Jerusalem by Selma Lagerloef

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Ingmar was deathly pale, and every one who looked at him could see
that he was suffering keenly; therefore, no one ventured to speak
to him. He stood so quietly that many had not even noticed that he
was there. But those who had could think of nothing else. Here
there was none of the merriment which usually prevails at auctions.
With Ingmar standing there, hugging the wall of the old home he was
about to lose, they felt no inclination to laugh or to joke.

Then came a moment for the opening of the auction. The auctioneer
mounted a chair, and began to offer the first lot--an old plow.

Ingmar never moved. He was more like a statue than a human being.

"Good heavens! why can't he go away?" said the people. "He doesn't
have to stay here and witness this miserable business. But the
Ingmarssons never behave like other folks."

The hammer then fell for the first sale. Ingmar started as if it
had caught him; but in a moment he again became motionless. But at
every ring of the hammer a shudder went through him.

Two peasant women passed just in front of Mother Stina; they were
talking about Ingmar.

"Think! If he had only proposed to some rich farmer's daughter he
might have had enough money to buy the farm; but of course he's
going to marry the schoolmaster's Gertrude," said one.

"They say that a rich and influential man has offered to give him
the Ingmar Farm as a wedding present, if he will marry his
daughter," said the other. "You see, they don't mind his being
poor, because he belongs to such a good family."

"Anyway, there's some advantage in being the son of Big Ingmar."

"It would indeed have been a good thing if Gertrude had had a
little, so that she could have given him a lift," thought Mother
Stina.

When all the farming implements had been sold, the auctioneer moved
over to another part of the yard, where the household linens were
piled. He then bean to offer for sale home-woven fabrics--table
cloths, bed linen, and hangings, holding them up so that the
embroidered tulips and the various fancy weaves could be seen all
over the yard.

Ingmar must have noticed the light flutter of the linen pieces as
they were being held aloft, for he involuntarily glanced up. For a
moment his tired eyes looked out upon the desecration, then he
turned away.

"I've never seen the like of that," said a young peasant girl. "The
poor boy looks as if he were dying. If he'd only go away instead of
standing here tormenting himself!"

Mother Stina suddenly jumped to her feet as if to cry out that this
thing must be stopped; then she sat down again. "I mustn't forget
that I'm only a poor old woman," she sighed.

All at once there was a dead silence, which made Mother Stina look
up. The silence was due to the sudden appearance of Karin, who had
just come out from the house. Now it was quite plain what they all
thought of Karin and her dealings, for as she went across the yard
every one drew back. No one put out a hand to greet her, no one
spoke to her; they simply stared disapprovingly.

Karin looked tired and worn, and stooped more than usual. A bright
red spot appeared on both cheeks, and she looked as miserable as in
the days when she had had her struggles with Elof. She had come out
to find Mother Stina and ask her to go inside. "I didn't know till
just now that you were here, Mother Storm," she said.

Mother Stina at first declined, but was finally persuaded.

"We want all the old antagonisms to be forgotten now that we are
going away," said Karin.

While they were going toward the house Mother Stina ventured: "This
must be a trying day for you, Karin."

Karin's only response was a sigh.

"I don't see how you can have the heart to sell all these old
things, Karin."

"It is what one loves most that one must first and foremost
sacrifice to the Lord," said Karin.

"Folks think it strange--" Mother Stina began, but Karin cut her
short.

"The Lord, too, would think it strange if we held back anything we
had offered in His Name."

Mother Stina bit her lip. She could not bring herself to say
anything further. All the reproaches which she had meant to heap
upon Karin stuck in her throat. There was an air of lofty dignity
about Karin that disarmed people; therefore, no one had the courage
to upbraid her. When they were on the broad step in front of the
porch, Mother Stina tapped Karin on the shoulder.

"Have you noticed who is standing over there?" she asked, and
pointed to Ingmar.

Karin winced a little, but was careful not to look over at her
brother. "The Lord will find a way out for him," she murmured. "The
Lord will surely find away out."

To all appearances the living-room was not much changed by reason
of the auction, for in there the seats and cupboards and bedsteads
were stationary. But shining copper utensils no longer adorned the
walls, the built-in bedsteads looked bare, stripped of their
coverings and hangings, and the doors of the blue-painted
cupboards, which in the old days were always left standing half
open, to let visitors see the great silver jugs and beakers that
filled its shelves, were now closed; which meant that there was
nothing inside worth showing. The only wall decoration the room
boasted was the Jerusalem canvas, which on that day had a fresh
wreath around it.

The large room was thronged with relatives and coreligionists of
Halvor and Karin. One after another, they were conducted with much
ceremony to a large, well-spread table, for refreshments.

The door to the inside room was closed. In there negotiations for
the sale of the farm itself were pending. The talking was loud and
heated, especially on the part of the pastor.

In the living-room, on the other hand, the people were very quiet,
and when any one spoke, it was in hushed tones; for every one's
thoughts were in the little room where the fate of the farm was
being settled.

Mother Stina turned to Gabriel, saying: "I suppose there's no
chance of Ingmar getting the farm?"

"The bidding has gone far beyond his figure by now," Gabriel
replied. "The innkeeper from Karmsund is said to have offered
thirty-two thousand, and the Company's bid has been raised to
thirty-five. The pastor is now trying to persuade Karin and Halvor
to let it go to the innkeeper rather than to the Company."

"But what about Berger Sven Persson?"

"It seems that he has not made any bid to-day."

The pastor was still talking. He was evidently pleading with some
one. They could not hear what he said, but they knew that no
decision had been reached or the pastor would not have gone on
talking.

Then came a moment of silence, after which the innkeeper was heard
to say, not exactly loudly, but with a clearness that made every
word carry: "I bid thirty-six thousand, not that I think the place
is worth that much, but I can't bear the thought of its becoming a
corporation property."

Immediately after there was a noise as of some one striking a table
with his fist, and the manager of the Company was heard to shout:
"I bid forty thousand, and more than that Karin and Halvor are not
likely to get."

Mother Stina, who had turned as white as a sheet, got up and went
back to the yard. It was dreary enough out there, but not as
insufferable as sitting in the close room listening to the haggling.

The sale of linen was over; the auctioneer had again changed his
place, and was about to cry out the old family silverware--the
heavy silver jugs inlaid with gold coin, and the beakers bearing
inscriptions from the seventeenth century. When he held up the
first jug, Ingmar started forward as if to stop the sale, but
restrained himself at once, and went back to his place.

A few minutes later an old peasant came bearing the silver jug,
which he respectfully deposited at Ingmar's feet. "You must keep
this as a souvenir of all that by right should have been yours," he
said.

Again a tremor passed through Ingmar's body; his lips quivered,
and he tried to say something.

"You needn't say anything now," said the old peasant. "That will
keep till another time." He withdrew a few paces, then suddenly
turned back. "I hear that folks are saying you could take over the
farm if you cared to. It would be the greatest service you could
render this parish."

There were a number of old servants living at the farm, who had
been there from early youth. Now that old age had overtaken them
they still stayed on, and over these hung a pall of uncertainty
such as had not touched the others. They feared that under a new
master they would be turned out of their old home to become
beggars. Or, whatever happened, they knew in their hearts that no
stranger would care for them as their old master and mistress had
done. These poor old pensioners wandered restlessly about the
farmyard all day long. Seeing them shrink past, frail and helpless,
with a look of hopeless appeal in their weak, watery eyes, every
one felt sorry for them.

Finally one old man, who was nearly a hundred, hobbled up to
Ingmar, and sat down on the ground quite close to him. It seemed to
be the only place where he could be at ease, for there he remained
quietly, resting his shaky old hands on the crook of his cane. And
as soon as old Lisa and Cowhouse Martha saw where Pickaxe Bengt had
taken refuge, they, too, came tottering up, and sat down at Ingmar's
feet. They did not speak to him, but somehow they must have had a
vague idea that he would be able to protect them--he who was now
Ingmar Ingmarsson.

Ingmar no longer kept his eyes closed. He stood looking down at
them, as if he were counting up all the years and all the trials
through which they had lived, serving his people; and it seemed to
him that his first duty was to see that they be allowed to live out
their days in their old home. He glanced out over the yard, caught
the eye of Strong Ingmar, and nodded to him, significantly.

Whereupon Strong Ingmar, without a word, went straight to the
house. He passed through the living-room to the inner room, and
stationed himself by the door, where he waited for an opportunity
to deliver his message.

The pastor was standing in the middle of the room talking to Karin
and Halvor, who were sitting as stiff and motionless as a pair of
mummies. The manager from Bergsana was at the table looking
confident, for he knew that he was in a position to outbid all the
others. The innkeeper from Karmsund was standing at the window, in
such a fever of agitation that great beads of sweat came out on his
forehead, and his hands shook. Berger Sven Persson sat on the sofa
at the far end of the room, twiddling his thumbs, his hands clasped
over his stomach, his big commanding face impassive.

The pastor was done talking, and Halvor glanced over at Karin for
advice; but she sat as if in a trance, staring blankly at the floor.

Then Halvor turned to the pastor, and said: "Karin and I have got
to consider that we are going to a strange land, and that we and
the brethren must live on the money we can get for the farm. We've
been told that the fare alone to Jerusalem will cost us fifteen
thousand kroner. And then, afterward, we must get a house and keep
ourselves in food and clothes. So we can hardly afford to give
anything away."

"It's unreasonable of you people to expect Karin and Halvor to sell
the farm for a mere song, just because you don't want the Company
to have it!" said the manager. "It seems to me that it would be
well to accept my offer at once, if for no other reason than to put
an end to all these useless arguments."

"Yes," Karin spoke up, "we'd better take the highest bid."

But the parson was not so easily beaten! When it came to a question
of handling a worldly matter he always knew just what to say. Now
he was the man, and not the preacher.

"I'm sure that Karin and Halvor care enough about this old farm to
want to sell to some person who would keep up the property, even if
they have to take a couple of thousand kroner less," he said.

Then he proceeded to tell--for Karin's special benefit--of various
farms that had gone to waste after falling into the hands of
corporations.

Once or twice Karin glanced up at the pastor. He wondered whether
he had finally succeeded in making some impression upon her. "There
must surely be a little of the pride of the old peasant matron
still left in her," he thought as he went on telling of tumbledown
farmhouses and underfed cattle.

He finally ended with these words: "I know perfectly well that if
the corporation is fully determined to buy the Ingmar Farm, it can
go on bidding against the farmers until they are forced to give up;
but if Karin and Halvor want to prevent this old place from
becoming a ruined corporation property, they will have to settle on
a price, so that the farmers may know what to be guided by."

When the pastor made that proposition, Halvor, uneasy, glanced over
at Karin, who slowly raised her eyelids.

"Certainly Halvor and I would rather sell the place to some one of
our own kind. Then we could go away from here knowing that
everything would continue in the old way."

"If some person outside the Company wants to give forty thousand
for the property, we will be satisfied to accept that sum for it,"
said Halvor, knowing at last what his wife's wishes were.

When that was said, Strong Ingmar walked over to Sven Persson and
whispered to him.

Judge Persson immediately arose and went up to Halvor. "Since you
say you are willing to take forty thousand kroner for the farm,
I'll buy it at that figure," he said.

Halvor's face began to twitch, and a lump seemed to rise in his
throat; he had to swallow before he could speak. "Thank you,
judge," he finally stammered. "I'm glad that I can leave the farm
in such good hands!"

Judge Persson then shook hands with Karin, who was so moved that
she could hardly keep back the tears.

"You may be sure, Karin, that everything here will be as of old,"
he said.

"Are you going to live at the farm yourself?" Karin inquired.

"No," said he, then added with great solemnity: "My youngest
daughter is to be married in the summer, and she and her husband
are to have the farm as a gift from me." He then turned to the
pastor and thanked him.

"Well, Parson, you'll have it your own way," he said. "I never
dreamed in the days when I was a poor goose boy on this place that
some time it would be in my power to arrange for an Ingmar
Ingmarsson to come back to the Ingmar Farm!"

The pastor and the other men all stood staring at the judge in
dumb amazement, not grasping at first what was meant.

Karin left the room at once. While passing through the living-room
to the yard, she drew herself up, retied her headkerchief, and
smoothed out her apron. Then, with an air of solemn dignity, she
went straight up to Ingmar and grasped his hand.

"Let me congratulate you, Ingmar," she said, her voice shaking with
joy. "You and I have been strongly opposed to each other of late in
matters of religion; but since God does not grant me the solace of
having you with us, I thank Him for allowing you to become master
of the old farm."

Ingmar did not speak. His hand lay limp in Karin's, and when she
let it drop, he stood there looking just as unhappy as he had
looked all day.

The men who had been inside at the final settlement came out now,
and shook hands with Ingmar, offering their congratulations. "Good
luck to you, Ingmar Ingmarsson of the Ingmar Farm!" they said.

At that a glimmer of happiness crossed Ingmar's face, and he
murmured softly to himself: "Ingmar Ingmarsson of the Ingmar Farm."
He was like a child that has just received a gift it has long been
wishing for. But the next moment his expression changed to one of
intense revolt and repugnance, as if he would have thrust the
coveted prize from him.

In a flash the news had spread .all over the farm. People talked
loudly and questioned eagerly; some were so pleased they wept for
joy. No one listened now to the cries of the auctioneer, but
everybody crowded around Ingmar to wish him happiness--peasants and
gentlefolk, friends and strangers, alike.

Ingmar, standing there, surrounded by all these happy people,
suddenly looked up. He then saw Mother Stina, standing a little
apart from the others, her eyes fixed on him. She was very pale,
and looked old and poor. As he met her gaze, she turned and walked
away.

Ingmar hastily left the others and hurried after her. Then bending
down to her, every muscle of his face aquiver with grief, he said
in a husky voice:

"Go home to Gertrude, Mother Stina, and tell her that I have
betrayed her, that I've sold myself for the farm. Tell her never to
think more of such a miserable wretch as I."

GERTRUDE

Something strange had come over Gertrude that she could neither
stay nor control--something that grew and grew until it finally
threatened to take complete possession of her.

It began at the moment when she learned that Ingmar had failed her.
It was really a boundless fear of seeing Ingmar again--of suddenly
meeting him on the road, or at church, or elsewhere. Why that would
be such a terrible thing she hardly knew, but she felt that she
could never endure it.

Gertrude would have preferred shutting herself in, day and night,
so as to be sure of not meeting Ingmar; but that was not possible
for a poor girl like her. She had to go out and work in the garden,
and every morning and evening she was obliged to tramp the long
distance from the house to the pasture to milk the cows, and she
was often sent to the village store to buy sugar and meal and
whatever else was needed in the house.

When Gertrude went out on the road she would always draw her
kerchief far down over her face, keep her eyes lowered, and rush on
as if fiends were pursuing her. As soon as she could, she would
turn from the highroad, and take the narrow bypaths alongside the
ditches and drains, where she felt there was less likelihood of her
meeting Ingmar.

Never for a moment did she feel free from fear; for there was not a
single place in all the parish where she could feel certain of not
running across him. If she went rowing on the river, he might be
there floating his timber, or if she ventured into the depths of
the forest, he might cross her path on his way to work.

When weeding in the garden, she would often glance down the road,
so that she might see if he were approaching, and make her escape.
Ingmar was so well known about the place that her dog would not
have barked at sight of him, and her pigeons, that strutted about
the gravel walk, would not have flown up and warned her of his
approach with the rustle of their flapping wings.

Gertrude's haunting dread did not diminish, but rather increased
from day to day. All her grief had turned to fear, and her strength
to combat it grew less and less. "Soon I shall not dare venture
outside the door," she thought. "I may get to be a bit queer and
morose, even if I don't become quite insane. God, God, take this
awful fear away from me!" she prayed. "I can see that my mother
and father think I'm not right in my head; and every one else must
think the same. Oh, dear Lord God, help me!" she cried.

When this fear condition was at its worst, it happened one night
that Gertrude had an extraordinary dream. She dreamed that she had
gone out, with her milk pail on her arm, to do the milking. The
cows were grazing in an enclosed meadow near the skirt of the
forest, a long way from home. She went by the narrow paths,
alongside the ditches and field drains. She had great difficulty in
walking, for she felt so weak and weary that she could hardly lift
her feet. "What can be the matter with me?" she asked herself, in
the dream. "Why is it so hard for me to walk?" And she also
answered herself. "You are tired because you carry about with you
this heavy burden of sorrow."

When she finally got to the pasturage, there were no cows in sight.
She became uneasy, and began to look for them in their usual
haunts--behind the brushwood, over by the brook, and under the
birches--but there was not a sign of them. While searching for the
cows she discovered a gap in the hedge, on the side fronting the
forest. She grew terribly alarmed, and stood wringing her hands. It
suddenly occurred to her that the cows must have cleared this
opening. "Tired as I am, must I now tramp the whole forest to find
them!" she whimpered, in her dream.

But she went straight on into the woods, slowly pushing her way
through fir brush and prickly juniper bushes. Presently she found
herself walking on a smooth and even road without knowing how she
had got there. The road was soft and rather slippery from the brown
fir needles that covered it. On either side stood great towering
pines, and on the yellow moss under the trees sunbeams were
playing. Here it was so lovely and so peaceful that she almost
forgot her fears.

Of a sudden, she caught sight of an old woman moving about in
among the trees. It was Finne-Marit, she who was famed as a witch.
"How dreadful that that wicked old woman is still alive," thought
Gertrude, "and that I should come upon her here in the forest!" She
tried to slip along very cautiously, so as not to be seen by the
witch. But before Gertrude could get past, the old woman looked up.

"Hi, there!" the old woman shouted. "Wait a bit, and you'll see
something!" In a twinkling, Finne-Marit was in the road and on her
knees almost in front of Gertrude. Then, with her forefinger, she
drew a circle in the carpet of fir needles, at the centre of which
she placed a shallow brass bowl.

"Now she's going to do some conjuring," thought Gertrude. "Why,
then it must be true that she is a witch!"

"Look down into the bowl!" said Finne-Marit, "and maybe you'll
see something." When Gertrude glanced down, she gave a start.
Mirrored in the bowl, she saw plainly the face of Ingmar.
Immediately the old woman handed her a long needle. "See here," she
said; "take this and pierce his eyes. Do this to him because he has
played you false." Gertrude hesitated a little, but felt strongly
tempted. "Why should he fare well, and be rich and happy, while you
suffer?" said the old dame. With that Gertrude was seized by an
uncontrollable desire to do the ogre's bidding, and lowered the
needle. "Mind you stick him right in the eye!" said the witch.
Whereupon Gertrude quickly drove the needle, first into one and
then into the other of Ingmar's eyes. In so doing, she noticed that
the needle went far down-not as though it had come into contact
with metal, but rather as if it had penetrated some soft substance.
When she drew it out, there was blood on it.

Gertrude, seeing blood on the needle, thought she had really put
out Ingmar's eyes. Then she was so overcome by remorse for what she
had done, and so frightened, that she woke up.

She lay for a long while, trembling and weeping, before she was
able to convince herself that it was only a dream. "May God
preserve me from any thought of vengeance!" she moaned.

She had barely quieted down and dropped off to sleep again, when
the dream recurred.

Once more she wandered along the narrow paths toward the grazing
ground. This time, too, the cows had strayed, and she went into the
forest to look for them. Again she came to the beautiful road, and
saw the sunbeams playing on the moss. Then she suddenly recalled
all that had just happened to her in a dream, and grew terribly
frightened lest she should meet the old witch again. Seeing nothing
of her, she felt greatly relieved.

All at once she seemed to see the earth between a couple of moss
tufts open. Suddenly a head appeared. Then she saw the body of a
tiny little man work its way up out of the earth, and all the while
the little man was making a buzzing and humming noise. By that she
knew whom she had encountered. It was Humming Pete, of course, who
was said to be a bit queer in his head. Sometimes he used to stay
down in the village, but during the summer he always lived in a mud
cave in the forest.

Then Gertrude recalled to memory what she had heard folks say of
Pete: "Any one wanting to injure an enemy without risking discovery
could avail himself of his services." He was suspected of having
started a number of incendiary fires at the instigation of others.

Gertrude then went up to the man and asked him, half in fun, if he
wouldn't like to set fire to the Ingmar Farm. She wished it done,
she said, because Ingmar Ingmarsson thought more of the farm than
of her.

To her horror, the half-witted dwarf was ready to act on her
suggestion. Nodding gleefully, he started on a run toward the
settlement. She hurried after, but could not seem to overtake him.
Her dress caught in the brushwood, her feet sank in the marsh, and
she stumbled over stony ground. When she was almost out of the
forest, what should she see through the trees but the glow from a
fire. "He has done it, he has set fire to the farm!" she shrieked,
again awakening from the horror of the dream.

Now Gertrude sat up in bed; tears ran down her cheeks. She dared
not sink back on her pillow again for fear of dreaming further.
"Oh, Lord help me, Lord help me!" she cried. "I don't know how much
evil there may be hidden in my heart, but God knows that never once
during all this time have I thought of revenging myself on Ingmar.
O God, let me not fall into this sin!" she prayed. Wringing her
hands in an agony of despair, she cried out:

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