The Saga of Gosta Berling Read online

  Thus she had been lying there, composing hymns to the heart’s all-governing god, and had not shut her eyes in sleep at all when the majoress came in.

  When she was gone, Marianne got up and put on her clothes. Once again she must clothe herself in the black velvet dress and the thin ball shoes. She wrapped the bedcover around her like a shawl and once again hurried out into the dreadful night.

  Calm, starlit, and biting cold, the February night still rested over the earth; it was as if it would never come to an end. And the darkness and the cold it spread this long night lasted for a long time on the earth, long after the sun had come up, long after the drifts through which the lovely Marianne had walked had turned to water.

  Marianne hurried away from Ekeby to get help. She could not let the men who had lifted her out of the drift and opened their hearts and home to her be driven away. She would go down to Sjö, to Major Samzelius. She was in a hurry. She could not be back for at least an hour.

  When the majoress had said farewell to her home, she went out onto the yard, where the people awaited her, and the battle for the cavaliers’ wing began.

  The majoress positions the people round about the high, narrow building, whose upper story is the cavaliers’ renowned home. In the large room up there with the lime-plastered walls, the red-painted chests, and the large drop-leaf table where the kille cards swim in spilled liquor, where the broad beds are covered by yellow-checked bed curtains, there the cavaliers are sleeping. Ah, those carefree men!

  And in the stable, before a full stall, the cavaliers’ horses are sleeping and dream of the journeys of their youth. Sweet it is in the days of rest to dream of youth’s wild deeds; of trips to market, when for nights and days they must stay outside under the open sky; of races home from the Christmas morning service; of test-driving before a horse trade, when drunken gentlemen brandishing the reins stretched out of the carriage across their backs and bellowed swear words in their ears. Sweet it is to dream, knowing they will never again leave the filled mangers, the warm stalls of Ekeby. Oh, those carefree ones!

  In a shabby old wagon shed, to which broken-down coaches and superannuated sleighs are brought, there is a marvelous collection of old conveyances. There are rack wagons painted green and spindle-sided wagons of red and yellow. There stands the first carriole seen in Värmland, won by Beerencreutz as war booty in the year 1814. There are all imaginable types of one-horse carriages, chaises with rocking springs, and peculiar instruments of torture with the seat resting on wooden springs. There is everything, the murderous “coffee burners” and halvanningar and gigs celebrated in song in the days of the highways. And there was the long sleigh that holds twelve cavaliers, and cold cousin Kristoffer’s covered sleigh and Örneclou’s old family sleigh with the moth-eaten bear hide and a worn coat of arms on the cover as well as the racing sleighs, an infinity of racing sleighs.

  Many are the cavaliers who have lived and died at Ekeby. Their names are forgotten on earth, and they no longer have a place in people’s hearts, but the majoress has stored away the vehicles in which they came to the estate. She has assembled them all in the old wagon shed.

  And in there they stand and slumber and let the dust fall thick, thick upon them.

  Nails and spikes loosen their hold in the rotting timber, the paint falls off in long flakes, the stuffing in the cushions and pads pokes out of holes that moths have produced.

  “Let us rest, let us fall apart!” say the old conveyances. “We have shaken long enough on the roads, we have drawn quite enough moisture into us during rain showers. Let us rest! It was long ago that we drove off with the young gentlemen to their first ball, it was long ago that we drove out, newly painted and shining, on the sleighing party’s sweet adventures, long ago we brought the merry heroes down to the fields of Trossnäs on muddy spring roads. Most of them are sleeping; the last and the best of them never intend to leave Ekeby, never again.”

  And so the leather in the carriage apron is cracking, the wheel rings loosen, spokes and hubs rot. The old vehicles do not care to live; they want to die.

  The dust already lies over them like a funeral pall, and under its cover they let old age have its way with them. In irrepressible idleness they stand there and decay. No one touches them, and still they fall to pieces. Once a year the wagon shed is opened, in the event a new comrade has arrived who wants to settle down in earnest at Ekeby, and as soon as the doors are closed, tiredness, sleep, decay, the weakness of old age settle over this one as well. Rats and rodents and moths and deathwatch beetles and you name it, the predators, throw themselves upon it, and it rusts and rots in dreamless, delightful disquiet.

  But now in the February night the majoress orders the door opened to the wagon shed.

  And with lanterns and torches she has the vehicles picked out that belong to Ekeby’s current cavaliers: Beerencreutz’s old carriole and Örneclou’s coat of arms-adorned carriage and the narrow covered sleigh that has protected cousin Kristoffer.

  She doesn’t care whether these are vehicles for summer or winter, she simply sees to it that each of them will get his own.

  And in the stable they are now being wakened, all the old cavalier horses, who were just dreaming before full mangers.

  Dream will become reality, you carefree ones.

  Once again you will endure the steep hills and the musty hay in the sheds of the inns and the spiked whips of intoxicated horse traders and furious races on glassy ice so slippery you tremble to set foot on it.

  Now they are in their proper form, those old vehicles, when the small, gray fjord horses are set in front of a tall, ghostlike chaise or when the high-legged, bony riding horses are harnessed to low racing sleighs. The old animals whinny and snort, as the bit is set in their toothless mouths; the old conveyances creak and squeak. Pitiful brittleness, which ought to have been allowed to sleep in peace until the end of time, is now dragged out for inspection: stiff hock joints, limping forelegs, spavin and strangles come to light.

  The stable hands, however, manage to get the draft animals harnessed to the vehicles, then they go over and ask the majoress in which vehicle Gösta Berling should ride, for as everyone knows, he came to Ekeby riding in the majoress’s coal cart.

  “Harness Don Juan to our best racing sleigh,” says the majoress, “and spread out the bearskin with the silver claws across it!” And when the stable hand grumbles, she continues, “There is not a horse in my stable I would not give to be rid of that fellow, don’t forget that!”

  So now the vehicles are awake and the horses likewise, but the cavaliers are still sleeping.

  Now it is their turn to be ushered out into the winter night, but it is a more dangerous deed to attack them in their beds than to usher out the stiff-legged horses and rickety old conveyances. They are bold, strong, dreadful men, hardened by a hundred adventures. They are ready to defend themselves to the death; it is no easy matter to usher them out of their beds against their will and down to the vehicles that are to carry them away.

  So the majoress sets fire to a haystack standing so close to the yard that the flames must shine in to the cavaliers where they are sleeping.

  “The haystack is mine, all of Ekeby is mine,” she says.

  And when the stack is all ablaze, she calls out, “Wake them now!”

  But the cavaliers are sleeping within well-closed doors. The entire crowd of people outside starts shouting the dreadful, frightening words, “A fire has broken out! Fire!” But the cavaliers sleep.

  The master smith’s heavy sledge thunders against the entryway, but the cavaliers sleep.

  A hard-packed snowball breaks the window and flies into the room, bouncing against the bed curtain, but the cavaliers sleep.

  They are dreaming that a beautiful girl is throwing a handkerchief toward them, they dream about applause behind a lowered curtain, they dream of merry laughter and the deafening din of midnight banquets.

  It would take a cannon shot at their ear, a sea of ice-cold wate
r to wake them.

  They have bowed, danced, played music, acted, and sung. They are heavy with wine, emptied of energy, and are sleeping a sleep as deep as death.

  This blessed sleep is about to save them.

  The people start to think that this calm conceals a danger. What if this means that the cavaliers are already out getting help? What if this means that they stand ready, with fingers on the trigger, on guard behind the window or the door, ready to fall on the first one who intrudes?

  These men are shrewd, aggressive, their silence must mean something. Who can believe that they would let themselves be surprised in their hibernation like a bear?

  The people howl out their “Fire has broken out!” over and over, but nothing helps.

  Then, when all hesitate, the majoress herself takes an ax and breaks open the outer door.

  Then she rushes in alone up the stairs, throws open the door to the cavaliers’ wing, and roars into the room, “Fire has broken out!”

  This is a voice that finds better resonance in the cavaliers’ ears than the people’s bellowing. Accustomed to obeying that voice, twelve men fall out of bed at once, see the firelight, pull on their clothes, and rush down the steps out into the yard.

  But in the entryway stands the large master smith and two sturdy mill hands, and great shame overtakes the cavaliers. All of them are seized as they come down, thrown down on the ground, and have their feet bound, whereupon they are carried with no further ado over to the conveyance that has been determined for each one of them.

  No one escaped; they were all captured. Beerencreutz, the stern colonel, was bound and carried away, likewise Kristian Bergh, the strong captain, and uncle Eberhard, the philosopher.

  Even the unconquerable, the terrible Gösta Berling, was captured. The majoress had succeeded. She was still greater than all the cavaliers.

  They are deplorable to look at, as they sit with bound limbs in the shabby old vehicles. There are hanging heads and angry looks, and the yard quakes with oaths and wild outbursts of impotent wrath.

  But the majoress goes from one to the other.

  “You must swear,” she says, “never to come back to Ekeby.”

  “Watch it, troll hag!”

  “You must swear,” she says, “otherwise it is I who will throw you into the cavaliers’ wing again, tied up as you are, and then you will burn up in there, for tonight I will burn down the cavaliers’ wing, just so you know that.”

  “You wouldn’t dare, majoress!”

  “Wouldn’t dare! Isn’t Ekeby mine? Oh, you rogue! Don’t you think I remember how you spit after me on the road? Do you think I didn’t have a desire just now to set this on fire and let all of you burn up inside? Did you lift a finger to defend me when I was driven from my home? No, so swear!”

  And the majoress stands there so dreadful, although perhaps she is pretending to be angrier than she is, and so many men, armed with axes, stand around her, that they must swear to prevent a greater misfortune from occurring.

  Then the majoress has their clothes and cases fetched from the cavaliers’ wing and loosens their bonds. Then the reins are put into their hands.

  But during all this much time has passed, and Marianne has made her way down to Sjö.

  The major was not a late-sleeping gentleman; he was dressed when she arrived. She met him in the yard; he had been out taking breakfast to his bears.

  He did not say much in reply to her talk. He simply went in to the bears, set a muzzle on them, led them out, and hurried away to Ekeby.

  Marianne followed him at a distance. She was about to collapse from fatigue, but then she saw a bright firelight in the sky and was nearly frightened to death.

  What kind of night was this? A man beats his wife and lets his child freeze almost to death outside his door. Did a woman now intend to burn her enemies alive, did the old major intend to let his bears loose on his people?

  Overcoming her fatigue, she hurried past the major and rushed up toward Ekeby at a wild pace.

  She arrived well ahead of him. Once in the yard, she made her way through the crowd. When she stood in the middle of the circle, face-to-face with the majoress, she cried out as loud as she could, “The major, the major is coming with the bears!”

  There was dismay among the people; all of their glances sought out the majoress.

  “You’ve fetched him,” she said to Marianne.

  “Flee!” she cried out with increasing urgency. “Away, for God’s sake! I don’t know what the major is thinking of, but he has the bears with him.”

  All stood quietly with eyes directed at the majoress.

  “I thank you for your help, children,” she said calmly to the people. “All that has happened tonight has been arranged so that none of you can be taken to court or thereby come to grief. Go home now! I will not see any of my people murder or be murdered. Go now!”

  The people, however, stood still.

  The majoress turned to Marianne.

  “I know that you are in love,” she said. “You are acting in the madness of love. May the day never come when you must helplessly watch the devastation of your home! May you always be master of your tongue and your hand, when anger fills your soul!

  “Dear children, come now, come!” she continued, turning toward the people. “May God now protect Ekeby; I must go to my mother. Oh, Marianne, when you regain your senses, when Ekeby is pillaged and the countryside sighs in distress, then think about what you have done tonight, and take care of the people!”

  With that she left, followed by all the people.

  When the major came up to the yard, he found no living thing there except Marianne and a long row of horses with vehicles and riders, a long, deplorable row, where the horses were no worse off than the vehicle, the vehicle no worse than the owner. They were all much the worse for wear in the battle of life.

  Marianne went over and released those who were tied up.

  She noticed how they bit their lips and looked away. They were ashamed like never before. Greater disgrace had never befallen them.

  “I wasn’t any better off when I was on my knees on the stairway at Björne a few hours ago,” said Marianne.

  And so, dear reader, what happened further that night, how the old conveyances got into the shed, the horses into the stable, and the cavaliers into the cavaliers’ wing, I will not try to relate. Dawn began to appear over the eastern hills, and day came with clarity and calm. How much calmer are bright, sunlit days than dark nights, under whose sheltering wings the predator hunts and the owls hoot!

  This alone will I say, that when the cavaliers had again come in and found a few drops in the last bowl to fill their glasses, a sudden enthusiasm came over them.

  “Skoal to the majoress!” they cried out.

  She is a matchless woman! What more could they desire than to be allowed to serve her, to worship her?

  Isn’t it awful that the devil took control of her, and that the point of all her strivings is to send the cavaliers’ souls to hell?

  CHAPTER 8

  THE GREAT BEAR IN GURLITA BLUFF

  In the darkness of the forests live unholy animals, whose jaws are armed with gruesomely glistening teeth or sharp beaks, whose feet bear sharp claws that long to cling tightly to a blood-filled throat, and whose eyes gleam with a desire to kill.

  There live the wolves that come forth at night and chase the farm folk’s sleigh, until finally the wife must take the little child who is sitting on her lap and throw it out to them, in order to save her own life and her husband’s.

  There lives the lynx, which the people call göpa, for in the forest at least it is dangerous to say its right name. Anyone who has mentioned it during the day must see carefully to the doors and openings of the sheep barn toward evening, for otherwise it will come. It climbs right up the sheep barn wall, for its claws are strong as steel nails, glides in through the narrowest opening, and throws itself on the sheep. And the göpa hangs at their throats and drinks their bl
ood and murders and scratches, until every single sheep is dead. It does not stop its wild dance of death among the terrified animals as long as any of them show a sign of life.

  And in the morning the farmer finds all the sheep lying dead with throats torn apart, for göpa leaves nothing living behind where she ravages.

  There lives the owl that hoots in the twilight. If you imitate him then, he will come swooping down over you on broad wings and tear out your eyes, for he is not a real bird; he is a ghost.

  And there lives the most terrible of them all, the bear, who has the strength of twelve men and who, when he has become a killer bear, can only be felled with a silver bullet. Can anything give an animal a greater aura of terror than this, that he can only be felled with a silver bullet? What kind of hidden, terrible powers are there that dwell within him and make him impervious to common lead? A child may lie awake for many hours, shuddering at this wicked animal, whom the evil powers protect.

  And if someone were to meet him in the forest, large and tall as a walking cliff, then that person should not run, not defend himself either, but instead throw himself to the ground and pretend to be dead. Many small children have lain on the ground, in their minds, with the bear upon them. He has rolled them around with his paw, and they have felt his hot, panting breath in their face, but they lie quietly until he has gone off to dig a hole to hide them in. Then they slowly get up and steal away, leisurely at first, but then with increasing haste.