Part 13

From one to two the children were again out of doors. But they often went in a few minutes before the play hour was up, so as to run through their lessons for the afternoon session, which was from two to four. Afterwards, they would read the lessons for the next day. They were never allowed to sit at their studies later than five o’clock, when they must go out-doors again. Now they were off to some distant coasting hill. At one time they had a big ram to drive, and that, of course, was great sport. When they got back to the house a pleasant hour awaited them. A log fire crackled in the living room and on the folded card table stood a plate of sandwiches and a pitcher of unfermented beer. To sit or lie before the fire while munching their sandwiches--that was something the youngsters enjoyed hugely. They chattered and planned all sorts of things. It was the only hour of the day they had to themselves.

When the fire burned low, the lamp on the round table over by the sofa was lit. Fru Lagerlöf now took her little daughters in hand, and taught them to sew, crochet, and knit. She had a volume of Hans Andersen’s fairy tales, and when she thought the work had gone well she would reward the children by reading or narrating “The Travelling Companion,” or “The Tinder-box,” or “The Wild Swans.” Besides, there were pretty and amusing illustrations in that book, and to look at those was almost as much fun as to hear the stories.

At eight o’clock supper was served, and then the Lieutenant appeared. Up to that hour he had been at the farm-office poring over his ledgers.

And now, after the long work-filled day, one could at last relax. The children put away their needlework, and the Lieutenant, sitting back in his rocking-chair, began to tell schoolboy yarns like the one about Mamselle Brorström, or else he related his memories of the glorious Jenny Lind as _Norma_ or the _Daughter of the Regiment_, or of Emily Högquist as the _Maid of Orleans._ When at times he did not feel like talking, he would ask Fru Lagerlöf or Mamselle Lovisa to read aloud from Tegnér. Anything more beautiful than “Fritiof’s Saga” he thought had never been written. He would rather have been the Lund professor who sang of Fritiof’s and Ingeborg’s love, than Emperor of France or Tsar of Russia. He was also an admirer of Runeberg, whose tales of “Surgeon Stål” and epic poems he enjoyed hearing. But he did not like it if any one said the Finnish poet was greater than Tegnér.

Sometimes (and that was the best fun of all) he would sit down at the old piano and strike a few chords, then call out:

“Come, children, let’s sing Bellman!”

The girls needed no coaxing, they were over by the piano in a jiffy. Then, with high glee, they let loose on Bellman! They always began with “Old Man Noah” and “Joachim of Babylon,” then followed “Father Movitz” and “Mother at Tuppen,” and they sang of “Dancing Master Mollberg, and His Misadventures in Rostock Tavern.”

The Lieutenant pounded out the accompaniments, and hummed the air, to mark the time and carry the tune. But the children sang at the top of their voices, and could be heard all over the house. Here were indeed life and merriment for them after the day’s work! They understood very little of what they sang, but the melodies put them in a glow and livened their spirits. Ah, how sweet it sounded when _Ulla_ danced in spangles, veil and fringe! or when _Fredman_ sang: “’Tis as far to Monday as from north to south.” And what could be funnier than when the ever-hapless _Mollberg_ jumped into the vat where _Grogshop-Mother_ soaked her stockfish, or when at the great boating-picnic the party-cake came on garnished with sugar, cinnamon, and anchovies!

But what delighted the children above everything was that they might sing as loud as ever they wished. The Lieutenant never corrected them or interrupted to remind them that there were such things as voice modulation and singing in unison. They thought they sang Bellman just as he should be sung.

On the wall above the piano sat Karl Mikael (Bellman) himself, with his lute. Now and then, the Lieutenant looked up at him, as if expecting a smile of approval from that incomparable lyrist and singer.

But once when Lieutenant Lagerlöf and the children were having a Bellman-sing, it happened that Colour-Sergeant von Wachenfeldt was there, sitting in his usual corner, chatting with Mamselle Lovisa.

“Isn’t it strange that not one of the children has a voice?” Mamselle Lovisa remarked to the Sergeant in a half-whisper.

“Yes,” replied the Sergeant in a low tone. “That they haven’t singing voices they can’t help, but they might at least make use of their ears!”

“It seems extraordinary, when both parents are musical, don’t you think so, Wachenfeldt? I can’t understand how Gustaf endures it!”

“He does not hear it as it sounds to us,” said the Sergeant. “He loves those children.”

“People are wont to speak of seeing with the eyes of love,” observed Mamselle Lovisa, “and there may be such a thing as hearing with the ears of love....”

“Be sure of that!” responded the Colour-Sergeant, who knew whereof he spoke.

One of the little singers chanced to overhear those remarks, and repeated them to the others, and perhaps it was due to that that the Bellman “concerts” at Mårbacka were suddenly discontinued.

But long afterward--aye, always--the love of the Bellman songs lived in the hearts of the Mårbacka children. They loved them not only for their humour and pathos and their haunting beauty; but the faintest tone from the Bellman lute called up memories of the never-failing love and tenderness that had made their childhood such a happy one!

V

BOYS AND GIRLS

IN THE summer of 1866 there was an unusually large number of children at Mårbacka. Besides Daniel and Johan Lagerlöf, sons of the house, there were Teodor, Otto, and Hugo Hammargren, cousins on the paternal side, who, with their parents, were spending the whole summer at Mårbacka. Ernst and Klas Schenson, cousins on the maternal side, had also come for the summer. But, indeed, they were not all! Herman, Bernhard, and Edvin Milén of the neighbouring farm, must also be counted as members of the company, and Adolf Noreen of Herrestad came over two or three times a week to play with the boys. And of course there were Anna, Selma, and Gerda Lagerlöf, though Gerda, who was only three years old, hardly counted; nor were Anna and Selma of any importance when there were so many boys around.

That summer the lads had hit upon a jollier and more satisfying pastime than any of previous years. The first few weeks they spent in the usual way--picking berries, lying on the grass, swinging in the rope-swing, shooting arrows, pitching quoits, and playing leap-frog. But after a time they wearied of these petty diversions, and talked of taking up some serious and productive work. They had an eye to a bit of woodland just beyond the avenue, which was bounded on the west by the road ditch, on the east by towering Åsberget, on the north by a stone wall, and on the south by a deep gravel pit; so that the whole area, which covered about one sixteenth of an acre, lay quite detached and well secluded.

On closer inspection, the boys discovered that the land had a bountiful supply of rocks, and its vegetation consisted mostly of juniper bushes, spruce saplings, and bracken. At the northern end there was a little brook, which ran dry in high summer, and along its shores grew some fine alder bushes. In the crevices of the mountain wall grew polypody, a kind of fern to which the boys attached great value. At the south end there were four large spruces, while in the midst of the territory stood a tall, thickly branched pine.

The whole region was evidently devoid of culture, its only inhabitants being squirrels, woodpeckers, and ants. Now the boys thought this wilderness ought to have the benefit of the blessings of civilization, and decided to emigrate and settle there.

Their first move was to stake out their homesteads. Teodor Hammargren, who was sixteen years of age and the nominal head of the expedition, claimed a towering rock, which afforded him a splendid view of the whole country. Daniel Lagerlöf, who was fifteen--and next in age and standing--appropriated the four large spruces and the fine rock wall behind them. Johan Lagerlöf and Otto Hammargren, who were schoolfellows and good pals, took joint possession of the northernmost tract with the dried-out brook and alder grove. Ernst Schenson, who was but twelve, contented himself with a scraggy rock. The others wondered what joy he could have of that. His brother, Klas, who was only a little chap, also chose a rock; but he seemed to have got the better position, for he had a shading juniper close by. Hugo Hammargren claimed as his portion the solitary pine, which no one begrudged him. Herman Milén, aged ten, found a big uprooted spruce lying with its roots in the air and its trunk full of branches. His little brothers, Bernhard and Edvin, who were twins and only eight, came near not getting anything at all; however, they were each finally allotted the stump of a tree. Adolf Noreen had not been at Mårbacka the day the land was apportioned, and there was great consternation when he finally appeared and demanded his share of the spoils; for by that time every available spot had already been taken. Luckily, Teodor Hammargren hit upon the thought of allowing him a shelf of rock in the mountain wall. And with that, peace was restored.

But if Anna and Selma had entertained any hopes of owning homes in the settlement they were sadly mistaken. Why, they were just girls, and it never even occurred to the boys that they might wish to be included.

The lads were having such good times all by themselves in their new colony! Teodor Hammargren carried up moss to his tower to make him a comfortable seat. He had built a stone stairway by which he could easily pass up and down. Daniel Lagerlöf had cleared the ground between the spruces and the rock wall, and fitted up a salon with moss-covered stone seats along three sides. His was the most comfortable and attractive place of all. Johan and Otto made for themselves a semi-circular moss sofa in among their tangle of alders. That was also considered a very desirable location. Ernst Schenson made him a wide moss-covered lounge, with his big rock as back-rest; but his brother Klas was a little do-nothing, who just sprawled on the ground under his juniper bush and didn’t bother to drag stones and moss for a bench. Hugo Hammargren had begged some board-ends from the Lieutenant’s carpenter and nailed them in a crotch of his pine, so that he had a grand seat. Adolf Noreen made a moss bed on his shelf of rock, where he enjoyed solid comfort when once he had clambered up. Herman Milén had dug a cave for himself under his uprooted tree, and even the small twins had spread a bit of moss over their stumps.

But Anna and Selma had nowhere to build and nothing to furnish. They wandered about the farm utterly deserted, not knowing what to do to amuse themselves.

The boys, meanwhile, had more and more fun as their commune developed. They soon found it necessary to have a regular administration and judiciary, and elected Teodor Hammargren High Chieftain and Judge. Daniel Lagerlöf was appointed Master of the Mint, and had to issue paper currency. Johan became bailiff and Otto Hammargren petty constable.

Now that they had money to do with the boys began to buy and sell stone and gravel, moss and earth. Some did a brisk trade and grew rich; but Hugo Hammargren and Herman Milén were regular spendthrifts, and they were moreover guilty of appropriating ferns from another’s estate. The bailiff had to arrest them and put them in the jail--an old smithy which lay conveniently at the roadside.

Anna and Selma still went about the farm by themselves. Anna averred that the next time the boys asked her to crochet a ball for them she’d say NO. Nor would she help them make taffy. And Selma, who was only seven, didn’t know what to do to get even with the boys; but she could at least refuse to let them haul gravel in her little cart.

Life up at the colony was so thrilling the boys all declared they had never had such good sport. They sat in councils and discussed the affairs of State; they voted to build roads and to construct a great stone bridge across the ditch, in order to connect the colony with the outer world. All the lads over twelve years of age were to do the road-breaking and stone-cutting, while the younger ones were to haul gravel. But afterward it seemed that Hugo Hammargren and Herman Milén would not help with the work, and from that arose many grave complications. Hugo and Herman, since they had no respect for law and order, were now looked upon as the black sheep of the colony. Even the jail had no terrors for them! So it was difficult to know just what course of procedure to follow in their case.

Anna and Selma down on the farm tried to amuse themselves by shooting with the boys’ bows-and-arrows and pitching their quoits. They said they had quite as much fun in winter, when the boys were away at school. Anna vowed that never again would she let any boy look at the big doll her aunt had given her for Christmas, which was over two feet tall, and wore shoes and stockings, corset and crinoline, and had a bed of its own, with sheets and pillowcases, and a trunk for its clothes, and everything.

Up at the colony things were flourishing. One fine day at a town meeting it was moved that a public house be opened. The motion was carried, and Master of the Mint Daniel Lagerlöf was elected keeper of the tavern, because he had the roomiest dwelling.

The new boniface must have found it rather tiring trying to satisfy the demands of his customers for home-brewed ginger beer, wild raspberries, green apples, and polypody. Of a sudden it struck him that he had a couple of sisters; and immediately he went over to the farm, where he found the girls down by the pond sailing the boys’ boats and promising each other never again to play with the boys or even so much as look at them.

“You may come up to the colony, girls, and be waitresses at my tavern.”

Anna and Selma let the boats sail whither they would. Not a word did they say about being forgotten and left to shift for themselves all this long time. They went right along with their brother to the boys’ colony, blissfully happy.

VI

THE OLD SOLDIER

IT WAS late afternoon of a beautiful day in autumn. Back-Kaisa, the onetime nursemaid at Mårbacka, who now worked at the loom, was tramping through the woods on her way to the hill-croft where she was born and grew up--on an errand for Lieutenant Lagerlöf. She and little Selma were still great friends, and she had taken the child along. They were in no hurry, these two; they stopped to pick and eat whortleberries growing by the roadside, they admired the gorgeous flybane and gathered their aprons full of lovely mosses to take home with them so as to have something pretty to lay between the inner and storm-windows of the nursery. Back-Kaisa was happy to be once more in the woods, where she knew every shrub and every stone. When they came to the wattled fence which surrounded the clearing where the croft-hut stood and were about to step over the stile, Back-Kaisa said:

“Mind, Selma, you mustn’t say a word about war in Father’s hearing!”

The little girl was astonished at that. She knew that Back-Kaisa’s father was an old soldier who had fought with Napoleon at Leipsic. That one could not speak with him about war seemed unbelievable.

“Why can’t I talk to him about war?” she queried.

“That one must never do with them that’s been out in a real war,” Back-Kaisa told her.

Now the little girl was more astonished than ever. She thought of _Fritiof;_ of _Hjalmar;_ of _Hector_, and all the gods and heroes of antiquity she had read about in her saga-books--and her head was in a whirl.

In the cabin on the edge of the hearth, with his back to the fire, sat Back-Kaisa’s father, a tall, gaunt-looking man with a coarse-featured and furrowed face. That he was of the olden time could be seen by his mode of dress, for he wore knee-breeches and shoes instead of boots and had on a shockingly grimy sheepskin coat. But on the whole his appearance was not more bizarre than that of other old peasants.

The little girl stared and stared at the soldier who would not allow any one to speak of war in his hearing. To her there was nothing so delightful as to hear tales of battles or read stories of wars. She thought it a great pity that she could not ask him to tell her about the things he had been through.

All the while she sat there she dared not speak or reply when spoken to. She felt that if she opened her mouth she would forget, and say something about war, and then the old man might kill her.

After a time she began to think he looked horrible. It was so incomprehensible, this, that one could not talk to him about war. There must be something dreadful back of it all which she did not understand. Perhaps the old man was dangerous? She only wanted to escape, and was ready to make for the door. With every moment that passed her fear increased, and by the time Back-Kaisa was ready to leave and they could at last say good-bye, she was fairly beside herself with fright.

Now, if he had been like other old soldiers, and had said that war was the greatest thing in the world; if he had boasted of killing hundreds of men and burning down whole cities and villages, then the little girl would not have been a bit afraid of him.

VII

THE LAND OF HEART’S DESIRE

IT WAS Lars of London, and Sven of Paris, and Magnus of Vienna, and Johan of Prague, and Per of Berlin, and Olle of Maggebysäter, the stableman and the farmboy!

Now Lars of London, Sven of Paris, Magnus of Vienna, Johan of Prague, and Per of Berlin, they were not foreigners, but farm-labourers at Mårbacka. Lieutenant Lagerlöf, in a facetious moment, had named his workmen’s cottages after the principal cities of Europe.

Lars of London and Magnus of Vienna had been plowing all day in the field below the barn; Sven of Paris had fed the cows and, between times, helped on the potato land. Johan of Prague had been digging potatoes, while Per of Berlin, who had been at home all day nursing a lame back, had come over to the manor for a little diversion. The stableman had been grooming the horses, and in spare moments chopping firewood, and the farmboy had worked in the potato field. Olle of Maggebysäter was not employed at the farm; he had just come down to Mårbacka to buy a bushel of rye.

It was a drizzly day in autumn, and the men had gone into the servants’ hall for the usual afternoon rest--from half after four to five. Their shoes were covered with mud, their clothing was damp, and they themselves were sour and disgruntled. They had kindled a fire on the hearth, and dropped down round it. Lars of London, who had the largest croft and was the best workman, sat on the chopping-block directly in front of the fire. Magnus of Vienna, who was almost as good a worker as Lars, was sitting next to him, on one of the cobbler’s stools. Sven of Paris, who thought himself quite as good as any of them, though he did tend cattle, had planted himself on the edge of the hearth, not caring whether he shut off the blaze from the others. Johan of Prague had taken the other stool and the old man of Berlin had seated himself on a saw-buck just back of the rest. The stableman sat on the edge of the cubby-bed swinging his legs, the farmboy perched on the carpenter’s bench, while Olle of Maggebysäter sat down by the door on a barrel of red ochre, resting his feet on his sack of rye.

Lars of London, Magnus of Vienna, Johan of Prague, and Sven of Paris now opened their food-bundles. They each took out a hunk of rye bread with a dab of butter on top. Drawing their sheath-knives from the belts under their leather aprons and wiping them on their trousers, they proceeded to spread their bread and cut it up, bit by bit, eating it in all comfort. The farmboy was sent over to the kitchen to fetch the fare for himself and the stableman, and came back with two halves of a rye-cake, two pats of butter, and two dishes of cottage cheese. Per of Berlin, not having worked that day, had brought no lunch, and Olle of Maggebysäter had none, either; they just sat and glowered at the others.

When they had finished eating, Lars of London, Magnus of Vienna, Sven of Paris, Johan of Prague, the stableman, and the farmboy simultaneously drew from their trousers’ pockets a plug of tobacco. Per of Berlin was not left out on this, for he, too, had his plug; but Olle of Maggebysäter had not even a bit of tobacco in his pocket.

The sheath-knives were again drawn. Now each man cut off a piece of his plug, laid it on his leather apron, chopped it fine, then filled his cutty-pipe.

Lars of London picked up a thin stick of wood and lighted it at the fire. After he had lit his own pipe he gave the light to Magnus of Vienna, who passed it on to Sven of Paris; Sven of Paris handed it to Johan of Prague, who reached back and offered it to Per of Berlin: Per of Berlin leaned over so as to pass it to the stableman, who, after lighting his pipe, held the burning stick in his hand till the farmboy came across the room and took it. Olle of Maggebysäter, to be sure, had no need of a light--having neither pipe nor tobacco. The other men now being warm and well-fed, the world began to look better to them.

But Olle of Maggebysäter was three-score-and-ten, and so crippled with rheumatism that his fingers were stiff and crooked like claws; his head was drawn to one side, one leg was shorter than the other, his sight was poor, his wits were nothing to brag about, and he was toothless and ugly. Washed and combed he had certainly not been in half a year. The fringe of whiskers under his chin was full of sticks and straws. He owned a little croft up in the woods; but being nothing of a worker, he had not been able to keep poverty out of his house. Always grumpy and discontented, he had no friends. And now as the clouds of tobacco smoke rose from the other men’s pipes, he muttered, as if to himself:

“I’ve had nothin’ but trouble and misery all my life; but now I’ve heard about a land they call America, and there I want to go.”

The other men sat tranquilly musing over their pipes and made no response.

Olle of Maggebysäter continued:

“You see, ’tis like this in America--you’ve only to hit a rock with your stick and the rum’ll come spurtin’ out. That land I want to see afore I die.”

The others gazed straight before them and smiled, but said nothing.

Olle of Maggebysäter talked on:

“No one can make me stick at home in this dull, miserable place, when I know there’s a land where the hills are full o’ rum.”

The others remained persistently silent, but not a word of what Olle of Maggebysäter said was lost on them.

“The leaves of the trees in that land, they’re nothin’ but gold,” said the poor old man. “There you don’t have to do day’s work at a manor, you’ve only to go to the woods and pull off an armful of leaves, and then you can buy yourself whatever you want. Blow me, if I don’t move over there, old as I be!”

They were now in a mellow mood, all the men in the servants’ hall. They saw, as it were before their eyes, that land where you tap rum from the rocks and pick gold off the trees.

The farm-bell rang. Rest-time was up. They must again go out into the wet and cold.

Lars of London returned to his plow, Magnus of Vienna to his; Sven of Paris, Johan of Prague, and the farmboy went back to digging potatoes, Per of Berlin betook himself home to his cottage, the stableman had to go and chop the evening’s firewood, and Olle of Maggebysäter, shouldering his sack of rye, limped off to the woods.