Oh, cavaliers, cavaliers, who among you recalls anymore that this is Christmas night! It is now that angels sing for the shepherds of the field. It is now that children worry about sleeping so soundly that they will not wake up in time for the glorious early morning service. Soon it will be time to light the candles in Bro church, and far off in the forest homes during the evening the boy has made ready a resinous torch, with which he will light the way to church for his girl. In all homes the housewife has set candelabras in the windows, ready to be lit as the churchgoers file past. The organist goes over the Christmas hymns in his sleep, and the old dean lies in bed, testing whether he has voice enough to sing: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men!”
Oh, cavaliers, it would have been better for you to lie quietly in your beds on this night of peace than to keep company with the prince of evil!
But they greet him with shouts of welcome, just as Gösta had done. They place a goblet, filled with flaming brulot, in his hand. They make room for him at the table at the place of honor, and they see him there with joy, as though his foul satyr face bore the sweet features that belonged to the love of their youth.
Beerencreutz invites him to a game of kille, Squire Julius sings his best songs for him, and Örneclou talks to him about beautiful women, those glorious beings who make life sweet.
He is quite comfortable, the horned one, as he leans back with princely posture on the driver’s seat of the old carriage and with claw-equipped hand brings the filled goblet to his smiling mouth.
But Gösta Berling, naturally, makes a speech for him.
“Your grace,” he says, “we have long awaited you here at Ekeby, for you must have difficulty gaining access to any other paradise. Here we live without sowing or spinning, as your grace perhaps already knows. Here the grilled sparrows fly into your mouth, here bitter beer and sweet liquor flow in brooks and streams. This is a good place, make note of that, your grace!
“We cavaliers have surely also waited for you, for our number has scarcely been complete before. Look, it is the case that we are somewhat more than we pretend to be; we are the poem’s ancient band of twelve that proceeds through the ages. There were twelve of us, when we ruled the world on the cloud-covered top of Olympus, and twelve when we lived as birds in Ygdrasil’s green crown. Wherever poetry went forth, there we followed. Did we not sit, twelve men strong, at King Arthur’s round table, and did twelve paladins not go in Charles the Twelfth’s great army? One of us has been Thor, another Jupiter, as any man should be able to see in us yet today. The divine splendor can be sensed under the rags, the lion’s mane under the donkey hide. Time has treated us badly, but when we are there, the smithy becomes a Mount Olympus and the cavaliers’ wing a Valhalla.
“But, your grace, our number has not been complete. It is well known that in the poem’s band of twelve there must always be a Loki, a Prometheus. Him we have lacked.
“Your grace, we bid you welcome!”
“Look, look, look,” says the evil one. “Such fine words, fine words. And I, who don’t have time to reply. Business, lads, business, must be off in a moment, otherwise I would so gladly be at your service, in any capacity whatsoever. Thanks for this evening, old chatterboxes. We’ll meet again.”
Then the cavaliers ask where he intends to go, and he replies that the noble majoress, the mistress of Ekeby, awaits him to get her contract renewed.
Then great astonishment takes hold of the cavaliers.
A stern, capable woman she is, the majoress at Ekeby. She lifts a bushel of rye onto her broad shoulders. She follows the transport of ore, gathered from the mining fields of Bergslagen, on the long road to Ekeby. She sleeps like a peasant driver on the floor of the barn with a sack as a pillow. In winter she may keep watch over a charcoal stack, in summer follow a raft of logs down Löven. She is a commanding woman. She swears like a street urchin and governs her seven ironworks and her neighbors’ farms like a king, governs her own parish and the neighboring parishes, yes, the whole of beautiful Värmland. But for homeless cavaliers she has been like a mother, and therefore they have kept their ears closed when slander whispered to them that she was in league with the devil.
Thus they ask him with great astonishment what kind of contract she has made with him.
And he, the black one, answers them that he has granted the majoress her seven ironworks against the promise that every year she would send him a soul.
Oh, what terror now constricts the hearts of the cavaliers!
Of course they knew it, but they had not realized it before.
At Ekeby a man dies every year, one of the guests of the cavaliers’ wing dies; one of the happy, the carefree, the eternally young, dies. What does it matter, cavaliers must not grow old! If their trembling hands are not able to lift the glass, their dimming eyes not able to discern the cards, what then is life to them, and what are they to life? Butterflies should have the sense to die while the sun is shining.
But now, only now do they grasp the proper meaning of things.
Curse that woman! That is why she has given them many a good meal, that is why she lets them drink her bitter beer and her sweet liquor, so that they might stagger from the drinking halls and card tables of Ekeby down to the king of damnation, one each year, one for each passing year.
Curse that woman, that witch! Strong, splendid men had come to this Ekeby, come there to fade away. For there she ruined them. Their brains were mushrooms, dry ash their lungs, and darkness their spirit, as they sank down on the deathbed and were ready for the long journey, without hope, without a soul, without virtue.
Curse that woman! Better men than them have died like that, and so would they.
But the cavaliers do not long remain paralyzed by the weight of terror.
“You king of damnation,” they shout, “you shall never again make a contract written in blood with that witch; she shall die!” Kristian Bergh, the strong captain, has thrown the smithy’s heaviest sledgehammer across his shoulders. He wants to bury it to the shaft in the head of that sorceress. No more souls will be sacrificed by her.
“And you yourself, horned one, we should set you on the anvil and let the tilt hammer loose. We should hold you still with tongs under the hammer blows and teach you to go hunting for cavalier souls.”
He is cowardly, the black gentleman, that has long been known, and talk of the tilt hammer does not please him. He calls Kristian Bergh back and starts to negotiate with the cavaliers.
“Take the seven ironworks this year, take them yourselves, cavaliers, and give me the majoress!”
“Do you think we are as low-down as she is?” Squire Julius cries out. “We want to have Ekeby and all the ironworks, but you have to take care of the majoress yourself!”
“What does Gösta say, what does Gösta say?” asks the gentle Lövenborg. “Gösta Berling must speak. His opinion on such an important decision must be heard.”
“All of this is madness!” says Gösta Berling. “Cavaliers, don’t let yourselves be fooled by him! What are we against the majoress? Things must go as they will for our souls, but of my own free will we should not become a bunch of ungrateful wretches and behave like scoundrels and traitors. I have eaten the majoress’s food for too many years to betray her now.”
“Yes, go to hell, Gösta, if that’s what you want! We would rather run Ekeby ourselves.”
“But are you out of your mind, or have you drunk yourselves out of your senses? Do you think this is the truth? Do you believe that he over there is the evil one? Don’t you see that the whole thing is a damned lie?”
“Now, now, now,” says the black gentleman, “that man doesn’t notice that he is well on his way to being ready, and yet he has been at Ekeby for seven years. He doesn’t see how far he has come.”
“For pity’s sake, man! I helped put you in the furnace myself.”
“As if that would make any difference, as if I wouldn’t be as good a devil as anyone else. Well, w
ell now, Gösta Berling, aren’t you the steady one. You’ve really turned out nice under the majoress’s care.”
“She is the one who rescued me,” says Gösta. “What would I be without her?”
“See, see, as if she hasn’t had her own reasons for keeping you here at Ekeby. You can lure many into the trap; you have great talents. One time you tried to get away from her, you let her give you a cottage, and you became a worker; you wanted to eat your own bread. Every day she came past the cottage, and she had beautiful girls in her company. One time Marianne Sinclaire was along; then you threw away your spade and leather apron, Gösta Berling, and became a cavalier again.”
“The road went that way, you beast.”
“Yes, yes, of course, the road went that way. Then you came to Borg, became a tutor there for Henrik Dohna and just about became Countess Märta’s son-in-law. Who was it who caused young Ebba Dohna to hear that you were only a defrocked minister, so that she turned you down? It was the majoress, Gösta Berling. She wanted you back.”
“What of it!” says Gösta. “Ebba Dohna died shortly thereafter. I never would have had her anyway.”
Now the black gentleman came up close to him and hissed right in his face: “Died, yes of course she died. Killed herself for your sake, she did, but they haven’t told you that yet.”
“You’re not a bad devil,” says Gösta.
“It was the majoress who controlled everything, I’m telling you. She wanted to have you back in the cavaliers’ wing.”
Gösta burst out laughing.
“You’re not a bad devil,” he cries out wildly. “Why shouldn’t we make a contract with you? You can probably get us the seven ironworks, if you so please.”
“Nice to see that you are no longer against good fortune.”
The cavaliers let out a sigh of relief. They were so far gone that they were not capable of anything without Gösta. If he had not wanted to go along with the deal, then it could not have been made. And yet it was a great thing for destitute cavaliers to get seven ironworks to rule over.
“Now make note of this,” says Gösta, “that we are taking the seven ironworks to save our souls, but not to become the kind of mill owner who counts money and weighs iron. We will not become dried-up parchments nor tied-up money pouches, but rather we will be and remain cavaliers.”
“Wisdom’s own words,” mumbles the black gentleman.
“Therefore, if you want to give us the seven ironworks for one year, then we will accept them, but note that if during that time we do anything that is not like a cavalier, then you may take all twelve of us when the year is out, and give the ironworks to whomever you wish.”
The evil one rubbed his hands together with delight.
“But if we always behave like true cavaliers,” continued Gösta, “then you may never again make a contract on Ekeby, and you will receive no payment for this year either from us or the majoress.”
“That is hard,” says the evil one. “Oh, dear Gösta, I really ought to get one soul, one single poor little soul. Couldn’t I get the majoress then; why are you saving the majoress?”
“I do not trade in such wares,” roars Gösta, “but if you want to have anyone, then you can take old Sintram at Fors, he’s ready, I can answer for that.”
“There, there, there, that sounds all right,” says the black gentleman without blinking. “The cavaliers or Sintram, they can balance each other out. It will be a good year.”
And then the contract was written with blood from Gösta Berling’s little finger on the evil one’s black paper and with his quill pen.
But when it is done, the cavaliers rejoice. Now all the world’s glory shall belong to them for one year, and then there is always some way out.
They move the chairs aside, form a circle around the kettle of brulot standing in the middle of the sooty floor, and swing around in a wild dance. At the center of the circle the evil one dances with high leaps, and at last he falls down flat next to the kettle, tips it over, and drinks.
Then Beerencreutz throws himself down beside him and likewise Gösta Berling, and after them all the others lie in a circle around the kettle, which is rolled from mouth to mouth. At last a shove tips it over, and the hot, sticky liquid washes over the prostrate men.
When the confederates get up, the evil one is gone, but his golden promises hover like glistening crowns over the heads of the cavaliers.
CHAPTER 3
CHRISTMAS DINNER
On Christmas Day Majoress Samzelius gives a great dinner at Ekeby.
She presides as hostess at a table set for fifty guests. She sits there in brilliance and splendor; the short sheepskin, striped woolen stockings, and chalk pipe are nowhere to be seen. She rustles in silk, gold weighs down her bare arms, pearls cool her white neck.
Where then are the cavaliers, where are they who drank a toast to the new masters of Ekeby on the sooty floor of the smithy from a scoured copper kettle?
The cavaliers are sitting at a separate table in a corner by the tiled stove; on this day there is no room for them at the great table. To their table the food arrives late, the wine sparingly; the glances of the beautiful women are not sent in that direction, no one there listens to Gösta’s jokes.
But the cavaliers are like tamed foals, like satisfied beasts. The night only gave them an hour’s sleep, then they went to the early morning Christmas service, illuminated by torches and stars. They saw the Christmas candles, they heard the Christmas hymns, their faces were like those of smiling children. They forgot Christmas night in the smithy, the way you forget a bad dream.
The majoress at Ekeby is great and powerful. Who dares lift an arm to strike her, who dares move his tongue to bear witness against her? Certainly not the poor cavaliers, who for many years have eaten her bread and slept under her roof. She puts them where she wants, she can close her door to them when she wants, and they are not even able to escape her power. God have mercy on their souls! They could not survive far from Ekeby.
The guests are enjoying themselves at the great table; there Marianne Sinclaire’s beautiful eyes are shining, there the low laughter of the happy Countess Dohna resounds.
But among the cavaliers the mood is gloomy. What would it cost, for those who were to be thrown into the abyss for the majoress to be allowed to sit at the same table as her other guests? What kind of mean business is this with the table in the corner by the tile stove! As if the cavaliers were not worthy of being in the company of respectable people!
The majoress prides herself on sitting between the count at Borg and the dean in Bro. The cavaliers hang their heads like disowned children. And as time passes, the night’s thoughts awaken in them.
The merry flashes of wit, the lusty exaggerations, arrive at the table in the corner by the tiled stove like timid guests. There the wrath of the night and its promises make their way into their brains. Squire Julius leads the strong captain, Kristian Bergh, to believe that there will not be enough of the grilled grouse now being passed around the large table for all the dinner guests, but this provokes no delight.
“There won’t be enough,” he says. “I know how many they have. But they haven’t been at a loss about what to do, Captain Kristian; they’ve grilled crows for us here at the little table.”
But Colonel Beerencreutz’s lips curl only into a faint smile under the forbidding mustaches, and Gösta looks as though he were thinking about murdering someone the whole time.
“Why shouldn’t all the food be good enough for the cavaliers?” he asks.
Finally a plate heaped with splendid grouse arrives down at the little table.
But Captain Kristian is angry. Hasn’t he devoted a lifetime of hatred for crows, for those ugly, cawing, flying insects?
He hated them so bitterly that he would put on a woman’s long garment in the autumn and tie a kerchief around his head, and make himself ridiculous to every man just to get within shooting range of them, where they were eating grain on the fields.
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He sought them out at the courting dance on the bare fields in the spring and killed them. He sought out their nests in summer and evicted the shrieking, featherless chicks or crushed the unhatched eggs.
Now he snatches the plate of grouse.
“Don’t you think I recognize them?” he roars at the servant. “Do I have to hear them cawing to recognize them? Damnation, serving Kristian Bergh crow! Damnation!”
And with that he takes the grouse one by and one and heaves them against the wall.
“Damnation,” he shouts as he does so, so that the room rocks, “serving Kristian Bergh crow! Damnation!”
And in the same way that he used to hurl helpless crow chicks against the rocks, now he lets grouse after grouse swish toward the wall.
Gravy and fat are flying around him; the crushed birds bounce to the floor.
And the cavaliers’ wing rejoices.
Then the majoress’s angry voice penetrates to the cavaliers’ ears.
“Throw him out!” she calls to the servants.
But they don’t dare approach him. He is Kristian Bergh, after all, the strong captain.
“Throw him out!”
He hears the shout, and terrible in his wrath he now turns toward the majoress, the way a bear turns from one fallen enemy to a new attacker. He goes up to the horseshoe-shaped table. The huge man’s steps thunder heavily against the floor. He stops across from her with the tabletop between them.
“Throw him out!” the majoress roars yet again.
But he is furious; his furrowed brow, his large, clenched fists inspire fear. He is a giant in stature, a giant in strength. Guests and servants shudder and dare not touch him. Who would dare touch him now, when rage has taken his senses?
He stands right in front of the majoress and shakes his fist at her.
“I took the crow and threw it against the wall. Do you think I did the right thing?”
“Get out, captain!”
“Watch it, hag! Serve Kristian Bergh crow! Would I be doing the right thing, if I were to take you with your seven damned—”
The Saga of Gosta Berling Page 7