Book: The Emperor of Portugalia

S >> Selma Lagerlof >> The Emperor of Portugalia




He harked back to Lars Gunnarson several times, relating in part
what had occurred at the catechetical meeting, and he even dragged
in all the gossip that had been circulated about Lars in the
Ashdales since Eric's death.

The son granted that Lars might not be altogether blameless; if he
had now begun drinking it was a bad sign.

"I'm curious to see how he'll get through this day," said Ol'
Bengtsa.

Just then the son felt a nibble, and did not have to answer. There
was nothing in this whole story that had any bearing upon the
common interests of himself and his father, yet he could not but
feel there was some hidden intent back of the old man's words.

"I hope he'll drive over to the parsonage this evening," pursued
Ol' Bengtsa. "There is forgiveness of sins for him who will seek
it."

A long silence ensued. The son was too busy baiting his hook to
think of replying. Besides, this was not anything which called for
a response. Presently there came from the old man such a heavy sigh
that he had to look over toward him.

"Father! Can't you see you've got a nibble? I believe you are
letting the perch jerk the rod away from you."

The old man quickly pulled up his line and released the fish from
the hook. His fingers seemed to be all thumbs and the perch slipped
from his hands back into the water.

"It isn't meant that I shall catch any fish to-day, however much I
may want to."

Yes, there was certainly something he wished the son to say--to
Confess--but surely he did not expect him to liken himself to one
who was suspected of having caused the death of his father-in-law?

Ol' Bengtsa did not bait his hook again. He stood upon a stone,
with his hands folded--his half-dead eyes fixed on the smooth water.

"Yes--there is pardon for all," he said musingly, "for all who let
their old parents lie waiting and freezing in icy chilliness--
pardon even to this day. But afterward it will be too late!"

Surely this could never have been said for the son's benefit. The
father was no doubt thinking aloud, as is the habit of old people.

Anyhow, the son thought he would try to make the old man talk about
something else. So he said:

"How is the man who went crazy last year getting on?"

"Oh, you mean Jan of Ruffluck! Well, he has been in his right mind
since last fall. He'll not be at the party, either. He's only a
poor crofter like myself; so him you'll not miss, of course."

This was true enough. However, the son was so glad of an excuse to
speak of some one other than Lars Gunnarson, that he asked with
genuine concern what was wrong with Jan of Ruffluck.

"Oh, he's just sick from pining for a daughter who went away about
two years ago, and who never writes to him."

"The girl who went wrong?"

"So you knew about it, eh? But it isn't because of that he's
grieving himself to death. It is the awful hardness and lack of
love that he can't bear up under."

This forced colloquy was becoming intolerable. It made the son feel
all the more uncomfortable.

"I'm going over to the stone farthest out," he said. "I see a lot
of fish splashing round it."

By that move he was out of earshot of his father, and there was no
further conversation between them for the remainder of the
forenoon. But go where he would, he felt that the dim, lustreless
eyes of the old man were following him. And this time he was
actually glad when the guests arrived.

The dinner was served out of doors. When Ol' Bengtsa had taken his
place at the board he tried to cast off all worry and anxiety. When
acting as host at a party, so much of the Ol' Bengtsa of bygone
days came to the fore it was easy to guess what manner of man he
had once been.

No one from Falla was present. But it was plain that Lars Gunnarson
was in every one's thoughts; which was not surprising since this
was the day he had been warned to look out for. Now of course Ol'
Bengtsa's son had to listen to further talk about the catechetical
meeting at Falla, and he heard more about the pastor's extraordinary
dissertation on the duties of children toward their parents than
he cared to hear. However, he said nothing; but Ol' Bengtsa must
have noticed that he was beginning to be bored, for he turned to
him with the remark:

"What do you say to all this, Nils? I suppose you're sitting there
thinking to yourself it's very strange Our Lord hasn't written a
commandment for parents on how they shall treat their children?"

This was wholly unexpected. The son could feel the blood mounting
to his face. It was as if he had done something dreadful, and been
caught at it.

"But my dear father!" he protested, "I've never said or thought--"

"True," the old man struck in, turning now to his guests. "I know
you will hardly believe what I tell you, but it's a fact that this
son of mine has never spoken an unkind word to me; neither has his
wife."

These remarks were not addressed to any one in particular, nor did
any one feel disposed to respond to them.

"They have been put to some pretty hard tests," Ol' Bengtsa went
on. "It was a large property they were deprived of. They could have
been landed proprietors by this time if I had only done the right
thing. Yet they have never uttered a word of complaint and every
summer they pay me a visit, just to show they are not angry with
me."

The old man's face looked so dead now, and his voice sounded so
hollow! The son could not tell whether he was trying to come out
with something or whether he talked merely for talk's sake.

"Now it's altogether different with Lisa," said Ol' Bengtsa,
pointing at the daughter-in-law with whom he lived. "She scolds me
every day for not holding on to my property."

The daughter-in-law, not in the least perturbed, retorted with a
good-natured laugh: "And you scold me because I can't find time to
patch all the holes in the boys' clothes."

"That's true," the old man admitted. "You see, we're not shy; we
say right out what we think and tell each other everything. What
I've got is hers, and what she's got is mine; so I'm beginning to
think it is she who is my real child."

Again the son felt embarrassed, and troubled as well.

There was something the old man wanted to force from him--something
of a personal nature; but surely he could not expect it to be
forthcoming here, before all this company?

It was a great relief to the son of Ol' Bengtsa when on looking up
he saw Lars Gunnarson and his wife standing at the gate. Not he
alone, but every one was glad to see them. Now it was as if all
their gloomy misgivings had suddenly been dispelled.

Lars and his wife made profuse apologies for being so late. Lars
had been suffering from a bad headache and had feared he would not
be able to come at all; but it had abated somewhat so he decided to
come to the party, thinking he would forget about his aches and
pains if he got out among people.

He looked a bit hollow-eyed, but he was as jolly and sociable as he
had been the year before. He had barely got down the first mouthful
of food when he and the son of Ol' Bengtsa fell to talking of the
lumber business, of big profits and interest on loans.

The poor rustics round about them, aghast at the mere mention of
these large figures, were afraid to open their mouths. Ol' Bengtsa
was the only one who wanted to have his say in the matter.

"Since you're talking of money," he said, "I wonder, Nils, if you
remember that note for 17,000 rix-dollars I got from the old
ironmaster at Doveness? It was mislaid, if you recollect, and
couldn't be found at the time when I was in such hard straits. Just
the same, I wrote to the ironmaster requesting immediate payment;
but received the reply that he was dying. Later on, after his
death, the administrators of the estate declared they could find no
record of my claim. I was informed that it wasn't possible for them
to pay me unless I produced the note. We searched high and low for
it, both I and my sons, but we couldn't find it."

"You don't mean to tell me that you've come across it at last!" the
son exclaimed.

"It was the strangest thing imaginable!" the old man went on. "Jan
of Ruffluck came over here one morning and told me he knew for a
certainty that the note was in the secret drawer of my cedar chest.
He had seen me take it out in a dream, he said."

"But you must have looked there?"

"Yes, I did search through the secret drawer on the left-hand side.
But Jan said it was in the drawer on the right, and then, when I
looked more carefully, I found a secret drawer that I'd never known
about; and in that lay the note."

"You probably put it there some time when you were in your cups."

"Very likely I did."

The son laid down his knife and fork for a moment, then took them
up again. Something in the old man's tone made him a bit wary.
"Maybe it's just a hoax," he thought to himself. Aloud he said, "it
was outlawed, of course?"

"Oh, yes," replied the old man, "it would doubtless have been so
regarded by any other debtor. But I rowed across to Doveness one
day and took the note to the new ironmaster, who admitted at once
that it was good. 'It's as clear as day that I must pay my father's
debt, Ol' Bengtsa,' he said. 'But you'll have to give me a few
weeks' grace. It is a large sum to pay out all at once.'"

"That was spoken like a man of honour!" said the son, bringing his
hand down heavily on the table. A sense of gladness stole in upon
him in spite of his suspicions. To think that it was something so
splendid the old man had been holding back from him the whole day!

"I told the ironmaster that he needn't pay me just then; that if he
would only give me a new note the money could remain in his
safekeeping."

"That was well," said the son approvingly. There was a strong, glad
ring in his voice, that betrayed an eagerness he would rather not
have shown, for he knew of old that one could never be quite sure
of Ol' Bengtsa--in the very next breath he might say it was just a
yarn.

"You don't believe me," observed the old man. "Would you like to
see the note? Run in and get it, Lisa!"

Almost immediately the son had the note before his eyes. First he
glanced at the signature, and recognized the firm, legible hand of
the ironmaster. Then he looked at the figures, and found them
correct. He nodded to his wife, who sat opposite him, that it was
all right, at the same time passing the note to her, knowing how
interested she would be to see it.

The wife examined the note carefully. "What does this mean?" she
asked--"'Payable to Lisa Persdotter of Lusterby'--is Lisa to have
the money?"

"Yes," the old man answered. "She gets this money because she has
been a good daughter to me."

"But this is unfair--"

"No, it is not unfair," drawled the old man in a tired voice. "I
have squared myself and owe nobody anything. I might have had one
other creditor," he added turning to this son, "but after looking
into matters, I find that I haven't."

"You mean me, I suppose," said the son. "But you don't seem to
think I--" All that the son had wanted to say to the father was
left unsaid, as he was interrupted by a piercing shriek from the
opposite side of the table.

Lars Gunnarson had just seized a bottle of brandy and put it to
his mouth. His wife, screaming from terror, was trying to take it
from him. He held her back until he had emptied half the contents,
whereupon he set the bottle down and turned to his wife, his face
flushed, his eyes staring wildly, his hands clenched.

"Didn't you hear it was Jan who found the note?" he said in a
hoarse voice. "All his dreams come true! Can't you comprehend that
the man has the gift of second sight? You'll see that something
dreadful will happen to me this day, as he has predicted."

"Why he has only cautioned you to be on your guard," said the wife.

"You begged and teased me to come here so that I should forget what
day it was, and now I get this reminder!"

Again Lars raised the brandy bottle to his lips. This time,
however, the wife cast herself upon him with prayers and tears.
Replacing the bottle on the table, he said with a laugh: "Keep it!
Keep it for all of me!" With that he rose and kicked the chair out
of his way. "Good-bye to you, Ol' Bengtsa," he said to the host. "I
hope you will pardon my leaving, but to-day I must go to a place
where I can drink in peace."

He rushed toward the gate, his wife following. When he was passing
out into the road, he pushed her back. "Why can't you let me be!"
he cried fiercely. "I've had my warning, and I go to meet my doom!"


SUMMERNIGHT

All day, while the party was going on at the seine-maker's, Jan of
Ruffluck kept to his hut. But at evening he went out and sat down
up on the flat stone in front of the house, as was his wont. He was
not ill exactly, but he felt weak and tired. The hut had become so
overheated during the long, hot sunny day that he thought it would
be nice to get a breath of fresh air. He found, however, that it
was not much cooler outside, but he sat still all the same, mostly
because there was so much out here that was beautiful to the eye.

It had been an excessively hot and dry month of June and forest
fires, which always rage every rainless summer, had already got
going. This he could tell by the pretty bluish-white smoke banks
that rose above the hills at the other side of the lake. Presently,
away off to southward, a shimmery white curly cloud head appeared,
while in the west, over against Great Peak, huge smoke-blended
clouds rolled up and up. It seemed to him as if the whole world
were afire.

No flames could be seen from where he sat, but there was no
mistaking that fire had broken out and could hold sway indefinitely.
He only hoped it would confine itself to the forest trees, and not
sweep down upon huts and farmsteads.

He could scarcely breathe. It was as if such quantities of air had
been consumed that there was very little of it left. At short
intervals he sensed an odour, as of something burning, that stuck
in his nostrils. That odour did not come from any cook stove in the
Ashdales! It was a salutation from the great stake of pine needles,
and moss, and brushwood that sizzled and burned many miles away.

A little while ago the sun had gone down, red as fire, leaving in
its wake enough colour to tint the whole sky, which was now rose
hued not only across that corner of it where the sun had just been
seen, but over its entire expanse. At the same time the waters of
Dove Lake had become as dark as mirror glass in the shadow of the
towering hills. In this black-looking water ran streaks of red
blood and molten gold.

It was the sort of night that makes one feel that the earth is not
worthy a glance; that only the heavens and the waters that mirror
them are worth seeing.

As Jan sat gazing out at the beauties of the light summer night he
suddenly began to wonder. Could it be that he saw aright? But it
actually looked as if the firmament were sinking. Anyway, to his
vision it was much nearer to the earth than usual.

Could it be possible that something had gone wrong? Surely his eyes
were not deceiving him! The great pink dome of sky was certainly
moving down toward the earth, and all the while it was becoming
hotter and more oppressive. He already felt the terrible heat that
seemed to come from the red-hot dome that was sinking toward him.

To be sure Jan had heard a good deal of talk about the coming
destruction of the world and had often pictured it as being
effected by means of thunder-storms and earthquakes that would hurl
the mountains into the seas and drive the waters of the lakes and
rivers over plains and valleys, so that all life would become
extinct. But he never imagined the end should come in this way: by
the earth's burial under the vault of heaven with its inhabitants
all dying from heat and suffocation! This, it seemed to him, was
the worst of all.

He put down his pipe, though it was only half-smoked, but remained
quietly seated in the one spot. For what else could he do? This was
not something which he could ward off--something he could run away
from. One could not take up arms and defend one's self against it,
nor find safety by creeping into cellars or caves. Even if one had
the power to empty all the oceans and lakes, their waters would not
suffice to quench the fires of the firmament. If one could uproot
the mountains and prop them, beam-like, against the sky, they could
not hold up this heavy dome if it was meant that it should sink.

Singularly enough no one but himself seemed to be aware of what was
happening.

Ah, look! What was that that went shooting up above the crest of
the hill over yonder? A lot of black specks suddenly appeared in
among the pale smoke clouds. These specks whirled round each other
with such rapidity that to Jan's eyes they looked like a succession
of streaks moving in much the same way as when bees swarm.

They were birds of course. The strange part of it was that they had
risen in the night and soared into the clouds.

They probably knew more than the human kind, thought Jan, for they
had sensed that something was about to happen.

Instead of the air becoming cooler, as on other nights, it grew
warmer and warmer. Anything else was hardly to be expected, with
the fiery dome coming nearer and nearer. Jan thought it had already
sunk to the brow of Great Peak.

But if the end of the world was so close at hand and there was no
hope of his getting any word from Glory Goldie, much less of his
seeing her, before all was over, then he would pray for but a
single grace--that it might be made clear to him what he had done
to offend her, so that he could repent of it before the end of
everything pertaining to the earth life. What had he done that she
could not forgive nor forget? Why had the crown and sceptre been
taken away from him?

As he put these queries to himself his glance fell upon a bit of
gilt paper that lay glittering on the ground in front of him. But
his mind was not on such things now. This must have been one of the
paper stars he had borrowed of Mad Ingeborg. But he had not given
a thought to this empty show since last autumn.

It kept getting hotter and hotter, and it was becoming more and
more difficult to breathe. "The end is nearing," thought Jan.
"Maybe it's just as well it wasn't too long coming."

A great sense of lassitude came over him. Unable to sit up any
longer, he slipped down off the stone and stretched himself out on
the ground. He felt it was hardly fair to Katrina not to let her
know what was taking place. But Katrina had gone to the seine-maker's
party and was not back yet. If he only had the strength to drag
himself thither! He would have liked to say a word of farewell to
Ol' Bengtsa, too. He was very glad when he presently saw Katrina
coming down the lane, accompanied by the seine-maker. He wanted to
call out to them to hurry, but not a sound could he get past his
lips. Shortly afterward the two of them stood bending over him.

Katrina immediately ran for water and made him drink some; and then
he got back just enough strength to tell them that the Last
judgment was at hand.

"How you talk!" said Katrina. "The Last Judgment indeed! Why,
you've got fever, man, and you're out of your head."

Then Jan turned to the seine-maker. "Can't you see either that the
firmament is sinking and sinking?"

The latter did not give him any reply, but turned instead to
Katrina, saying:

"This is pretty serious. I think we'll have to try the remedy we
talked of on the way. I may as well go down to Falla at once."

"But Lars will never consent to it."

"Why you know that Lars has gone down to the tavern. I'm sure the
old mistress of Falla will have the courage--"

Jan cut him short. He could not bear to hear them speak of
commonplace matters when such momentous things were in the air.

"Stop talking," he said. "Don't you hear the last trump? Don't you
hear the rumbling up in the mountains?"

They paused a moment and listened, just to please Jan. And then
they, too, heard a strange noise.

"There's a wagon rattling along in the woods," said Katrina. "What
on earth can that mean?"

As the rumbling noise grew more and more distinct, their
astonishment increased.

"And it's Sunday, too!" observed Katrina. "Now if this were a
weekday you could understand it; but who can it be that's out
driving in the woods on a Sunday night?"

She listened again. Then she heard the scraping of wheels against
stones and the clatter of hoofs along the steep forest road.

"Do you hear?" asked Jan. "Do you hear?"

"Yes, I hear," said Katrina. "But no matter who comes I've got to
get the bed ready for you at once. It's that I have to think of."

"And I'm going down to Falla," said the seine-maker. "That's more
important than anything else. Good-bye for the present."

The old man hurried away while Katrina went in to prepare the bed;
she was hardly inside the door when the rattling noise, which she
and the seine-maker believed was caused by a common wagon, sounded
as if it were almost upon them. To Jan it was the rumble of heavy
war chariots, at whose approach the whole earth trembled. He called
in a loud voice to Katrina, who came out immediately.

"Dear heart, don't be so scared!" she said reassuringly. "I can see
the horse now. It's the old bay from Falla. Sit up and you'll see
it, too." Slipping her hand under Jan's neck she raised him to a
sitting posture. Through the elder bushes at the edge of the road a
horse could be seen running wildly in the direction of Ruffluck.
"Don't you see it's only Lars Gunnarson driving home? He must have
drunk himself full at the tavern, for he doesn't seem to know which
way he's going."

When Katrina said that a horse and wagon dashed by their gate. Both
she and Jan noticed that the wagon was empty and the horse
driverless.

All at once she let out a shriek: "Lord deliver us! Did you see
him, Jan? He's being dragged alongside the wagon!" Without waiting
for a reply she rushed across the yard into the road, where the
horse had just bolted past.

Jan let her go without a word. He was glad to be alone again. He
had not yet found an answer to his query as to why the Empress was
angry at him.

The bit of gilt paper now lay directly under his eyes. It glistened
so that he had to look at it again and again. Meanwhile his
thoughts went back to Mad Ingeborg--to the time when he had come
upon her at the Borg landing. It struck him instantly that here was
the answer he had been seeking. Now he knew what it was the little
girl had been displeased about all this while. He had been unkind
to Mad Ingeborg; he should never have refused to let her go along
to Portugallia.

How could he ever have imagined anything so mean of the great
Empress as that she would not want to have Mad Ingeborg with her!
It was that kind that she liked best to help. No wonder she was
angry! He ought to have known that the poor and unfortunate were
always welcome in her kingdom.

There was very little that could be done in this matter if no
to-morrow dawned, mused Jan. But what if there should be one? Ah,
then he would go and talk with Mad Ingeborg first thing.

He closed his eyes and folded his hands. Anyway, it was a blissful
relief to him that this anxiety had been stilled. Now it would not
be nearly so hard to die. He had no idea as to how much time had
elapsed before he again heard Katrina's voice close to him.

"Jan, dear, how do you feel now? You're not going to die and leave
me, are you?"

Katrina sounded so doleful that he had to look up at her. Then he
saw in her hand the imperial stick and the green leather cap.

"I asked the folks down at Falla to let me take these to you," she
explained. "I told them that come what might it was better for you
to have them again than to have you lose all interest in life."

"The dear little girl, the great Empress, isn't she wonderful!" Jan
said to himself. No sooner had he come to a realization of his sin
and promised to atone for it, than she again granted him her grace
and her favour.

He had such a marvellous feeling of lightness, as if a great weight
had been lifted from him. The firmament had raised itself and let
in air, at the same time drawing away the excessive heat. He was
able to sit up now and fumble for the imperial regalia.

"Now you can have them for good and all," said Katrina. "There'll
be no one to come and take them away from you, for Lars Gunnarson
is dead."


THE EMPEROR'S CONSORT

Katrina of Ruffluck Croft came into the kitchen at Loevdala Manor
with some spun wool. Lady Liljecrona herself received the yarn,
weighed it, paid for it, and commended the old woman for her
excellent work.

"It's fortunate for you, Katrina, that you are such a good worker,"
said Lady Liljecrona. "I dare say you have to earn the living for
both yourself and the husband nowadays."

Katrina drew herself up a bit and two pink spots came into her
face, just over the sharp cheekbones.

"Jan does his best," she retorted, "but he has never had the
strength of a common labourer."

"At any rate, he doesn't seem to be working now," said Lady
Liljecrona. "I have heard that he only runs about from place to
place, showing his stars and singing."

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