. His last answer she had
not understood. He had not responded to what she had said about
revenge. When he began to talk of the mice, she believed that he
understood what she wished to say to him. She knew that he had come
to the town a few weeks before to be revenged. Poor Petter Nord!
Many a time she had wondered what had become of him. Many a night
had the cries of the frightened boy come to her in dreams. It was
partly for his sake that she should never again have to live
through such a night, that she had begun to reform her uncle, had
made his house a home for him, had let the lonely man feel the
value of having a sympathetic friend near him. Her lot was now
again bound together with that of Petter Nord. His attempt at
revenge had frightened her to death. As soon as she had regained
her strength after that severe attack, she had begged Halfvorson to
look him up.

And Petter Nord sat there and believed that it was for love she had
called him. He could not know that she believed him vindictive,
coarse, degraded, a drunkard and a bully. He who was an example to
all his comrades in the working quarter, he could not guess that
she had summoned him, in order to preach virtue and good habits to
him, in order to say to him, if nothing else helped: "Look at me,
Petter Nord! It is your want of judgment, your vindictiveness, that
is the cause of my death. Think of it, and begin another life!"

He had come filled with love of life and dreams to celebrate love's
festival, and she lay there and thought of plunging him into the
black depths of remorse.

There must have been something of the glory of the kingly crown
shining on her, which made her hesitate so that she decided to
question him first.

"But, Petter Nord, was it really you who were here with those three
terrible men?"

He flushed and looked on the ground. Then he had to tell her the
whole story of the day with all its shame. In the first place, what
unmanliness he had shown in not sooner demanding justice, and how
he had only gone because he was forced to it, and then how he had
been beaten and whipped instead of beating some one himself. He did
not dare to look up while he was speaking; he did expect that even
those gentle eyes would judge him with forbearance. He felt that he
was robbing himself of all the glory with which she must have
surrounded him in her dreams.

"But Petter Nord, what would have happened if you had met
Halfvorson?" asked Edith, when he had finished.

He hung his head even lower. "I saw him well enough," he said. "He
had not gone away. He was working in his garden outside the gates.
The boy in the shop told me everything."

"Well, why did you not avenge yourself?" said Edith.

He was spared nothing.--But he felt the inquiring glance of her
eyes on him and he began obediently: "When the men lay down to
sleep on a slope, I went alone to find Halfvorson, for I wished to
have him to myself. He was working there, staking his peas. It must
have rained in torrents the day before, for the peas had been
broken down to the ground; some of the leaves were whipped to
ribbons, others covered with earth. It was like a hospital, and
Halfvorson was the doctor. He raised them up so gently, brushed
away the earth and helped the poor little things to cling to the
twigs. I stood and looked on. He did not hear me, and he had no
time to look up. I tried to retain my anger by force. But what
could I do? I could not fly at him while he was busy with the peas.
My time will come afterwards, I thought.

"But then he started up, struck himself on the forehead and rushed
away to the hotbed. He lifted the glass and looked in, and I looked
too, for he seemed to be in the depths of despair. Yes, it was
dreadful, of course. He had forgotten to shade it from the sun, and
it must have been terribly hot under the glass. The cucumbers lay
there half-dead and gasped for breath; some of the leaves were
burnt, and others were drooping. I was so overcome, I too, that I
never thought what I was doing, and Halfvorson caught sight of my
shadow. 'Look here, take the watering-pot that is standing in the
asparagus bed and run down to the river for water,' he said,
without looking up. I suppose he thought it was the gardener's boy.
And I ran."

"Did you, Petter Nord?"

"Yes; you see, the cucumbers ought not to suffer on account of our
enmity. I thought myself that it showed lack of character and so
on, but I could not help it. I wanted to see if they would come to
life. When I came back, he had lifted the glass off and still stood
and stared despairingly. I thrust the watering-pot into his hand,
and he began to pour over them. Yes, it was almost visible what
good it did in the hotbed. I thought almost that they raised
themselves, and he must have thought so too, for he began to laugh.
Then I ran away."

"You ran away, Petter Nord, you ran away?"

Edith had raised herself in the arm-chair.

"I could not strike him," said Petter Nord.

Edith felt an ever stronger impression of the glory round poor
Petter Nord's head. So it was not necessary to plunge him into the
depths of remorse with the heavy burden of sin around his neck. Was
he such a man? Such a tender-hearted, sensitive man! She sank back,
closed her eyes and thought. She did not need to say it to him. She
was astonished that she felt such a relief not to have to cause him
pain.

"I am so glad that you have given up your plans for revenge, Petter
Nord," she began in friendly tones. "It was about that that I
wished to talk to you. Now I can die in peace."

He drew along breath. She was not unfriendly.

She did not look as if she had been mistaken in him. She must love
him very much when she could excuse such cowardice.--For when she
said that she had sent for him to ask him to give up his thoughts
of revenge, it must have been from bashfulness not to have to
acknowledge the real reason of the summons. She was so right in it.
He who was the man ought to say the first word.

"How can they let you die?" he burst out.

"Halfvorson and all the others, how can they? If I were here, I
would refuse to let you die. I would give you all my strength. I
would take all your suffering."

"I have no pain," she said, smiling at such bold promises.

"I am thinking that I would like to carry you away like a frozen
bird, lay you under my vest like a young squirrel. Fancy what it
would be to work if something so warm and soft was waiting for one
at home! But if you were well, there would be so many--"

She looked at him with weary surprise, prepared to put him back in
his proper place. But she must have seen again something of the
magic crown about the boy's head, for she had patience with him. He
meant nothing. He had to talk as he did. He was not like others.

"Ah," she said, indifferently, "there are not so many, Petter Nord.
There has hardly been any one in earnest."

But now there came another turn to his advantage. In her suddenly
awoke the eager hunger of a sick person for compassion. She longed
for the tenderness, the pity that the poor workman could give her.
She felt the need of being near that deep, disinterested sympathy.
The sick cannot have enough of it. She wished to read it in his
glance and his whole being. Words meant nothing to her.

"I like to see you here," she said. "Sit here for a while, and tell
me what you have been doing these six years!"

While he talked, she lay and drew in the indescribable something
which passed between them. She heard and yet she did not hear. But
by some strange sympathy she felt herself strengthened and
vivified.

Nevertheless she did get one impression from his story. It took her
into the workman's quarter, into a new world, full of tumultuous
hopes and strength. How they longed and trusted! How they hated and
suffered!

"How happy the oppressed are," she said.

It occurred to her, with a longing for life, that there might be
something for her there, she who always needed oppression and
compulsion to make life worth living.

"If I were well," she said, "perhaps I would have gone there with
you. I should enjoy working my way up with some one I liked."

Petter Nord started. Here was the confession that he had been
waiting for the whole time. "Oh, can you not live!" he prayed.
And he beamed with happiness.

She became observant. "That is love," she said to herself. "And now
he believes that I am also in love. What madness, that Vaermland boy!"

She wished to bring him back to reason, but there was something in
Petter Nord on that day of victory that restrained her. She had not
the heart to spoil his happy mood. She felt compassion for his
foolishness and let him live in it. "It does not matter, as I am to
die so soon," she said to herself.

But she sent him away soon after, and when he asked if he might not
come again, she forbade him absolutely. "But," she said, "do you
remember our graveyard up on the hill, Petter Nord. You can come
there in a few weeks and thank death for that day."

As Petter Nord came out of the garden, he met Halfvorson. He was
walking forward and back in despair, and his only consolation was
the thought that Edith was laying the burden of remorse on the
wrong-doer. To see him overpowered by pangs of conscience, for that
alone had he sought him out. But when he met the young workman, he
saw that Edith had not told him everything. He was serious, but at
the same time he certainly was madly happy.

"Has Edith told you why she is dying?" said Halfvorson.

"No," answered Petter Nord.

Halfvorson laid his hand on his shoulder as if to keep him from
escaping.

"She is dying because of you, because of your damned pranks. She
was slightly ill before, but it was nothing. No one thought that
she would die; but then you came with those three wretched tramps,
and they frightened her while you were in my shop. They chased her,
and she ran away from them, ran till she got a hemorrhage. But that
is what you wanted; you wished to be revenged on me by killing her,
wished to leave me lonely and unhappy without a soul near me who
cares for me. All my joy you wished to take from me, all my joy."

He would have gone on forever, overwhelmed Petter Nord with
reproaches, killed him with curses; but the latter tore himself
away and ran, as if an earthquake had shaken the town and all the
houses were tumbling down.


IV

Behind the town the mountain walls rise perpendicularly, but after
one has climbed up them by steep stone steps and slippery pine
paths, one finds that the mountain spreads out into a wide,
undulating plateau. And there lies an enchanted wood.

Over the whole stretch of the mountain stands a pine wood without
pine-needles; a wood which dies in the spring and grows green in
the autumn; a lifeless wood, which blossoms with the joy of life
when other trees are laying aside their green garments; a wood that
grows without any one knowing how, that stands green in winter
frosts and brown in summer dews.

It is a newly-planted wood. Young firs have been forced to take
root in the clefts between the granite blocks. Their tough roots
have bored down like sharp wedges into the fissures and crevices.
It was very well for a while; the young trees shot up like spires,
and the roots bored down into the granite. But at last they could
go no further, and then the wood was filled with an ill-concealed
peevishness. It wished to go high, but also deep. After the way
down had been closed to it, it felt that life was not worth living.
Every spring it was ready to throw off the burden of life in its
discouragement. During the summer when Edith was dying, the young
wood was quite brown. High above the town of flowers stood a gloomy
row of dying trees.

But up on the mountain it is not all gloom and the agony of death.
As one walks between the brown trees, in such distress that one is
ready to die, one catches glimpses of green trees. The perfume of
flowers fills the air; the song of birds exults and calls. Then
thoughts rise of the sleeping forest and of the paradise of the
fairy-tale, encircled by thorny thickets. And when one comes at
last to the green, to the flower fragrance, to the song of the
birds, one sees that it is the hidden graveyard of the little town.

The home of the dead lies in an earth-filled hollow in the mountain
plateau. And there, within the grey stone walls, the knowledge and
weariness of life end. Lilacs stand at the entrance, bending under
heavy clusters. Lindens and beeches spread a lofty arch of
luxuriant growth over the whole place. Jasmines and roses blossom
freely in that consecrated earth. Over the big old tombstones creep
vines of ivy and periwinkle.

There is a corner where the pine-trees grow mast-high. Does it not
seem as if the young wood outside ought to be ashamed at the sight
of them? And there are hedges there, quite grown beyond their
keeper's hands, blooming and sending forth shoots without thought
of shears or knife.

The town now has a new burial-place, to which the dead can come
without special trouble. It was a weary way for them to be carried
up in winter, when the steep wood-paths are covered with ice, and
the steps slippery and covered with snow. The coffin creaked; the
bearers panted; the old clergyman leaned heavily on the sexton and
the grave-digger. Now no one has to be buried up there who does not
ask it.

The graves are not beautiful. There are few who know how to make
the resting-place of the dead attractive. But the fresh green sheds
its peace and beauty over them all. It is strangely solemn to know
that those who are buried are glad to lie there. The living who go
up after a day hot with work, go there as among friends. Those who
sleep have also loved the lofty trees and the stillness.

If a stranger comes up there, they do not tell him of death and
loss; they sit down on the big slabs of stone, on the broad
burgomaster tombs, and tell him about Petter Nord, the Vaermland
boy, and of his love. The story seems fitting to be told up here,
where death has lost its terrors. The consecrated earth seems to
rejoice at having also been the scene of awakened happiness and
new-born life.

For it happened that after Petter Nord ran away from Halfvorson, he
sought refuge in the graveyard.

At first he ran towards the bridge over the river and turned his
steps towards the big town. But on the bridge the unfortunate
fugitive stopped. The kingly crown on his brow was quite gone. It
had disappeared as if it had been spun of sunbeams. He was deeply
bent with sorrow; his whole body shook; his heart throbbed; his
brain burned like fire.

Then he thought he saw the Spirit of Fasting coming towards him for
the third time. She was much more friendly, much more compassionate
than before; but she seemed to him only so much the more terrible.

"Alas, unhappy one," she said, "surely this must be the last of
your pranks! You have wished to celebrate the festival of love
during that time of fasting which is called life; but you see what
happens to you. Come now and be faithful to me; you have tried
everything and have only me to whom to turn."

He waved his arm to keep her off. "I know what you wish of me. You
wish to lead me back to work and renunciation, but I cannot. Not
now, not now!"

The pallid Spirit of Fasting smiled ever more mildly. "You are
innocent, Petter Nord. Do not grieve so over what you have not
caused! Was not Edith kind to you? Did you not see that she had
forgiven you? Come with me to your work! Live, as you have lived!"

The boy cried more vehemently. "Is it any better for me, do you
think, that I have killed just her who has been kind to me, her,
who cares for me? Had it not been better if I had murdered some one
whom I wished to murder. I must make amends. I must save her life.
I cannot think of work now."

"Oh, you madman," said the Spirit of Fasting, "the festival of
reparation which you wish to celebrate is the greatest audacity
of all."

Then Petter Nord rebelled absolutely against his friend of many
years. He scoffed at her. "What have you made me believe?" he said.
"That you were a tiresome and peevish old woman with arms full of
small, harmless twigs. You are a sorceress of life. You are a
monster. You are beautiful, and you are terrible. You yourself know
no bounds nor limits; why should I know them? How can you preach
fasting, you, who wish to deluge me with such an overmeasure of
sorrow? What are the festivals I have celebrated compared to those
you are continually preparing for me! Begone with your pallid
moderation! Now I wish to be as mad as yourself."

Not one step could he take towards the big town. Neither could he
turn directly round and again go the length of the one street in
the village; he took the path up the mountain, climbed to the
enchanted pine-wood, and wandered about among the stiff, prickly
young trees, until a friendly path led him to the graveyard. There
he found a hiding-place in a corner where the pines grew high as
masts, and there he threw himself weary unto death on the ground.

He almost lost consciousness. He did not know if time passed or if
everything stood still. But after a while steps were heard, and he
woke to a feeble consciousness. He seemed to have been far, far
away. He saw a funeral procession draw near, and instantly a
confused thought rose in him. How long had he lain there? Was Edith
dead already? Was she looking for him here? Was the corpse in the
coffin hunting for its murderer? He shook and sweated. He lay well
hidden in the dark pine thicket; but he trembled for what might
happen if the corpse found him. He bent aside the branches and
looked out. A hunted deserter could not have spied more wildly
after his pursuers.

The funeral was that of a poor man. The attendance was small. The
coffin was lowered without wreaths into the grave. There was no
sign of tears on any of the faces. Petter Nord had still enough
sense to see that this could not be Edith Halfvorson's funeral
train.

But if this was not she, who knows if it was not a greeting from
her. Petter Nord felt that he had no right to escape. She had said
that he was to go up to the graveyard. She must have meant that he
was to wait for her there, so that she could find him to give him
his punishment. The funeral was a greeting, a token. She wished him
to wait for her there.

To his sick brain the low churchyard wall rose as high as a
rampart. He stared despairingly at the frail trellis-gate; it was
like the most solid door of oak. He was imprisoned. He could never
get away, until she herself came up and brought him his punishment.

What she was going to do with him he did not know. Only one thing
was distinct and clear; that he must wait here until she came for
him. Perhaps she would take him with her into the grave; perhaps
she would command him to throw himself from the mountain. He could
not know--he must wait for a while yet.

Reason fought a despairing struggle: "You are innocent, Petter
Nord. Do not grieve over what you have not caused! She has not sent
you any messages. Go down to your work! Lift your foot and you are
over the wall; push with one finger and the gate is open."

No, he could not. Most of the time he was in a stupor, a trance.
His thoughts were indistinct, as when on the point of falling
asleep. He only knew one thing, that he must stay where he was.

The news came to her lying and fading in emulation with the
rootless birches. "Petter Nord, with whom you played one summer
day, is in the graveyard waiting for you. Petter Nord, whom your
uncle has frightened out of his senses, cannot leave the graveyard
until your flower-decked coffin comes to fetch him."

The girl opened her eyes as if to look at the world once more. She
sent a message to Petter Nord. She was angry at his mad pranks. Why
could she not die in peace? She had never wished that he should
have any pangs of conscience for her sake.

The bearer of the message came back without Petter Nord. He could
not come. The wall was too high and the gate too strong. There was
only one who could free him.

During those days they thought of nothing else in the little town.
"He is there; he is there still," they told one another every day.
"Is he mad?" they asked most often, and some who had talked with
him answered that he certainly would be when "she" came. But they
were exceedingly proud of that martyr to love who gave a glory to
the town. The poor took him food. The rich stole up on the mountain
to catch a glimpse of him.

But Edith, who could not move, who lay helpless and dying, she who
had so much time to think, with what was she occupying herself?
What thoughts revolved in her brain day and night? Oh, Petter Nord,
Petter Nord! Must she always see before her the man who loved her,
who was losing his mind for her sake, who really, actually was in
the graveyard waiting for her coffin.

See, that was something for the steel-spring in her nature. That
was something for her imagination, something for her benumbed
senses. To think what he meant to do when she should come! To
imagine what he would do if she should not come there as a corpse!

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