Chapter III

IT IS about four in the afternoon of a seventeenth of August. The two smaller girls, Selma and Gerda, are dressing for the party. The housemaid pokes her head into the attic storeroom--the room the little girls are occupying temporarily, since their own has been placed at the convenience of visiting relatives.

“Selma and Gerda, you’ll have to go down and receive,” shouts the maid. “No one else is ready, and the first carriages are coming up the drive.”

Now the little girls have to hurry; but at the same time they are thrilled with joy. Just think! It’s beginning--the seventeenth of August is beginning!

They button up their frocks, pin on their kerchief rosettes, and run down. Not a grown person in sight! Not even their elder sister can help them receive, since she is attending a dress rehearsal of the evening’s play.

The first arrivals, Herr Nilsson, his wife and four children, are already seated on the veranda. They always come too early to parties, but never so much so as on the seventeenth of August. The little girls do not wonder at that; for everyone must long to come to Mårbacka on such a day.

The time seems a bit long, perhaps, to the guests and their little hostesses before the next vehicle rolls up and the homefolk put in an appearance. But to-day is the Seventeenth, and one does not catch at trifles.

The next arrivals are Pastor Alfred Unger and family from West Ämtervik. They come in a two-horse carriage and have driven about thirteen English miles. The wagon is full of women and children; the parson himself, who is a real horseman, is handling the reins. Lieutenant Lagerlöf, ready at last, comes out on the veranda as the pastor drives in on the grounds.

“Say, Alfred!” he shouts, “what the deuce have you done to your horses? They’re as like as two blackberries.”

“Chut, chut! You mustn’t betray any secrets on your birthday,” Pastor Unger shouts back.

As a matter of fact, the parson had two fine carriage horses which would have been exactly alike but for a white spot on the forehead of one of them. He had hit upon the idea of inserting between the blinder-straps of each a piece of white leather, to make it appear that the horses were perfectly matched. No one would have detected the artifice if the pastor had not been so proud of his device that he had talked of it to right and left, and of course the Lieutenant had heard all about it.

But besides this conveyance from West Ämtervik comes a hayrick packed full of young people, relatives from Karlstad. Then wagon after wagon draws up. Here come the Gårdsjö folk--most delightful of guests! They have a long line of vehicles. They are a large family, and besides themselves they have brought Oriel and Georgina Afzelius, and Kristofer Wallroth and his young sister, Julia, who are staying with them.

In one of the Gårdsjö wagons there are some odd looking large white bundles, to be taken upstairs to the theatre. Selma and Gerda are very curious to know what those are for. The little Wallroth girls are sworn to secrecy; all they dare divulge is that Uncle Oriel has thought of something perfectly gorgeous.

Then who should come up but old Engineer Ivan Warberg from Angersby, with a cartful of pretty girls! A jubilant whoop from the veranda! What, a confirmed old bachelor like Ivan Warberg? Who would have thought it! They all know, to be sure, that the girls are his nieces, and his guests for the summer; but they can’t resist the fun of teasing Ivan a bit.

The little Lagerlöf girls think it strange Fru Hedda does not appear. True, she no longer lives at East Ämtervik; but they hope she will come and do something jolly. Somehow, it would not be a real seventeenth of August unless she were there.

And now come the nearest neighbours. Pastor Milén and his boys have moved to another parish. To-day, it is the tall, handsome Pastor Lindegren and his sweet little wife who stroll over from the parsonage. From Där Ner in Mårbacka come Mother Kersten and Father Olof; but they are not the only peasant-folk who want to felicitate the Lieutenant. Old man Larsson of Ås, the richest man in the parish, has come with his daughters; the Senator from Bävik with his wife, and the church warden of Västmyr with his.

The little girls are in a perfect twitter of excitement as they stand beside their father and see all who come. One whom they most anxiously await is Jan Asker. They do hope he is not hurt about something and will stay away. They try to count heads, but as people keep pouring in from every direction they soon lose the count. Maybe there are already a hundred guests! They hope it will be a gay party. It sounds so grand to the children when somebody says there were a hundred persons gathered at Mårbacka on the seventeenth of August.

But this receiving is merely an introduction to that which is to follow. It is the same with the coffee-drinking on the lawn. The children wish all such things were over.

Ah, at last it is going to begin! The brass sextette line up in position below the steps. A march is struck. The gentlemen offer an arm to the ladies and, led by the band, the couples march through the garden down to the little park.

There they gather round a table on which stand glasses of punch and claret-cup. Obviously, the moment has come for the birthday speech and the toast to Lieutenant Lagerlöf. Engineer Noreen, Senator Nils Andersson, and Herr Nilsson of Visteberg have all come prepared to speak. Each wonderingly looks at the others, and hesitates, not wanting to push forward and take the word from his rivals.

“Well, are we to have something?” the Lieutenant asks. These high-flown set speeches are not to his taste, and he is anxious to have that part of the programme over as quickly as possible. Just then from behind him comes a clear voice, with musical Stockholm intonations, and out of the thicket steps a beautiful Zingara. She asks if she may tell his fortune. Taking his left hand between her two pretty hands, she reads the lines of his palm.

Lieutenant Lagerlöf had been very ill during the winter, and to regain his health had spent part of the summer at Strömstad. All his exploits and divertissements on that sojourn the Zingara now reads in his hand, and, moreover, she reveals them in lilting verse.

It is a bit pert and naughty, to be sure, but it provokes laughter and the Lieutenant is charmed.

“Anyhow, you’re Number One, Hedda!” he says.

But when Fru Hedda has proposed a health to the host, and has led the fourfold hurrahs, and the sextette has tooted a fanfare, she gives the three speakers from East Ämtervik a sweeping glance, and says: “Pray, pardon my intrusion. Now it is the turn of the natives.”

“The ‘natives’ are already beaten, Fru Hedberg,” replies Engineer Noreen.

Far back in the garden sounds old Jan Asker’s clarinet, and the glitter of helmets and shining armour is seen among the trees. Jan Asker and Sexton Melanoz must have come upon three of the Immortal Ases, Odin, Thor, and Freja, who were bound for Mårbacka but had somehow lost their way. Jan and the Sexton have guided them safely hither, so that the shining gods may speak for themselves.

No, they do not speak. The three gods break into song; they chant to the old familiar melody “Come lovely May,” a pæan to all that has been wrought here at Mårbacka in the time of Lieutenant Lagerlöf--every word of which is true. Tears glisten in many an eye, and the Lieutenant himself is deeply moved by his old friend’s lyric.

“Melanoz is superb to-day!” he says. “After all, Hedda, I believe the natives will carry off the palm.”

With this, the fête has been impressively and happily opened. The guests now scatter about the grounds. Some visit the berry bushes and cherry trees, and others want to see whether the fine Mårbacka peaches are ripening.

In a little while comes another fanfare. The gentlemen now escort the ladies back to the house and up the perilous attic stairs. The loft has been converted into a theatre, its small stage screened off with white draperies. The theatre is the work of Fru Lagerlöf, and is the cutest little place imaginable.

A moment’s suspense, and the curtain goes up on a musical allegory written in the forenoon of that very day by Oriel Afzelius. It is entitled, “The Monk and the Dancer.” The action takes place on the day of Lieutenant Lagerlöf’s birth, August 17, 1819. Beside the cradle of the new-born babe, instead of the usual fairies, stand two symbolical figures, a monk and a dancer.

The _Dancer_ would have the boy grow up a merry, dashing cavalier. The _Monk_, on the contrary, would make of him a serious ascetic. After a spirited controversy, they finally come to an agreement. Each shall direct one half of the little Mårbacka child’s span of life. So for a time he is destined to lead the jolly life of a young officer; in his later years he is to settle down quietly, and practise abstinence and good deeds, with Mårbacka as cloister. Oriel Afzelius as the Monk and Kristofer Wallroth in draperies and veils as the Dancer, sing solos and duets from the popular operas. They gesticulate and declaim with emotional fervour, and wind up their quarrel with a lively _pas-de-deux._

As the curtain falls there is wild applause. People shout, stamp their feet, and wave their handkerchiefs. Fru Lagerlöf sits in fear and trembling lest the floor give way under the storm. The Lieutenant cries out:

“Yi, yi, Melanoz! It’s none of the outlanders winning now!”

The young folk at Mårbacka have rehearsed a little play, but the players feel rather disheartened as they are about to appear; they have nothing to offer comparable to Uncle Oriel’s allegory.

Anna Lagerlöf is now fourteen, and this is her first appearance in a regular part. The piece is called “A Cigar,” and she is cast for the rôle of the young wife.

Indeed, the performance is far from a failure, thanks to the acting of little Anna Lagerlöf! “How does that child come by her histrionic talent?” people wonder. She acts with such ease, naturalness, and charm, the spectators cannot get over their surprise. “That little girl is going to be a heart-breaker,” some are heard to say. “Why, the lass is really pretty!” comes from another quarter. “And how well she acts, too!”

It seemed as if the plaudits and curtain calls would never end.

“Do you see, Lieutenant,” shouts Sexton Melanoz above the tumult, “that the natives can hold their own?”

But at last they clamber down the break-neck attic stairs. Then they dance again, and chatter, and drink toddies, and some of them take to story-telling, for which up to then there has been no time.

After supper, at midnight, the Chinese lanterns are lit. This is done every year now, and must never be omitted. For a change, they have the illumination on the front lawn.

Ah! how lovely it looks--as Mamselle Lovisa’s flower beds stand out in the vari-coloured light; as the weeping ash, like a huge lamp, sends forth its rays through the lacy branches; as the dark copses gleam as if with fire-flowers!

Now all have come out to see the illuminations. They find themselves in a fairyland. The sweet harmonies of the quartette intensify the spell of enchantment.

Then comes a wonderful thing! It is like the soft caress of a balmy wind. No, one cannot say what it is. But they who have been together these ten hours, chatting, dancing, playing, listening to music and speeches, are now prepared for it. As they drink in the song and the beauty of the night, they are filled with a blissful rapture. Ah, life is so beautiful! How precious the moments! Every breath is a joy!

Now out of the throng steps Fru Hedda. In a moment she appears on the veranda, and starts the Värmland Anthem. All join in the singing, for in this way they are able to express what they feel: _Ack, Värmeland, du sköna, du härliga land!_ They seem to hear voices back in the thickets and copses, and surmise that the Mårbacka elves and fairies are dancing a contra-dance under the maple trees to the lovely melody.

Hands press hands; eyes meet eyes through a mist of tears. And no one is surprised, for it is such an unspeakable happiness just to be!

At the close of the song, as Fru Hedda withdraws, Herr Noreen steps forward: he, too, would interpret the spirit of the hour.

“It is _this_ that is the seventeenth of August,” he says; “not the singing nor the play-acting, not the dancing nor the feasting, but that which we now feel--the sweet solemn joy which has stolen into our hearts, the love which permeates this blessed night. It was for this we longed when we came; it is for this we shall come again next year.

“Why is it, dear Brother Eric Gustaf, that we must come here to you in order to feel reconciled to our fate, proud of our country, happy with ourselves and with those about us? You are no big important man. You have done no great outstanding thing. But you have within you the best of good-will and an open heart. We know that, were it in your power, you would take the whole world in your embrace. This is why you can give us each year a few hours of bliss, a little glimpse of Paradise, which we of East Ämtervik call the Seventeenth of August.”

POSTSCRIPT

POSTSCRIPT

IT WAS the Seventeenth of August, year 1919.

I had had a wreath bound, the prettiest that could be made up at Mårbacka, and with this before me in the victoria, I drove to the church. I was in holiday attire, the victoria shone with a new coat of varnish, and the horses were in their best harness.

It was a perfect day. The earth lay bathed in sunshine, the air was mild, and across the pale blue sky floated a few white wisps of cloud. Not the slightest breeze blew from any direction. It was a Sunday, and I saw little children in holiday dress playing in the yards, and grown folk in their Sunday best setting off for church. No cows or sheep or chickens were seen in the road, as on weekdays, when the victoria passed through the village of Ås.

The crop that year was so abundant, it seemed as if the good old times were back with us again. The haylofts along the way were so full, shutters and doors could not be closed; the rye fields were decked with close rows of shooks; the apple trees in the front yards hung heavy with reddening fruit, and the fallow fields, newly sown, showed a tender crop just turning green.

I sat thinking that here was something Lieutenant Lagerlöf--whose centenary it was that day--would have liked to see. Here was prosperity. It was not as in 1918 and 1917 and 1915 and 1914 and 1911--those dreadful years of drouth! How he would have rejoiced at this! He would have nodded to himself, and averred that nowhere in all Värmland could they raise such crops as in his parish.

During the whole long drive to the church, my father was in my thoughts. On this very road he had driven many and many a time. I pictured with what keen interest he would have noted all the changes. Every house which had been repainted, every new window, every roof where tiling had replaced the old shingles, he would have pointed out and commented upon. The cottage Där Fram at Ås, which had remained unaltered, would have delighted him; but he would have been sorry to find Jan Larsson’s old house--the finest in the parish in his time--torn down.

Certainly he had never been opposed to changes and improvements, though there were some time-honoured things he had wished to leave undisturbed. Were he here now, he would think us a shiftless lot to have in this day and age the old crooked, sagging fences that were here in his time. He would be shocked to find the road ditches still choked with weeds, the bridges weak and full of holes, and the dung-yards still lying at the edge of the road.

When I came to the crossing where the village road runs into the great highway, how I wished I might have pointed out to him the fine health resort among the hills, and told him that Ås Springs were now visited every year by hundreds of people. It would have gladdened him to know that his idea--that this would some day be a popular watering-place--had not been so far afield. I could have wished he were beside me in the carriage as I drove across the Ämtan Bridge! It would have been a joy to show him that the river had at last been dredged, and now ran in a straight course, no longer overflowing its banks.

As I drove by the Ostenby school, I seemed to see him standing on the playground scattering handfuls of pennies--happy and content as always, when he had a crowd of children about him. I had heard him say, time and time again, that popular education was a calamity, and would bring us to ruin. But all the same, on every examination day, he would drive down to the school to sit for hours while his good friend Melanoz quizzed the children in catechism and history, and let them show how clever they were at arithmetic and composition. I doubt whether there was any one more pleased than he when the youngsters gave correct answers and got good marks and prizes. I had often wondered at this; but now I understand that where children were concerned, all prejudice was thrown to the winds.

I remembered how it had been in the old days when we drove into the church grove. We were hailed with cheery salutations as folk sprang aside to let our carriage pass, and father sat smiling and raising his hand to the brim of his hat. But when I drove in on the same ground, the place looked so empty and deserted.

I was alone in the carriage, and among all who had come to the church only I remembered that this was my father’s birthday. I stepped out and went over to the churchyard to place the wreath. My sad heart wept over my loved ones who lay sleeping there. Father and Mother, Grandmother, Aunt Lovisa, and the old housekeeper--I had seen them all laid away.

I longed for them, I wished they might come back and dwell in that Mårbacka which their labours had built up.

But still, silent, inaccessible, they slept on. They seemed not to hear me. Yet, perhaps they did. Perhaps these recollections, which have hovered round me the last few years, were sent forth by them. I do not know, but I love to think so.

THE END

Transcriber’s Note

This transcription is based on scans made available by the University of Michigan and Google:

https://books.google.com/books?id=pEUVAAAAMAAJ

To standardize a few inconsistencies in place names, the text of the 1922 Swedish edition was consulted. This text is available through the Hathi Digital Library at:

https://hdl.handle.net/2027/umn.31951p00687609k

The following changes were made to the printed text:

• Table of contents: II. The Money Chest--Added a hyphen between “Money” and “Chest” for consistency.

• p. 20: “Hush up, Selma! You must’t talk when you’re facing such danger!--Changed “must’t” to “mustn’t”.

• p. 56: The Sunne priest used also to officiate at Åmtervik--Changed “Åmtervik” to “Ämtervik” to be consistent with the Swedish text.

• p. 90: Eligible young gentlemen from Sunne--from Ämbervik--now came a-courting.--Changed “Ämbervik” to “Ämtervik” to be consistent with the Swedish text.

• p. 112: THE MONEY CHEST--Added a hyphen between “MONEY” and “CHEST” in the chapter title for consistency with the text.

• p. 114: You’d better go in and ask for house-room.--Added a closing double quotation mark at the end of the sentence.

• p. 130: so that Lars would not dare come with any of his monkey tricks.”--Deleted the closing double quotation mark. The speaker’s dialogue continues in the next paragraph.

• p.145: they could hardly be used for a bridal crown.--Added a hyphen between “bridal” and “crown” for consistency.

• p. 264: so many gifted persons all living in a little place like East Åmtervik--Changed “Åmtervik” to “Ämtervik” to be consistent with the Swedish text.

• p. 269: The Lieutenant had once presented to the Ottenby school--Changed “Ottenby” to “Ostenby” to be consistent with how the Swedish “Östanby” is rendered elsewhere.

• p. 285: Deleted the subheading “I” under the “POSTSCRIPT” heading. There is no other subheading in the postscript.

Except where noted otherwise, inconsistencies of spelling and hyphenation have been preserved.