Jerusalem by Selma Lagerloef

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JERUSALEM

A Novel

From the Swedish of

SELMA LAGERLOEF

Translated by VELMA SWANSTON HOWARD

With an Introduction by

HENRY GODDARD LEACH

CONTENTS

Introduction

BOOK ONE

The Ingmarssons

BOOK TWO

At the Schoolmaster's
"And They Saw Heaven Open"
Karin, Daughter of Ingmar
In Zion
The Wild Hunt
Hellgum
The New Way

BOOK THREE

The Loss of "L'Univers"
Hellgum's Letter
The Big Log
The Ingmar Farm
Hoek Matts Ericsson
The Auction
Gertrude
The Dean's Widow
The Departure of the Pilgrims

INTRODUCTION

As yet the only woman winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, the
prize awarded to Kipling, Maeterlinck, and Hauptmann, is the
Swedish author of this book, "Jerusalem." The Swedish Academy, in
recognizing Miss Selma Lagerloef, declared that they did so "for
reason of the noble idealism, the wealth of imagination, the
soulful quality of style, which characterize her works." Five years
later, in 1914, that august body elected Doctor Lagerloef into their
fellowship, and she is thus the only woman among those eighteen
"immortals."

What is the secret of the power that has made Miss Lagerloef an
author acknowledged not alone as a classic in the schools but also
as the most popular and generally beloved writer in Scandinavia?
She entered Swedish literature at a period when the cold gray star
of realism was in the ascendant, when the trenchant pen of
Strindberg had swept away the cobwebs of unreality, and people were
accustomed to plays and novels almost brutal in their frankness.
Wrapped in the mantle of a latter-day romanticism, her soul filled
with idealism, on the one hand she transformed the crisp
actualities of human experience by throwing about them the glamour
of the unknown, and on the other hand gave to the unreal--to folk
tale and fairy lore and local superstition--the effectiveness of
convincing fact. "Selma Lagerloef," says the Swedish composer,
Hugo Alfven, "is like sitting in the dusk of a Spanish cathedral ...
afterward one does not know whether what he has seen was dream or
reality, but certainly he has been on holy ground." The average
mind, whether Swedish or Anglo-Saxon, soon wearies of heartless
preciseness in literature and welcomes an idealism as wholesome as
that of Miss Lagerloef. Furthermore, the Swedish authoress attracts
her readers by a diction unique unto herself, as singular as the
English sentences of Charles Lamb. Her style may be described as
prose rhapsody held in restraint, at times passionately breaking
its bonds.

Miss Lagerloef has not been without her share of life's perplexities
and of contact with her fellowmen, it is by intuition that she
_works_ rather than by experience. Otherwise, she could not have
depicted in her books such a multitude of characters from all parts
of Europe. She sees character with woman's warm and delicate
sympathy and with the clear vision of childhood. "Selma Lagerloef,"
declared the Swedish critic, Oscar Levertin, "has the eyes of a
child and the heart of a child." This naivete is responsible for
the simplicity of her character types. Deep and sure they may be,
but never too complex for the reader to comprehend. The more varied
characters--as the critic Johan Mortensen has pointed out--like
Hellgum, the mystic in "Jerusalem," are merely indicated and
shadowy. How unlike Ibsen! Selma Lagerloef takes her delight, not in
developing the psychology of the unusual, but in analyzing the
motives and emotions of the normal mind. This accounts for the
comforting feeling of satisfaction and familiarity which comes over
one reading the chronicles of events so exceptionable as those
which occur in "Jerusalem."

In one of her books, "The Wonderful Adventures of Nils," Miss
Lagerloef has sketched the national character of mart Swedish people
in reference to the various landscapes visited by the wild goose in
its flight. In another romance, "Goesta Berling," she has interpreted
the life of the province at Vermland, where she herself was born
on a farmstead in 1858. A love of starlight, violins, and dancing,
a temperament easily provoked to a laughing abandon of life's
tragedy characterizes the folk of Vermland and the impecunious
gentry who live in its modest manor halls. It is a different folk
to whom one is introduced in "Jerusalem," the people of Dalecarlia,
the province of Miss Lagerloef's adopted home. They, too, have their
dancing festivals at Midsummer Eve, and their dress is the most
gorgeous in Sweden, but one thinks of them rather as a serious and
solid community given to the plow and conservative habits of
thought. They were good Catholics once; now they are stalwart
defenders of Lutheranism, a community not easily persuaded but,
once aroused, resolute to act and carry through to the uttermost.
One thinks of them as the people who at first gave a deaf ear to
Gustaf Vasa's appeal to drive out the Danes, but who eventually
followed him shoulder to shoulder through the very gates of
Stockholm, to help him lay the foundations of modern Sweden. Titles
of nobility have never prospered in Dalecarlia; these stalwart
landed peasants are a nobility unto themselves. The Swedish people
regard their Dalecarlians as a reserve upon whom to draw in times
of crisis.

"Jerusalem" begins with the history of a wealthy and powerful
farmer family, the Ingmarssons of Ingmar Farm, and develops to
include the whole parish life with its varied farmer types, its
pastor, schoolmaster, shopkeeper, and innkeeper. The romance
portrays the religious revival introduced by a practical mystic
from Chicago which leads many families to sell their ancestral
homesteads and--in the last chapter of this volume--to emigrate in
a body to the Holy Land.

Truth is stranger than fiction. "Jerusalem" is founded upon the
historic event of a religious pilgrimage from Dalecarlia in the
last century. The writer of this introduction had opportunity to
confirm this fact some years ago when he visited the parish in
question, and saw the abandoned farmsteads as well as homes to
which some of the Jerusalem-farers had returned. And more than
this, I had an experience of my own which seemed to reflect this
spirit of religious ecstasy. On my way to the inn toward midnight
I met a cyclist wearing a blue jersey, and on the breast, instead
of a college letter, was woven a yellow cross. On meeting me the
cyclist dismounted and insisted on shouting me the way. When we
came to the inn I offered him a krona. My guide smiled as though he
was possessed by a beatific vision. "No! I will not take the money,
but the gentleman will buy my bicycle!" As I expressed my
astonishment at this request, he smiled again confidently and
replied. "In a vision last night the Lord appeared unto me and said
that I should meet at midnight a stranger at the cross-roads
speaking an unknown tongue and 'the stranger will buy thy
bicycle!'"

The novel is opened by that favourite device of Selma Lagerloef, the
monologue, through which she pries into the very soul of her
characters, in this case Ingmar, son of Ingmar, of Ingmar Farm.
Ingmar's monologue at the plow is a subtle portrayal of an heroic
battle between the forces of conscience and desire. Although this
prelude may be too subjective and involved to be readily digested
by readers unfamiliar with the Swedish author's method they will
soon follow with intent interest into those pages that describe how
Ingmar met at the prison door the girl for whose infanticide he was
ethically responsible. He brings her back apparently to face
disgrace and to blot the fair scutcheon of the Ingmarssons, but
actually to earn the respect of the whole community voiced in the
declaration of the Dean: "Now, Mother Martha, you can be proud of
Ingmar! It's plain now he belongs to the old stock; so we must
begin to call him '_Big_ Ingmar.'"

In the course of the book we are introduced to two generations of
Ingmars, and their love stories are quite as compelling as the
religious motives of the book. Forever unforgettable is the scene
of the auction where Ingmar's son renounces his beloved Gertrude
and betroths himself to another in order to keep the old estate
from passing out of the hands of the Ingmars. Thus both of these
heroes in our eyes "play yellow." On the other hand they have our
sympathy, and the reader is tossed about by the alternate undertow
of the strong currents which control the conduct of this farming
folk. Sometimes they obey only their own unerring instincts, as in
that vivid situation of the shy, departing suitor when Karin
Ingmarsson suddenly breaks through convention and publicly over the
coffee cups declares herself betrothed. The book is a succession of
these brilliantly portrayed situations that clutch at the
heartstrings--the meetings in the mission house, the reconciliation
scene when Ingmar's battered watch is handed to the man he felt on
his deathbed he had wronged, the dance on the night of the "wild
hunt," the shipwreck, Gertrude's renunciation of her lover for her
religion, the brother who buys the old farmstead so that his
brother's wife may have a home if she should ever return from the
Holy Land. As for the closing pages that describe the departure of
the Jerusalem-farers, they are difficult to read aloud without a
sob and a lump in the throat.

The underlying spiritual action of "Jerusalem" is the conflict of
idealism with that impulse which is deep rooted in the rural
communities of the old world, the love of home and the home soil.
It is a virtue unfortunately too dimly appreciated in restless
America, though felt in some measure in the old communities of
Massachusetts and Virginia, and Quaker homesteads near Philadelphia.
Among the peasant aristocracy of Dalecarlia attachment to the
homestead is life itself. In "Jerusalem" this emotion is pitted on
the one hand against religion, on the other against _love_. Hearts
are broken in the struggle _which_ permits Karin to sacrifice the
Ingmar Farm to obey the inner voice that summons her on her
religious pilgrimage, and _which_ leads her brother, on the other
hand, to abandon the girl of his heart and his life's personal
happiness in order to win back the farm.

The tragic intensity of "Jerusalem" is happily relieved by the
undercurrent of Miss Lagerloef's sympathetic humour. When she has
almost succeeded in transporting us into a state of religious
fervour, we suddenly catch her smile through the lines and realize
that no one more than she feels the futility of fanaticism. The
stupid blunders of humankind do not escape her; neither do they
arouse her contempt. She accepts human nature as it is with a warm
fondness for all its types. We laugh and weep simultaneously at the
children of the departing pilgrims, who cry out in vain: "We don't
want to go to Jerusalem; we want to go home."

To the translator of "Jerusalem," Mrs. Velma Swanston Howard,
author and reader alike must feel indebted. Mrs. Howard has already
received generous praise for her translation of "Nils" and other
works of Selma Lagerloef. Although born in Sweden she has achieved
remarkable mastery of English diction. As a friend of Miss Lagerloef
and an artist she is enabled herself to pass through the temperament
of creation and to reproduce the original in essence as well as
sufficient verisimilitude. Mrs. Howard is no mere artisan
translator. She goes over her page not but a dozen times, and the
result is not a labored performance, but a work of real art in
strong and confident prose.

HENRY GODDARD LEACH.
Villa Nova, Pennsylvania.
June 28, 1915.

BOOK ONE

THE INGMARSSONS

I

A young farmer was plowing his field one summer morning. The sun
shone, the grass sparkled with dew, and the air was so light and
bracing that no words can describe it. The horses were frisky from
the morning air, and pulled the plow along as if in play. They were
going at a pace quite different from their usual gait; the man had
fairly to run to keep up with them.

The earth, as it was turned by the plow, lay black, and shone with
moisture and fatness, and the man at the plow was happy in the
thought of soon being able to sow his rye. "Why is it that I feel
so discouraged at times and think life so hard?" he wondered. "What
more does one want than sunshine and fair weather to be as happy as
a child of Heaven?"

A long and rather broad valley, with stretches of green and yellow
grain fields, with mowed clover meadows, potato patches in flower,
and little fields of flax with their tiny blue flowers, above which
fluttered great swarms of white butterflies--this was the setting.
At the very heart of the valley, as if to complete the picture, lay
a big old-fashioned farmstead, with many gray outhouses and a large
red dwelling-house. At the gables stood two tall, spreading pear
trees; at the gate were a couple of young birches; in the
grass-covered yard were great piles of firewood; and behind the
barn were several huge haystacks. The farmhouse rising above the
low fields was as pretty a sight as a ship, with masts and sails,
towering above the broad surface of the sea.

The man at the plow was thinking: "What a farm you've got! Many
well-timbered houses, fine cattle and horses, and servants who are
as good as gold. At least you are as well-to-do as any one in these
parts, so you'll never have to face poverty.

"But it's not poverty that I fear," he said, as if in answer to his
own thought. "I should be satisfied were I only as good a man as my
father or my father's father. What could have put such silly
nonsense into your head?" he wondered. "And a moment ago you were
feeling so happy. Ponder well this one thing: in father's time all
the neighbours were guided by him in all their undertakings. The
morning he began haymaking they did likewise and the day we started
in to plow our fallow field at the Ingmar Farm, plows were put in
the earth the length and breadth of the valley. Yet here I've been
plowing now for two hours and more without any one having so much
as ground a plowshare.

"I believe I have managed this farm as well as any one who has
borne the name of Ingmar Ingmarsson," he mused. "I can get more for
my hay than father ever got for his, and I'm not satisfied to let
the weed-choked ditches which crossed the farm in his time remain.
What's more, no one can say that I misuse the woodlands as he did
by converting them into burn-beaten land.

"There are times when all this seems hard to bear," said the young
man. "I can't always take it as lightly as I do to-day. When father
and grandfather lived, folks used to say that the Ingmarssons had
been on earth such a long time that they must know what was
pleasing to our Lord. Therefore the people fairly begged them to
rule over the parish. They appointed both parson and sexton; they
determined when the river should be dredged, and where gaols should
be built. But me no one consults, nor have I a say in anything.

"It's wonderful, all the same, that troubles can be so easily borne
on a morning like this. I could almost laugh at them. And still I
fear that matters will be worse than ever for me in the fall. If I
should do what I'm now thinking of doing, neither the parson nor
the judge will shake hands with me when we meet at the church on a
Sunday, which is something they have always done up to the present.
I could never hope to be made a guardian of the poor, nor could I
even think of becoming a churchwarden."

Thinking is never so easy as when one follows a plow up a furrow
and down a furrow. You are quite alone, and there is nothing to
distract you but the crows hopping about picking up worms. The
thoughts seemed to come to the man as readily as if some one had
whispered them into his ear. Only on rare occasions had he been
able to think as quickly and clearly as on that day, and the
thought of it gladdened and encouraged him. It occurred to him that
he was giving himself needless anxiety; that no one expected him to
plunge headlong into misery. He thought that if his father were
only living now, he would ask his advice in this matter, as he had
always done in the old days when grave questions had come up.

"If I only knew the way, I'd go to him," he said, quite pleased at
the idea. "I wonder what big Ingmar would say if some fine day I
should come wandering up to him? I fancy him settled on a big farm,
with many fields and meadows, a large house and barns galore, with
lots of red cattle and not a black or spotted beast among them,
just exactly as he wanted it when he was on earth. Then as I step
into the farmhouse--"

The plowman suddenly stopped in the middle of a furrow and glanced
up, laughing. These thoughts seemed to amuse him greatly, and he
was so carried away by them that he hardly knew whether or not he
was still upon earth. It seemed to him that in a twinkling he had
been lifted all the way up to his old father in heaven.

"And now as I come into the living-room," he went on, "I see many
peasants seated on benches along the walls. All have sandy hair,
white eyebrows, and thick underlips. They are all of them as like
father as one pea is like another. At the sight of so many people I
become shy and linger at the door. Father sits at the head of the
table, and the instant he sees me he says; 'Welcome, little Ingmar
Ingmarsson!' Then father gets up and comes over to me. 'I'd like to
have a word with you, father,' I say, 'but there are so many
strangers here.' 'Oh, these are only relatives!' says father. 'All
these men have lived at the Ingmar Farm, and the oldest among them
is from way back in heathen times.' 'But I want to speak to you in
private,' I say.

"Then father looks round and wonders whether he ought to step into
the next room, but since it's just I he walks out into the kitchen
instead. There he seats himself in the fireplace, while I sit down
on the chopping block.

"'You've got a fine farm here, father,' I say. 'It's not so bad,'
says father, 'but how's everything back home?' 'Oh, everything is
all right there; last year we got twelve kroner for a ton of hay.'
'What!' says father. 'Are you here to poke fun at me, little
Ingmar?'

"'But with me everything goes wrong' I say. 'They forever telling
me that you were as wise as our Lord himself, but no one cares a
straw for me.' 'Aren't you one of the district councillors?' the
old man asks. 'I'm not on the School Board, or in the vestry, nor
am I a councillor.' 'What have you done that's wrong, little
Ingmar?' 'Well, they say that he who would direct the affairs of
others, first show that he can manage his own properly.'

"Then I seem to see the old man lower his eyes and sit pondering.
In a little while he says: 'Ingmar, you ought to marry some nice
girl who will make you a good wife.' 'But that's exactly what I
can't do, father,' I reply. 'There is not a farmer in the parish,
even among the poor and lowly, who would give me his daughter.'
'Now tell me straight out what's back of all this, little Ingmar,'
says father, with such a tender note in his voice.

"'Well, you see, father, four years ago--the same year that I took
over the farm--I was courting Brita of Bergskog.' 'Let me see'--
says father, 'do any of our folks live at Bergskog?' He seems to
have lost all remembrance of how things are down on earth. 'No, but
they are well-to-do people, and you must surely remember that
Brita's father is a member of Parliament?' 'Yes, of course; but you
should have married one of our people, then you would have had a
wife who knew about our old customs and habits.' 'You're right,
father, and I wasn't long finding that out!'

"Now both father and I are silent a moment; then the old man
continues: 'She was good-looking, of course?' 'Yes,' I reply. 'She
had dark hair and bright eyes and rosy cheeks. And she was clever,
too, so that mother was pleased with my choice. All might have
turned out well but, you see, the mistake of it was that she didn't
want me.' 'It's of no consequence what such a slip of a girl wants
or doesn't want.' 'But her parents forced her to say "yes."' 'How
do you know she was forced? It's my candid opinion that she was
glad to get a rich husband like you, Ingmar Ingmarsson.'

"'Oh, no! She was anything but glad. All the same, the banns were
published and the wedding day was fixed. So Brita came down to the
Ingmar Farm to help mother. I say, mother is getting old and
feeble.' 'I see nothing wrong in all that, little Ingmar,' says
father, as if to cheer me up.

"'But that year nothing seemed to thrive on the farm; the potato
crop was a failure, and the cows got sick; so mother I decided it
was best to put off the wedding a year. You see, I thought it
didn't matter so much about the wedding as long as the banns had
been read. But perhaps it was old-fashioned to think that way.'

"'Had you chosen one of our kind she would have exercised
patience,' says father. 'Well, yes,' I say. 'I could see that Brita
didn't like the idea of a postponement; but, you see, I felt that I
couldn't afford a wedding just then. There had been the funeral in
the spring, and we didn't want to take the money out of the bank.'
'You did quite right in waiting,' says father. 'But I was a little
afraid that Brita would not care to have the christening come
before the wedding.' 'One must first make sure that one has the
means,' says father.

"'Every day Brita became more and more quiet and strange. I used to
wonder what was wrong with her and fancied she was homesick, for
she had always loved her home and her parents. This will blow over,
I thought, when she gets used to us; she'll soon feel at home on
the Ingmar Farm. I put up with it for a time; then, one day, I
asked mother why Brita was looking so pale and wild eyed. Mother
said it was because she was with child, and she would surely be her
old self again once that was over with. I had a faint suspicion
that Brita was brooding over my putting off the wedding, but I was
afraid to ask her about it. You know, father, you always said that
the year I married, the house was to have a fresh coat of red
paint. That year I simply couldn't afford it. By next year
everything will be all right, I thought then.'"

The plowman walked along, his lips moving all the while. He
actually imagined that he saw before him the face of his father. "I
shall have to lay the whole case before the old man, frankly and
clearly," he remarked to himself, "so he can advise me."

"'Winter had come and gone, yet nothing was changed. I felt at
times that if Brita were to keep on being unhappy I might better
give her up and send her home. However, it was too late to think of
that. Then, one evening, early in May, we discovered that she had
quietly slipped away. We searched for her all through the night,
and in the morning one of the housemaids found her.'

"I find it hard now to continue, and take refuge in silence. Then
father exclaims: 'In God's name, she wasn't dead, was she?' 'No,
not she,' I say, and father notes the tremor in my voice. 'Was the
child born?' asks father. 'Yes,' I reply, 'and she had strangled
it. It was lying dead beside her.' 'But she couldn't have been in
her right mind.' 'Oh, she knew well enough what she vas about!' I
say. 'She did it to get even with me for forcing myself upon her.
Still she would never have done this thing had I married her. She
said she had been thinking that since I did not want my child
honourably born, I should have no child.' Father is dumb with
grief, but by and by he says to me: 'Would you have been glad of
the child, little Ingmar?' 'Yes,' I answer. 'Poor boy! It's a shame
that you should have fallen in with a bad woman! She is in prison,
of course,' says father. 'She was sent up for three years.' 'And
it's because of this that no man will let you marry a daughter of
his?' 'Yes, but I haven't asked anyone, either.' 'And this is why
you have no standing in the parish?' 'They all think it ought not
to have gone that way for Brita. Folks say that if I had been a
sensible man, like yourself, I would have talked to her and found
out what was troubling her.' 'It's not so easy for a man to
understand a bad woman!' says father. 'No, father, Brita was not
bad, but she was a proud one!' 'It comes to the same thing,' says
father.

"Now that father seems to side with me, I say: 'There are many who
think I should have managed it in such a way that no one would have
known but that the child was born dead.' 'Why shouldn't she take
her punishment?' says father. 'They say if this had happened in
your time, you would have made the servant who found her keep her
tongue in her head so that nothing could have leaked out.' 'And in
that case would you have married her?' 'Why then there would have
been no need of my marrying her. I would have sent her back to her
parents in a week or so and the banns annulled, on the grounds that
she was not happy with us.' 'That's all very well, but no one can
expect a young chap like you to have an old man's head on him.'
'The whole parish thinks that I behaved badly toward Brita.' 'She
has done worse in bringing disgrace upon honest folk.' 'But I made
her take me.' 'She ought to be mighty glad of it,' says father.
'But, father, don't you think it is my fault her being in prison?'
'She put herself there, I'm thinking.' Then I get up and say very
slowly: 'So you don't think, father, that I have to do anything for
her when she comes out in the fall?' 'What should you do? Marry
her?' 'That's just what I ought to do.' Father looks at me a
moment, then asks: 'Do you love her?' 'No! She has killed my love.'
Father closes his eyes and begins to meditate. 'You see, father, I
can't get away from this: that I have brought misfortune upon some
one.'

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