Jerusalem by Selma Lagerloef

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No one could find out just how much she knew or did not know of
what went on in the parish. With the advancing years, she became
more and more detached, and apparently lost all interest in the
things of this world. Now she just sat reading all the while in an
old Postil, which she seemed to know by heart.

Living with her was a faithful old servant, who helped her dress,
and prepared her meals. The two of them were in mortal fear of
robbers and mice, and they were so afraid of fire that they would
sit in the dark the whole evening rather than light the lamp.

Several among those who had lately become followers of Hellgum,
used to call on the Dean's widow in the old days, and bring her
little gifts; but since their conversion they had separated
themselves from all who were not of their faith; so they no longer
went to see her. No one knew whether she understood why they did
not come. Nor did anybody know whether she had heard anything about
their proposed emigration to Jerusalem.

But one day the old lady took it into her head to go for a drive,
and ordered the servant to get her a carriage and pair. Imagine the
astonishment of the old servant! But when she attempted to
remonstrate, the old lady suddenly became stone deaf. Raising her
right hand, her forefinger poised in the air, she said:

"I wish to go for a drive, Sara Lena, you must find me a carriage
and a pair of horses."

There was nothing for Sara Lena but to do as she was told. So she
went over to the pastor's to ask for the loan of his rig, which was
a fairly decent-looking turnout. That done, she was put to the
bother of airing and brushing an old fur cape and an old velvet
bonnet that had been lying in camphor twenty consecutive years. And
it was no small task getting the old lady down the stairs and into
the wagon! She was so feeble that it seemed as if her life could
have been as easily snuffed out as a candle flame in a storm.

When the Dean's widow was at last safely seated in the carriage,
she ordered the driver to take her to the Ingmar Farm.

Maybe the folks up at the farm were not surprised when they saw who
was coming! The housefolk came running out, and lifted her down
from the carriage, and ushered her into the living-room. Seated at
the table in there were quite a number of Hellgumists. Of late they
had been in the habit of coming together and having their frugal
meals in common--meals which consisted of rice and tea and other
light things; this was to prepare them for the coming journey
across the desert.

The Dean's widow glanced around the room. Several persons tried to
speak to her, but that day she heard nothing whatever. Suddenly she
put up her hand, and said in that hard, dry voice in which deaf
people are wont to speak: "You do not come to see _me_ any more;
therefore, I have come to _you_, to warn you not to go to Jerusalem.
It is a wicked city. It was there they crucified our Saviour."

Karin attempted to answer the old lady, who apparently did not
hear, for she went right on:

"It is a wicked city," she repeated. "Bad people live there. 'Twas
there they crucified Christ. I have come here to-day," she added,
"because this has been a good house. Ingmarsson has been a good
name; it has always been a good name. Therefore, you must remain in
our parish,"

Then she turned and walked out of the house. Now she had done her
part, and could die in peace. This was the last service that life
demanded of her.

After the old lady had gone, Karin broke into tears. "Perhaps it
isn't right for us to go," she sighed. But she was pleased that the
Dean's widow had said that Ingmarsson was a good name--that it had
always been a good name.

It was the first and only time Karin had been known to waver, or
to express any doubt as to the advisability of the great
undertaking.

THE DEPARTURE OF THE PILGRIMS

One beautiful morning in July, a long train of carts and wagons set
out from the Ingmar Farm. The Hellgumists had at last completed
their arrangements, and were now leaving for Jerusalem--the first
stage of their journey being the long drive to the railway station.

The procession, in moving toward the village, had to pass a
wretched hovel which was called Mucklemire. The people who lived
there were a disreputable lot--the kind of scum of the earth which
must have sprung into being when our Lord's eyes were turned, or
when he had been busy elsewhere.

There was a whole horde of dirty, ragged youngsters on the place,
who were in the habit of running loose all day, shrieking after
passing vehicles, and calling the occupants bad names; there was an
old crone, who usually sat by the roadside, tipsy; and there were a
husband and wife who were always quarrelling and fighting, and who
had never been known to do any honest work. No one could say
whether they begged more than they stole, or stole more than they
begged.

When the Jerusalem-farers came alongside this wretched hovel, which
was about as tumbledown as a place can become where wind and storm
have, for many years, been allowed to work havoc, they saw the old
crone standing erect and sober at the roadside, on the same spot
where she usually sat in a drunken stupor, lurching to and fro, and
babbling incoherently, and with her were four of the children. All
five were now washed and combed, and as decently dressed as was
possible for them to be.

When the persons seated in the first cart caught sight of them,
they slackened their speed and drove by very slowly; the others did
likewise, walking their horses.

All the Jerusalem-farers suddenly burst into tears, the grown-ups
crying softly, while the children broke into loud sobs and wails.

Nothing had so moved them as the sight of Beggar Lina standing at
the roadside clean and sober. Even to this day their eyes fill when
they think of her; of how on that morning she had denied herself
the drink, and had come forth sober, with the grandchildren washed
and combed, to do honour to their departure.

When they had all passed by, Beggar Lina also began to weep.

"Those people are going to Heaven to meet Jesus," she told the
children. "All those people are going to Heaven but we are left
standing by the wayside."

***

When the procession of carts and wagons had driven halfway through
the parish, it came to the long floating bridge that lies rocking
on the river.

This is a difficult bridge to cross. The first part of it is a
steep incline all the way down to the edge of the stream; then come
two rather abrupt elevations, under which boats and timber rafts
can pass; and at the other end the up grade is so heavy that both
man and beast dread to climb it.

That bridge has always been a source of annoyance. The planks keep
rotting, and have to be replaced continually. In the spring, when
the ice breaks, it has to be watched day and night to prevent its
being knocked to pieces by drifting ice floes; and when the spring
rains cause a rise in the river, large portions of the bridge are
washed away.

But the people of the parish are proud of their bridge, and glad to
have it, rickety as it is. But for that blessed bridge they would
have to use a rowboat or a ferry every time they wanted to cross
from one side of the parish to the other.

The bridge groaned and swayed as the Jerusalem-farers passed over
it, and the water came up through the cracks in the planks and
splashed the horses' legs.

They felt sad at having to leave their dear old bridge, for they
knew it was something which belonged to all of them. Houses and
farms, groves and meadows, were owned by different persons, but the
bridge was their common property.

But was there nothing else that they had in common? Had they not
the church in among the birches on the other side of the bridge?
Had they not the pretty white schoolhouse, and the parsonage?

And they had something more in common. Theirs was the beauty which
they saw from the bridge: the lovely view of the broad and mighty
river flowing peacefully on between its tree-clad banks, and all
a-sparkle in the summer light; the wide view across the valley
clear over to the blue hills. All this was theirs! It was as if
burned into their eyes. And now they would never see it again.

When the Hellgumists came to the middle of the bridge, they began
to sing one of Sankey's hymns. "We shall meet once again," they
sang, "we shall meet in that Eden above."

There was no one on the bridge to hear them. They were singing to
the blue hills of their homeland, to the silvery waters of the
river, to the waving trees. And from throats tightened by sobs and
tears came the song of farewell:

"O beautiful homeland, with thy peaceful farms with their red and
white tree-sheltered houses; with thy fertile fields and green
meadows; thy groves and orchards; thy long valley, divided by the
shining river, hear us! Pray God that we may meet again, that we
may see thee again in Paradise!"

***

When the long procession of carts and wagons had crossed the
bridge, it came to the churchyard. In the churchyard there was a
large flat gravestone that was crumbling from age. It bore neither
name nor date, but according to tradition, the bones of an ancestor
of the Ljung family rested under it.

When Ljung Bjoern Olafsson, who was now going to Jerusalem, and his
brother Pehr were children, they had once sat on that stone and
talked. At first they were as chummy as could be; then all at once
they got to quarrelling about something, became very much excited,
and raised their voices. What they quarrelled about they had long
since forgotten, but what they never could forget was, that while
they were quarreling the hardest, they heard several distinct and
deliberate rappings on the stone where they were seated. They broke
off instantly. Then they took each other by the hand, and stole
quietly away. Afterward, they could never see that stone without
thinking of this incident.

And now, when Ljung Bjoern was driving past the churchyard, who
should he see but his brother Pehr, sitting on that selfsame stone,
with his head resting on his hands. Ljung Bjoern reined in his
horse, and signalled to the others to wait for him. He got down
from the cart, climbed over the cemetery wall, and went and sat on
the stone beside his brother.

Pehr Olafsson immediately said: "So you sold the farm, Bjoern!"

"Yes," answered Bjoern. "I have given all I owned to God."

"But the farm was not yours," the brother mildly protested.

"Not mine?"

"No, it belonged to the family."

Ljung Bjoern did not reply, but sat quietly waiting. He knew that
when his brother had seated himself on that stone, it was for the
purpose of speaking words of peace. Therefore, he was not afraid of
what Pehr might say.

"I have bought back the farm," said the brother.

Ljung Bjoern gave a start. "Couldn't you bear to have it go out of
the family?" he asked.

"I'm hardly rich enough to do such things for that reason."

Bjoern looked at his brother inquiringly.

"I did it that you might have something to come back to."

Bjoern was overwhelmed, and could hardly keep the tears back.

"And that your children may have a place to come back to--"

Bjoern put his arm around his brother's neck.

"--and for the sake of my dear sister-in-law," said Pehr. "It will
be good for her to know that she has a house and home waiting for
her. The old home will always be open to any of you who may want to
come back."

"Pehr, take my place in the cart and go to Jerusalem, and I'll stay
at home. You are far more worthy to enter the Promised Land than I
am."

"No, no!" said the brother smilingly. "I understand how you mean
it, but I guess I fit in better at home."

"I think you're more fit for Heaven," said Bjoern, laying his head
on his brother's shoulder. "Now you must forgive me everything," he
said.

Then they got up and clasped hands in farewell.

"This time there were no rappings," Pehr remarked.

"Strange you should have thought of coming here," said Bjoern.

"We brothers have had some difficulty in maintaining peace, when
we've met of late."

"Did you think that I would want to quarrel to-day?"

"No, but I become angry when I think of having to lose you!"

They walked together down to the road. Presently Pehr went up to
Bjoern's wife, and gave her a hearty handclasp.

"I've bought the Ljung Farm," he said. "I tell you this now so that
you may know you've always got a place to come to." Then he took
the eldest of the children by the hand, and said: "Remember, now,
that you have a house and land to come back to, should you want to
return to the old country." He went from one child to the other,
even to little Eric, who was only two years old and couldn't
understand what it all meant. "The rest of you youngsters must not
forget to tell little Eric that he has a home to return to whenever
he wants to come back."

And the Jerusalem-farers went on.

***

When the long line of carts and wagons had passed the churchyard,
the travellers came upon a large crowd of friends and relatives who
had come out to bid them goodbye. They had a long halt here, for
everybody wanted to shake hands with them, and say a few parting
words.

And later, when they drove through the village, the road was lined
with people who wished to witness their departure. There were
people standing on every doorstep and leaning out of every window;
they sat upon the low stone hedges all along the way, and those who
lived farther off stood on mounds and hills waving a last farewell.

The long procession moved slowly past all these people until it
came to the home of Councilman Lars Clementsson, where it halted.
Here Gunhild got down to say good-bye to her folks.

Gunhild had been staying at the Ingmar Farm since deciding to go
with the others to Jerusalem. She had felt that this was preferable
to living at home in constant strife with her parents, who could
not become reconciled to the thought of her going.

As Gunhild stepped down from the cart she noticed that the place
looked quite deserted. There was not a soul to be seen, either
outside or at the windows. When she reached the gate she found it
locked. She stepped over the stile into the yard. Even the front
door of the house was fastened. Then Gunhild went round to the
kitchen door; it was hooked on the inside! She knocked several
times, but as no one came she pulled the door toward her, inserted
a stick in the crack, and lifted the hook. So she finally got in.
There was no one in the kitchen, nor was there any one in the
living-room, nor yet in the inner room.

Gunhild did not want to go away without letting her parents know
that she had been to say good-bye to them. She went over to the big
combination desk and bureau, where her father always kept his
writing materials, and drew down the lid. She could not at first
find the ink, so looked for it in drawers and pigeonholes. While
searching, she came upon a small casket which she remembered well.
It was her mother's--she had received it from her husband as a
wedding present. When Gunhild was a little girl her mother had
often shown it to her. The casket was enamelled in white, with a
garland of hand-painted flowers. On the inside of the lid was a
picture of a shepherd piping to a flock of white lambs. Gunhild now
opened the box to take a last peep at the shepherd.

In this casket Gunhild's mother had always kept her most
cherished keepsakes-the worn-down wedding ring which had
belonged to her mother, the old-fashioned watch which had been
her father's, and her own gold earrings. But when Gunhild
opened the box, she found that all these things had been taken
out, and in their place lay a letter. It was a letter that she
herself had written. A year or two before, she had made a trip to
Mora by boat across Lake Siljan. The boat had capsized. Some of her
fellow-passengers were drowned, and her parents had been told that
she, too, had perished. It flashed upon Gunhild that her mother
must have been made so happy on receiving a letter from her
daughter telling of her safety, that she had taken everything else
out of the casket, and placed the letter there as her most
priceless treasure.

Gunhild turned as pale as death; her heart was being wrung. "Now I
know that I'm killing my mother," she said, She no longer thought
of writing anything, but hurried away. She got up into the cart,
taking no notice of the many questions as to whether she had seen
her parents. During the remainder of the drive she sat motionless,
with her hands in her lap, and staring straight ahead. "I'm killing
my mother," she was saying to herself. "I know that I'm killing my
mother. I know that mother will die. I can never be happy again. I
may go to the Holy Land, but I am killing my own mother."

***

When the long line of carts and wagons had passed through the
village, it turned in on a forest road. Here the Jerusalem-farers
noticed for the first time that they were being shadowed by two
persons whom they did not seem to know. While still in the village,
they had been so engrossed in their leave-takings that they had not
seen the strange vehicle in which the two unknown people sat; but
in the wood their attention was drawn to it.

Sometimes it would drive past all the other carts and lead the
procession; then again it would take the side of the road and let
the other teams go by. It was an ordinary wagon, the kind commonly
used for carting; therefore, it was impossible to tell to whom it
belonged. Nor did any one recognize the horse.

It was driven by an old man, who was much bent, and had wrinkled
hands and a long white beard. Certainly none of them knew who he
was. But by his side sat a woman whom they somehow felt they knew.
No one could see her face, for her head was covered with a black
shawl, both sides of which she held together so closely that not
even her eyes were seen. Many tried to guess from her figure and
size who she was, but no two guessed alike.

Gunhild said at once, "It's my mother," and Israel Tomasson's wife
declared that it was her sister. There was scarcely a person among
them but had his or her own notion as to who it was. Tims Halvor
thought it was old Eva Gunnersdotter.

The strange cart accompanied them all the way, but not once did
the woman draw the shawl back from her face. To some of the
Hellgumists she became a person they loved, to others one they
feared, but to most of them she was some one whom they had
deserted.

Wherever the road was wide enough to allow of it, the strange
cart would drive past the whole line of wagons, and then pull to
one side until they had all gone by. At such times the unknown
woman would turn toward the travellers, and watch them from behind
her drawn shawl; but she made no sign to any of them, so that no
one could really say for certain who she was. She followed all the
way to the railway station. There they expected to see her face;
but when they got down and began to look around for her--she was
gone.

***

When the procession of carts and wagons passed along the
countryside, no one was seen cutting grass, or raking hay, or
stacking hay. That morning all work had been suspended, and every
one was either standing at the roadside in their Sunday clothes or
driving to see the travellers off; some went with them six miles,
some twelve, a few accompanied them all the way to the railway
station.

Throughout the entire length and breadth of the parish only one
man was seen at work. That man was Hoek Matts Ericsson. Nor was he
mowing grass-that he regarded as only child's play. He was clearing
away stones from his land, just as he had done in his youth, when
preparing his newly acquired acres for cultivation.

Gabriel, as he drove along, could see his father from the road. Hoek
Matts was out in the grove prying up stones with his crowbar, and
piling them on to a stone hedge. He never once looked up from his
work, but went right on digging and lugging stones, some of which
were so big that Gabriel thought they were enough to break his
back--and afterward throwing them up on to the hedge with a force
that caused them to splinter, and made sparks fly. Gabriel, who was
driving one of the goods wagons, let his horse look out for itself
for a long time while his eyes were turned toward his father.

Old Hoek Matts worked on' and on, toiling and slaving exactly as he
had done when his son was a little lad, and he strove to develop
his property. Grief had taken a firm hold on Hoek Matts; yet he went
on digging and prying up larger and larger stones, and piling them
on the hedge.

Soon after the procession had passed, a violent thunderstorm came
up. Everybody ran for cover, and Hoek Matts, too, thought of doing
the same; then he changed his mind. He dared not leave off working.

At noon his daughter came to the door and called to him to come to
dinner. Hoek Matts was not very hungry; still, he felt that he might
need a bite to eat. He did not go in, however, for he was afraid to
stop his work.

His wife had gone with Gabriel to the railway station. On her
return, late in the evening, she stopped to tell her husband that
now their son had gone, but he would not leave off an instant to
hear what she had to say.

The neighbours noticed how Hoek Matts worked that day. They came out
to watch him, and after looking on a while, they went in and
reported that he was still there, that he had been at it the whole
day without a break.

Evening came, but the light lingered a while, and Hoek Matts kept
right on working. He felt that if he were to leave off while still
able to drag a foot, his grief would overpower him.

By and by his wife came back again, and stood watching him. The
grove was now almost clear of stones, and the hedge quite high
enough, but still the little old man went on lugging stones that
were more fit for a giant to handle. Now and then a neighbour would
come over to see if he was still at it; but no one spoke to him.

Then darkness fell. They could no longer see him, but they could
hear him--could hear the dull thud of stone against stone as he
went on building the wall.

Then at last as he raised the crowbar it slipped from his hands,
and when he stooped to pick it up he fell; and before he could
think, he was asleep.

Some time afterward he roused himself sufficiently to get to the
house. He said nothing, he did not even attempt to undress, but
simply threw himself down on a wooden bench and dropped off to
sleep.

***

The Jerusalem-farers had at last reached the railway station which
was newly built in a big clearing in the middle of the forest.
There was no town, nor were there any fields or gardens, but
everything had been planned on a grand scale in the expectation
that an important railway community would some day spring up in
this wilderness.

Round the station itself the ground was levelled; there was a broad
stone platform, with roomy baggage sheds and no end of gravel
drives. A couple of stores and workshops, a photographic studio,
and a hotel had already been put up around the gravelled square,
but the remainder of the clearing was nothing but unbroken stubble
land.

The Dal River also flowed past here. It came with a wild and angry
rush from the dark woods, and dashed foamingly onward in a cascade
of falls. The Jerusalem-farers could hardly credit that this was a
part of the broad, majestic river they had crossed in the morning.
Here no smiling valley met their gaze; on all sides the view was
obstructed by dark fir-clad heights.

When the little children who were going with their parents to
Jerusalem were lifted out of the carts in this desolate-looking
place, they became uneasy and began to cry. Before, they had been
very happy in the thought of travelling to Jerusalem. Of course
they had cried a good deal when leaving their homes, but down at
the station they became quite disconsolate.

Their elders were busy unloading their goods from the wagons and
stowing them away in a baggage car. They all helped, so that no one
had any time to look after the children, and see what they were up
to.

The youngsters meanwhile got together, and held council as to what
they should do.

After a bit the older children took the little ones by the hand and
walked away from the station, two by two-a big child and a little
child. They went the same way they had come across the sea of sand,
through the stubble ground, over the river and into the dark forest.

Suddenly, one of the women happened to think of the children, and
opened a food basket to give them something to eat. She called to
them, but got no answer. They had disappeared from sight. Two of
the men went to look for them. Following the tracks which the many
little feet had left in the sand, they went on into the woods,
where they caught sight of the youngsters, marching along in line,
two by two, a big child and a little child. When the men called to
them they did not stop, but kept right on.

The men ran to overtake them. Then the children tried to run away,
but the smaller ones could not keep up; they stumbled and fell.
Then all of them stood still--wretchedly unhappy, and crying as if
their little hearts would break.

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