Book: Invisible Links

S >> Selma Lagerlof >> Invisible Links




Reor went on, but now the honey-sweet fragrance seemed to follow
him wherever he went. And he felt that in the wood was hidden a
longing, stronger than that of the flowers, that something there
drew him to itself, just as the flowers lured the butterflies. He
went forward with a quiet joy in his heart, as if he was expecting
a great, unknown happiness. His only fear was lest he should not be
able to find the way to that which longed for him.

In front of him, on the narrow path, crawled a white snake. He bent
down to pick up the luck-bringing animal, but the snake glided out
of his hands and up the path. There it coiled itself and lay still;
but when the huntsman again tried to catch it, glided slippery as
ice between his fingers.

Reor now grew eager to possess the wisest of beasts. He ran after
the snake, but was not able to reach it, and the latter lured him
away from the path into the trackless forest.

It was overgrown with pines, and in such places one seldom finds
grassy ground. But now the dry moss and brown pine-needles suddenly
disappeared, the stiff cranberry bushes vanished, and Reor felt
under foot velvet like turf. Over the green carpet trembled flower
clusters, light as down, on bending stems, and between the long,
narrow leaves could he seen the half-opened blossoms of the red
gillyflower. It was only a little spot, and over it spread the
gnarled, red-brown branches of the lofty pines, with bunches of
close-growing needles. Through these the sun's rays could find many
paths to the ground, and there was suffocating heat.

In the midst of the little meadow a cliff rose perpendicularly out
of the ground. It lay in sharp sunshine, and the mossy stones were
plainly visible, and in the fresh fractures, where the winter's
frost had last loosened some mighty blocks, the long stalks of
ferns clung with their brown roots in the earth-filled cracks, and
on the inch-wide projections a grass-green moss lifted on needle-like
stems the little, grey caps, which concealed its spores.

The cliff seemed in all ways like every other cliff, but Reor
noticed instantly that he had come upon the gable-wall of a giant's
house, and he discovered under moss and lichen the great hinges on
which the mountain's granite door swung.

He now believed that the snake had crept in, in the grass to hide
there, until it could come in among the rocks unnoticed, and he
gave up all hope of catching it. He perceived now again the
honey-sweet fragrance of the longing flowers and noticed that here
under the cliff the heat was suffocating. It was also marvellously
quiet; not a bird moved, not a leaf played in the wind; it was as
if everything held its breath, waiting and listening in unspeakable
tension. It was as if he had come into a room where he was not
alone, although he saw no one. He thought that some one was
watching him, he felt as if he had been expected. He knew no alarm,
but was thrilled by a pleasant shiver, as if he were soon to see
something above-the-common beautiful.

In that moment he again became aware of the snake. It had not
hidden itself, it had instead crawled up on one of the blocks which
the frost had broken from the cliff. And just below the white snake
he saw the bright body of a girl, who lay asleep in the soft grass.
She lay without any other covering than a light, web-like veil,
just as if she had thrown herself down there after having taken
part the whole night in some elfin dance; but the long blades of
grass and the trembling flower-clusters stood high over the
sleeper, so that Reor could scarcely catch a glimpse of the soft
lines of her body. Nor did he go nearer in order to see better. He
drew his good knife from its sheath and threw it between the girl
and the cliff, so that the steel-shy daughter of the giants should
not be able to flee into the mountain when she awoke.


Then he stood still in deep thought. One thing he knew, that he
wished to possess the maiden who lay there; but as yet he had not
quite made up his mind how he would behave towards her.

He, who knew the language of nature better than that of man,
listened to the great, solemn forest and the stern mountain. "See,"
they said, "to you, who love the wilderness, we give our fair
daughter. She will suit you better than the daughters of the plain.
Reor, are you worthy of this most precious of gifts?"

Then he thanked in his heart the great, kind Nature and decided to
make the maiden his wife and not merely a slave. He thought that
since she had come to Christendom and human ways, she would be
confused at the thought that she had lain so uncovered, so he
loosened the bearskin from his back, unfolded the stiff hide, and
threw the old bear's shaggy, grizzled pelt over her.

And as he did so a laugh, which made the ground shake, thundered
behind the cliff. It did not sound like derision, but as if some
one had sat in great fear and could not help laughing, when
suddenly relieved of it. The terrible silence and oppressive heat
were also at an end. Over the grass floated a cooling wind, and the
pine-branches began their murmuring song. The happy huntsman felt
that the whole forest had held its breath, wondering how the
daughter of the wilderness would be treated by the son of man.

The snake now glided down into the high grass; but the sleeper lay
bound in a magic sleep and did not move. Then Reor wrapped her in
the coarse bear-skin, so that only her head showed above the shaggy
fur. Although she certainly was a daughter of the old giant of the
mountain, she was slender and delicately made, and the strong
hunter lifted her on his arm and carried her away through the forest.

After a while he felt that some one lifted his broad-brimmed hat.
He looked up and found that the giant's daughter was awake. She sat
quiet on his arm, but she wished to see what the man looked like
who was carrying her. He let her do as she pleased. He went on with
longer strides, but said nothing.

Then she must have noticed how hot the sun burned on his head,
since she had taken off his hat. She held it out over his head like
a parasol, but she did not put it back, rather held it so, that she
could still look down into his face. Then it seemed to him that he
did not need to ask or to speak. He carried her silently down to
his mother's hut. But his whole being was filled with happiness,
and when he stood on the threshold of his home, he saw the white
snake, which gives good fortune, glide in under its foundation.



VALDEMAR ATTERDAG

The spring that Hellqvist's great picture "Valdemar Atterdag levies
a Contribution on Visby" was exhibited at the Art League, I went in
there one quiet morning not knowing that that work of art was
there. The big, richly colored canvas with its many figures made at
the first glance an extraordinary impression. I could not look at
any other picture, but went straight to that one, took a chair and
sank into silent contemplation. For half an hour I lived in the
Middle Ages.

Soon I was within the scene that was passing in the Visby market-place.
I saw the beer vats which began to be filled with the golden brew
that King Valdemar had ordered, and the groups which gathered
around them. I saw the rich merchant with his page bending under
his gold and silver dishes; the young burgher who shakes his fist
at the king; the monk with the sharp face who closely watches His
Majesty; the ragged beggar who offers his copper; the woman who has
sunk down beside one of the vats; the king on his throne; the
soldiers who some swarming out of the narrow streets; the high
gables, and the scattered groups of insolent guards and refractory
people.

But suddenly I noticed that the chief figure of the picture is not
the king, nor any of the burghers, but one of the king's steel-clad
shield-bearers, the one with the closed vizor.

Into that figure the artist has put a strange force. There is not a
hair of him to be seen; he is steel and iron, the whole man, and
yet he gives the impression of being the rightful master of the
situation.

"I am Violence; I am Rapacity," he says. "It is I who am levying
contribution on Visby. I am not a human being; I am merely steel
and iron. My pleasure is in suffering and evil. Let them go on and
torture one another. To-day it is I who am lord of Visby."

"Look," he says to the beholder, "can you see that it is I who am
master? As far as your eye can reach, there is nothing here but
people who are torturing one another. Groaning the conquered come
and leave their gold. They hate and threaten, but they obey. And
the desires of the victors grow wilder the more gold they can
extort. What are Denmark's king and his soldiers but my servants,
at least for this one day? To-morrow they will go to church, or sit
in peaceful mirth in their inns, or also perhaps be good fathers in
their own homes, but to-day they serve me; to-day they are evil-doers
and ravishers."

The longer one listens to him, the better one understands what the
picture is; nothing but an illustration of the old story of how
people can torture one another. There is not one redeeming feature,
only cruel violence and defiant hate and hopeless suffering.

Those three beer vats were to be filled that Visby should not be
plundered and burned. Why do they not come, those Hanseaters, with
glowing enthusiasm? Why do the women not hasten with their jewels;
the revellers with their cups, the priest with his relics, eager,
burning with enthusiasm for the sacrifice? "For thee, for thee, our
beloved town! It is needless to send soldiers for us when it
concerns thee! Oh, Visby, our mother, our honor! Take back what
thou hast given us!"

But the painter has not wished to see them so, and it was not so
either. No enthusiasm, only constraint, only suppressed defiance,
only bewailings. Gold is everything to them, women and men sigh
over that gold which they have to give.

"Look at them!" says the power that stands on the steps of the
throne. "It goes to their very hearts to offer it. May he who will
feel sympathy for them! They are mean, avaricious, arrogant. They
are no better than the covetous brigand whom I have sent against
them."

A woman has sunk down on the ground by the vats. Does it cost her
so much pain to give her gold? Or is she perhaps the guilty one? Is
she the cause of the laments? Is it she who has betrayed the town?
Yes, it is she who has been King Valdemar's mistress. It is
Ung-Hanse's daughter.

She knows well that she need give no gold. Her father's house will
not be plundered, but she has collected what she possesses and
brings it. In the market-place she has been overcome by all the
misery she has seen and has sunk down in infinite despair.

He had been active and merry, the young goldsmith's apprentice who
served the year before in her father's house. It had been glorious
to stroll at his side through this same market-place, when the moon
rose from behind the gables and illumined the beauties of Visby.
She had been proud of him, proud of her father, proud of her town.
And now she is lying there, broken with grief. Innocent and yet
guilty! He who is sitting cold and cruel on the throne and who has
brought all this devastation on the town, is he the same as the one
who whispered sweet words to her? Was it to meet him that she
crept, when the night before she stole her father's keys and opened
the town-gate? And when she found her goldsmith's apprentice a
knight with sword in hand and a steel clad host behind him, what
did she think? Did she go mad at the sight of that stream of steel
surging in through the gate which she had opened? Too late to
bemoan, maiden! Why did you love the enemy of your town? Visby is
fallen, its glory shall pass away. Why did you not throw yourself
down before the gate and let the steel-shod heels trample you to
death? Did you wish to live in order to see heaven's thunder-bolts
strike the transgressor?

Oh maiden, at his side stands Violence and protects him. He has
violated holier things than a trusting maiden. He does not even
spare God's own temple. He breaks away the shining carbuncles from
the church walls to fill the last vat.

The bearing of all the figures in the picture changes. Blind terror
fills everything living. The wildest soldier grows pale; the
burghers turn their eyes towards heaven; all await God's
punishment; all tremble except Violence on the steps of the throne
and the king who is his servant.

I wish that the artist had lived long enough to take me down to the
harbor of Visby and let me see those same burghers, when they
followed the departing fleet with their eyes. They cry curses out
over the waves. "Destroy them!" they cry. "Destroy them! Oh sea,
our friend, take back our treasures! Open thy choking depths under
the ungodly, under the faithless!"

And the sea murmurs a faint assent, and Violence, who stands on the
royal ship, nods approvingly. "That is right," he says. "To
persecute and to be persecuted, that is my law. May storm and sea
destroy the pirate fleet and take to itself the treasures of my
royal servant! So much the sooner it will be our lot to set out on
new devastating expeditions."

The burghers on the shore turn and look up at their town. Fire has
raged there; plunder has passed through it; behind broken panes
gape pillaged dwellings. They see emptied streets, desecrated
churches; bloody corpses are lying in the narrow courts, and women
crazed by fright flee through the town. Shall they stand impotent
before such things? Is there no one whom their vengeance can reach,
no one whom they in their turn can torture and destroy?

God in Heaven, see! The goldsmith's house is not plundered nor
burned. What does it mean? Was he in league with the enemy? Had he
not the key to one of the town gates in his keeping? Oh, you
daughter of Ung-Hanse, answer, what does it mean?

Far away on the royal ship Violence stands and watches his royal
servant, smiling behind his vizor. "Listen to the storm, Sire,
listen to the storm! The gold that you have ravished will soon lie
on the bottom of the sea, inaccessible to you. And look back at
Visby, my noble lord! The woman whom you deceived is being led
between the clergy and the soldiers to the town-wall. Can you hear
the crowd following her, cursing, insulting? Look, the masons come
with mortar and trowel! Look, the women come with stones! They are
all bringing stones, all, all!

Oh king, if you cannot see what is passing in Visby, may you yet
hear and know what is happening there. You are not of steel and
iron, like Violence at your side. When the gloomy days of old age
come, and you live under the shadow of death, the image of
Ung-Hanse's daughter will rise in your memory.

You shall see her pale as death sink under the contempt and scorn
of her people. You shall see her dragged along between the priests
and the soldiers to the ringing of bells and the singing of hymns.
She is already dead in the eyes of the people. She feels herself
dead in her heart, killed by what she has loved. You shall see her
mount in the tower, see how the stones are inserted, hear the
scraping of the trowels and hear the people who hurry forward with
their stones. "Oh mason, take mine, take mine! Use my stone for the
work of vengeance! Let my stone help to shut Ung-Hanse's daughter
in from light and air! Visby is fallen, the glorious Visby! God
bless your hands, oh masons! Let me help to complete the vengeance!"

Hymns sound and bells ring as for a burial.

Oh Valdemar, King of Denmark, it will be your fate to meet death
also. Then you will lie on your bed, hear and see much and suffer
great pains. You shall hear that scraping of the trowels, those
cries for vengeance. Where are the consecrated bells that drown the
martyrdom of the soul? Where are they, with their wide, bronze
throats, whose tongues cry out to God for grace for you? Where is
that air trembling with harmony, which bears the soul up to God's
space?

Oh help Esrom, help Soro, and you big bells of Lund!

***

What a .gloomy story that picture told! It seemed curious and
strange to come out into the park, in glowing sunshine, among
living human beings.



MAMSELL FREDRIKA

It was Christmas night, a real Christmas night.

The goblins raised the mountain roofs on lofty gold pillars and
celebrated the midwinter festival. The brownies danced around the
Christmas porridge in new red caps. Old gods wandered about the
heavens in gray storm cloaks, and in the Oesterhaninge graveyard
stood the horse of Hel [Note: The goddess of death]. He pawed with
his hoof on the frozen ground; he was marking out the place for a
new grave.

Not very far away, at the old manor of Arsta, Mamsell Fredrika was
lying asleep. Arsta is, as every one knows, an old haunted castle,
but Mamsell Fredrika slept a calm, quiet sleep. She was old now and
tired out after many weary days of work and many long journeys,--
she had almost traveled round the world,--therefore she had
returned to the home of her childhood to find rest.

Outside the castle sounded in the night a bold fanfare. Death
mounted on a gray charger had ridden up to the castle gate. His
wide scarlet cloak and his hat's proud plumes fluttered in the
night wind. The stern knight sought to win an adoring heart,
therefore he appeared in unusual magnificence. It is of no avail,
Sir Knight, of no avail! The gate is closed, and the lady of your
heart asleep. You must seek a better occasion and a more suitable
hour. Watch for her when she goes to early mass, stern Sir Knight,
watch for her on the church-road!

***

Old Mamsell Fredrika sleeps quietly in her beloved home. No one
deserves more than she the sweetness of rest. Like a Christmas
angel she sat but now in a circle of children, and told them of
Jesus and the shepherds, told until her eyes shone, and her
withered face became transfigured. Now in her old age no one
noticed what Mamsell Fredrika looked like. Those who saw the
little, slender figure, the tiny, delicate hands and the kind,
clever face, instantly longed to be able to preserve that sight in
remembrance as the most beautiful of memories.

In Mamsell Fredrika's big room, among many relics and souvenirs,
there was a little, dry bush. It was a Jericho rose, brought back
by Mamsell Fredrika from the far East. Now in the Christmas night
it began to blossom quite of itself. The dry twigs were covered
with red buds, which shone like sparks of fire and lighted the
whole room.

By the light of the sparks one saw that a small and slender but
quite elderly lady sat in the big arm-chair and held her court. It
could not be Mamsell Fredrika herself, for she lay sleeping in
quiet repose, and yet it was she. She sat there and held a
reception for old memories; the room was full of them. People and
homes and subjects and thoughts and discussions came flying.
Memories of childhood and memories of youth, love and tears, homage
and bitter scorn, all came rushing towards the pale form that sat
and looked at everything with a friendly smile. She had words of
jest or of sympathy for them all.

At night everything takes its right size and shape. And just as
then for the first time the stars of heaven are visible, one also
sees much on earth that one never sees by day. Now in the light of
the red buds of the Jericho rose one could see a crowd of strange
figures in Mamsell Fredrika's drawing-room. The hard "ma chere
mere" was there, the goodnatured Beata Hvardagslag, people from the
East and the West, the enthusiastic Nina, the energetic, struggling
Hertha in her white dress.

"Can any one tell me why that person must always be dressed in
white?" jested the little figure in the arm-chair when she caught
sight of her.

All the memories spoke to the old woman and said: "You have seen
and experienced so much; you have worked and earned so much! Are
you not tired? will you not go to rest?"

"Not yet," answered the shadow in the yellow arm-chair. "I have
still a book to write. I cannot go to rest before it is finished."

Thereupon the figures vanished. The Jericho rose went out, and the
yellow arm-chair stood empty.

In the Oesterhaninge church the dead were celebrating midnight mass.
One of them climbed up to the bell-tower and rang in Christmas;
another went about and lighted the Christmas candles, and a third
began with bony fingers to play the organ. Through the open doors
others came swarming in out of the night and their graves to the
bright, glowing House of the Lord. Just as they had been in life
they came, only a little paler. They opened the pew doors with
rattling keys and chatted and whispered as they walked up the
aisle.

"They are the candles _she_ has given the poor that are now shining
in God's house."

"We lie warm in our graves as long as _she_ gives clothes and wood
to the poor."

"She has spoken so many noble words that have opened the hearts of
men; those words are the keys of our pews.

"She has thought beautiful thoughts of God's love. Those thoughts
raise us from our graves."

So they whispered and murmured before they sat down in the pews and
bent their pale foreheads in prayer in their shrunken hands.

***

At Arsta some one came into Mamsell Fredrika's room and laid her
hand gently on the sleeper's arm.

"Up, my Fredrika! It is time to go to the early mass."


Old Mamsell Fredrika opened her eyes and saw Agathe, her beloved
sister who was dead, standing by the bed with a candle in her hand.
She recognized her, for she looked just as she had done on earth.
Mamsell Fredrika was not afraid; she rejoiced only at seeing her
loved one, at whose side she longed to sleep the everlasting sleep.

She rose and dressed herself with all speed. There was no time for
conversation; the carriage stood before the door. The others must
have gone already, for no one but Mamsell Fredrika and her dead
sister were moving in the house.

"Do you remember, Fredrika," said the sister, as they sat in the
carriage and drove quickly to the church, "do you remember how you
always in the old days expected some knight to carry you off on the
road to church?"

"I am still expecting it," said old Mamsell Fredrika, and laughed.
"I never ride in this carriage without looking out for my knight."

Even though they hurried, they came too late. The priest stepped
down from the pulpit as they entered the church, and the closing
hymn began. Never had Mamsell Fredrika heard such a beautiful song.
It was as if both earth and heaven joined in, in the song; as if
every bench and stone and board had sung too.

She had never seen the church so crowded: on the communion table
and on the pulpit steps sat people; they stood in the aisles, they
thronged in the pews, and outside the whole road was packed with
people who could not enter. The sisters, however, found places; for
them the crowd moved aside.

"Fredrika," said her sister, "look at the people!"

And Mamsell Fredrika looked and looked.

Then she perceived that she, like the woman in the saga, had come
to a mass of the dead. She felt a cold shiver pass down her back,
but it happened, as often before, she felt more curious than
frightened.

She saw now who were in the church. There were none but women
there: grey, bent forms, with circular capes and faded mantillas,
with hats of faded splendor and turned or threadbare dresses. She
saw an unheard-of number of wrinkled faces, sunken mouths, dim eyes
and shrivelled hands, but not a single hand which wore a plain gold
ring.

Yes, Mamsell Fredrika understood it now. It was all the old maids
who had passed away in the land of Sweden who were keeping midnight
mass in the Oesterhaninge church.

Her dead sister leaned towards her.

"Sister, do you repent of what you have done for these your sisters?"

"No," said Mamsell Fredrika. "What have I to be glad for if not
that it has been bestowed upon me to work for them? I once
sacrificed my position as an authoress to them. I am glad that I
knew what I sacrificed and yet did it."

"Then you may stay and hear more," said the sister.

At the same moment some one was heard to speak far away in the
choir, a mild but distinct voice.

"My sisters," said the voice, "our pitiable race, our ignorant and
despised race will soon exist no more. God has willed that we shall
die out from the earth.

"Dear friends, we shall soon be only a legend. The old Mamsells'
measure is full. Death rides about on the road to the church to
meet the last one of us. Before the next midnight mass she will be
dead, the last old Mamsell.

"Sisters, sisters! We are the lonely ones of the earth, the
neglected ones at the feast, the unappreciated workers in the
homes. We are met with scorn and indifference. Our way is weary and
our name is ridicule.

"But God has had mercy upon us.

"To _one_ of us He gave power and genius. To one of us He gave
never-failing goodness. To one of us He gave the glorious gift of
eloquence. She was everything we ought to have been. She threw
light on our dark fate. She was the servant of the homes, as we had
been, but she offered her gifts to a thousand homes. She was the
caretaker of the sick, as we had been, but she struggled with the
terrible epidemic of habits of former days. She told her stories to
thousands of children. She lead her poor friends in every land. She
gave from fuller hands than we and with a warmer spirit. In her
heart dwelt none of our bitterness, for she has loved it away. Her
glory has been that of a queen's. She has been offered the treasures
of gratitude by millions of hearts. Her word has weighed heavily
in the great questions of mankind. Her name has sounded through the
new and the old world. And yet she is only an old Mamsell.

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