Jerusalem by Selma Lagerloef

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"The old man sits quite still and does not answer.

"'The last time I saw her was in the courtroom. Then she was so
gentle, and longed so for her child. Not one harsh word did she say
against me. She took all the blame to herself. Many in that
courtroom were moved to tears, and the judge himself had to swallow
hard. He didn't give her more than three years, either.'

"But father does not say a word.

"'It will be hard for her when fall comes, and she's sent home.
They won't be glad to have her again at Bergskog. Her folks all
feel that she has brought shame upon them, and they're pretty sure
to let her know it, too! There will be nothing for her but to sit
at home all the while; she won't even dare to go to church. It's
going to be hard for her in every way.'

"But father doesn't answer.

"'It is not such an easy thing for me to marry her! To have a wife
that menservants and maidservants will look down upon is not a
pleasant prospect for a man with a big farmstead. Nor would mother
like it. We never invite people to the house, either to weddings
or funerals.'

"Meanwhile, not a word out of father.

"Of course at the trial I tried to help her as much as I could. I
told the judge that I was entirely to blame, as I took the girl
against her will. I also said that I considered her so innocent of
any wrong that I would marry her then and there, if she could only
think better of me. I said that so the judge would give her a
lighter sentence. Although I've had two letters from her, there's
nothing in them to show any changed feeling toward me. So you see,
father, I'm not obliged to marry her because of that speech.'

"Father sits and ponders, but he doesn't speak.

"'I know that this is simply looking at the thing from the
viewpoint of men, and we Ingmars have always wanted to stand well
in the sight of God. And yet sometimes I think that maybe our Lord
wouldn't like it if we honoured a murderess.'

"And father doesn't utter a sound.

"'Think, father, how one must feel who lets another suffer without
giving a helping hand. I have passed through too much these last
few years not to try to do something for her when she gets out.

"Father sits there immovable.

"Now I can hardly keep back the tears. 'You see, father, I'm a
young man and will lose much if I marry her. Every one seems to
think I've already made a mess of my life; they will think still
worse of me after this!'

"But I can't make father say a word.

"'I have often wondered why it is that we Ingmars have been allowed
to remain on our farm for hundreds of years, while the other farms
have all changed hands. And the thought comes to me that it may be
because the Ingmars have always tried to walk in the ways of God.
We Ingmars need not fear man; we have only to walk in God's ways.'

"Then the old man looks up and says: 'This is a difficult problem,
my son. I guess I'll go in and talk it over with the other Ingmarssons.'

"So father goes back to the living-room, while I remain in the
kitchen. There I sit waiting and waiting, but father does not
return. Then, after hours and hours of this, I get cross and go to
him. 'You must have patience, little Ingmar,' says father. 'This is
a difficult question.' And I see all the old yeomen sitting there
with closed eyes, deep in thought. So I wait and wait and, for
aught I know, must go on waiting."

Smiling, he followed the plow, which was now moving along very
slowly, as if the horses were tired out and could scarcely drag it.
When he came to the end of the furrow he pulled up the plow and
rested. He had become very serious.

"Strange, when you ask anyone's advice you see yourself what is
right. Even while you are asking, you discover all at once what you
hadn't been able to find out in three whole years. Now it shall be
as God wills."

He felt that this thing must be done, but at the same time it
seemed so hard to him that the mere thought of it took away his
courage. "Help me, Lord!" he said.

Ingmar Ingmarsson was, however, not the only person abroad at that
hour. An old man came trudging along the winding path that crossed
the fields. It was not difficult to guess his occupation, for he
carried on his shoulder a long-handled paint brush and was
spattered with red paint from his cap to his shoe tips. He kept
glancing round-about, after the manner of journeymen painters, to
find an unpainted farmhouse or one that needed repainting. He had
seen, here and there, one and another which he thought might answer
his purpose, but he could not seem to fix upon any special one.
Then, finally, from the top of a hillock he caught sight of the big
Ingmar Farm down in the valley. "Great Caesar!" he exclaimed, and
stopped short. "That farmhouse hasn't been painted in a hundred
years. Why, it's black with age, and the barns have never seen a
drop of point. Here there's work enough to keep me busy till fall."

A little farther on he came upon a man plowing. "Why, there's a
farmer who belongs here and knows all about this neighbourhood,"
thought the painter. "He can tell me all I need know about that
homestead yonder." Whereupon he crossed the path into the field,
stepped up to Ingmar, and asked him if he thought the folks living
over there wanted any painting done.

Ingmar Ingmarsson was startled, and stood staring at the man as
though he were a ghost.

"Lord, as I live, it's a painter!" he remarked to himself. "And to
think of his coming just now!" He was so dumbfounded that he could
not answer the man. He distinctly recalled that every time any one
had said to his father: "You ought to have that big, ugly house of
yours painted, Father Ingmar," the old man had always replied that
he would have it done the year Ingmar married.

The painter put the question a second time, and a third, but Ingmar
stood there, dazed, as if he had not understood him.

"Are they ready at last with their answer?" he wondered. "Is this a
message from father to say that he wishes me to marry this year?"

He was so overwhelmed by the thought that he hired the man on the
spot. Then he went on with his plowing, deeply moved and almost
happy.

"You'll see it won't be so very hard to do this now that you know
for certain it is father's wish," he said.

II

A fortnight later Ingmar Ingmarsson stood polishing some harness.
He seemed to be in a bad humour, and found the work rather irksome.
"Were I in our Lord's place," he thought, then put in another rub
or two and beg again: "Were I in our Lord's place, I'd see to it
that a thing was done the instant your mind was made up. I
shouldn't allow folks such a long time to think it over, and ponder
all the obstacles. I shouldn't give them time to polish harness and
paint wagons; I'd take them straight from the plow."

He caught the sound of wagon wheels from the road, and looked out.
He knew at once whose rig it was. "The senator from Bergskog is
coming!" he shouted into the kitchen, where his mother was at work.
Instantly fresh wood was laid on the fire and the coffee mill was
set going.

The senator drove into the yard, where he pulled up without
alighting. "No, I'm not going into the house," he said, "I only
want a word or two with you, Ingmar. I'm rather pressed for time as
I am due at the parish meeting."

"Mother is just making some fresh coffee," said Ingmar.

"Thank you, but I must not be late."

"It's a good while now since you were here, Senator," said Ingmar
pressingly.

Then Ingmar's mother appeared in the doorway, and protested:

"Surely you're not thinking of going without first coming in for a
drop of coffee?"

Ingmar unbuttoned the carriage apron, and the senator began to
move. "Seeing it's Mother Martha herself that commands me I suppose
I shall have to obey," he said.

The senator was a tall man of striking appearance, with a certain
ease of manner. He was of a totally different stamp from Ingmar or
his mother, who were very plain looking, with sleepy faces and
clumsy bodies. But all the same, the senator had a profound respect
for the old family of Ingmars, and would gladly have sacrificed his
own active exterior to be like Ingmar, and to become one of the
Ingmassons. He had always taken Ingmar's part against his own
daughter, so felt rather light of heart at being so well received.

In a while, when Mother Martha had brought the coffee, he began to
state his errand.

"I thought," he said, and cleared his throat. "I thought you had
best be told what we intend to do with Brita." The cup which Mother
Martha held in her hand shook a little, and the teaspoon rattled in
the saucer. Then there was a painful silence. "We have been
thinking that the best thing we could do would be to send her to
America." He made another pause, only to be met by the same ominous
silence. He sighed at the thought of these unresponsive people.
"Her ticket has already been purchased."

"She will come home first, of course," said Ingmar.

"No; what would she be doing there?"

Again Ingmar was silent. He sat with his eyes nearly closed, as if
he were half asleep.

Then Mother Martha took a turn at asking questions. "She'll be
needing clothes, won't she?"

"All that has been attended to; there is a trunk, ready packed, at
Loevberg's place, where we always stop when we come to town."

"Her mother will be there to meet her, I suppose?"

"Well, no. She would like to, but I think it best that they be
spared a meeting."

"Maybe so."

"The ticket and some money are waiting for her at Loevberg's, so
that she will have everything she needs. I felt that Ingmar ought
to know of it, so he won't have this burden on his mind any longer,"
said the senator.

Then Mother Martha kept still, too. Her headkerchief had slipped
back, and she sat gazing down at her apron.

"Ingmar should be looking about for a new wife."

Both mother and son persistently held their peace.

"Mother Martha needs a helper in this big household. Ingmar should
see to it that she has some comfort in her old age." The senator
paused a moment, wondering if they could have heard what he said.
"My wife and I wanted to make everything right again," he declared
finally.

In the meantime, a sense of great relief had come to Ingmar. Brita
was going to America, and he would not have to marry her. After all
a murderess was not to become the mistress of the old Ingmar home.
He had kept still, thinking it was not the thing to show at once
how pleased he was, but now he began to feel that it would be only
right and proper for him to say something.

The senator quietly bided his time. He knew that he had to give
these old-fashioned people time to consider. Presently Ingmar's
mother said:

"Brita has paid her penalty; now it's our turn." By this the old
woman meant that if the senator wanted any help from the
Ingmarssons, in return for his having smoothed the way for them,
they would not withhold it. But Ingmar interpreted her utterance
differently. He gave a start, as if suddenly awakened from sleep.
"What would father say of this?" he wondered. "If I were to lay the
whole matter before him, what would he be likely to say? 'You must
not think that you can make a mockery of God's judgment,' he would
say. 'And don't imagine that He will let it go unpunished if you
allow Brita to shoulder all the blame. If her father wants to cast
her off just to get into your good graces, so that he can borrow
money from you, you must nevertheless follow God's leading, little
Ingmar Ingmarsson.'

"I verily believe the old man is keeping close watch of me in this
matter," he thought. "He must have sent Brita's father here to show
me how mean it is to try to shift everything on to her, poor girl!
I guess he must have noticed that I haven't had any great desire to
take that journey these last few days."

Ingmar got up, poured some brandy into his coffee, and raised the
cup.

"Here's a thank you to the senator for coming here to-day," he
said, and clinked cups with him.

III

Ingmar had been busy all the morning, working around the birches
down by the gate. First he had put up a scaffolding, then he had
bent the tops of the trees toward each other so that they formed an
arch.

"What's all that for?" asked Mother Martha.

"Oh, it suits my fancy to have them grow that way for a change,"
said Ingmar.

Along came the noon hour, and the men folks stopped their work;
after the midday meal the farm hands went out into the yard and lay
down in the grass to sleep. Ingmar Ingmarsson slept, too, but he
was lying in a broad bed in the chamber off the living-room. The
only person not asleep was the old mistress, who sat in the big
room, knitting.

The door to the entrance hall was cautiously opened, and in came an
old woman carrying two large baskets on a yoke. After passing the
time of day, she sat down on a chair by the door and took the lids
off the baskets, one of which was filled with rusks and buns, the
other with newly baked loaves of spiced bread. The housewife at
once went over to the old woman and began to bargain. Ordinarily
she kept a tight fist on the pennies, but she never could resist
a temptation to indulge her weakness for sweets to dip in her coffee.

While selecting her cakes she began to chat with the old woman,
who, like most persons that go from place to place and know many
people, was a ready talker. "Kaisa, you're a sensible person," said
Mother Martha, "and one can rely on you."

"Yes, indeed," said the other. "If I didn't know enough to keep mum
about most of the things I hear, there'd be some fine hair-pulling
matches, I'm thinking!"

"But sometimes you are altogether too close-mouthed, Kaisa."

The old woman looked up; the inference was quite plain to her.

"May the Lord forgive me!" she said tearfully, "but I talked to the
senator's wife at Bergskog when I should have come straight to
you."

"So you have been talking to the senator's wife!" And the emphasis
given to the last two words spoke volumes.

Ingmar had been startled from his sleep by the opening of the
outside door. No one had come in, apparently; still the door stood
ajar. He did not know whether it had sprung open or whether some
one had opened it. Too sleepy to get up, he settled back in bed.
And then he heard talking in the outer room.

"Now tell me, Kaisa, what makes you think that Brita doesn't care
for Ingmar."

"From the very start folks have been saying that her parents made
her take him," returned the old woman, evasively.

"Speak right out, Kaisa, for when I question you, you don't have to
beat about the bush. I guess I'm able to bear anything you may have
to tell me."

"I must say that every time I was at Bergskog Brit always looked as
if she'd been crying. Once, when she and I were alone in the
kitchen, I said to her: 'It's a fine husband you'll be getting,
Brita.' She looked at me as if she thought I was making fun of her.
Then she came at me with this: 'You may well say it, Kaisa. Fine,
indeed!' She said it in such a way that I seemed to see Ingmar
Ingmarsson standing there before my face and eyes, and he's no
beauty! As I've always had a great respect for all the Ingmarssons,
that thought had never before entered my mind. I couldn't help
smiling a little. Then Brita gave me a look and said once more:
'Fine, indeed'' With that she turned on her heel and ran into her
room, crying as if her heart would break. As I was leaving I said
to myself: 'It will all come out right; everything always comes out
right for the Ingmarssons.' I didn't wonder at her parents doing
what they did. If Ingmar Ingmarsson had proposed to a daughter of
mine, I shouldn't have given myself a moment's peace till she said
yes."

Ingmar from his bedroom could hear every word that was spoken.

"Mother is doing this on purpose," he thought. "She's been
wondering about that trip to town to-morrow. Mother fancies I'm
going after Brita, to fetch her home. She doesn't suspect that I'm
too big a coward to do it."

"The next time I saw Brita," the old woman went on, "was after she
had come here to you. I couldn't ask her just then how she liked it
here, seeing the house was full of visitors; but when I had gone a
ways into the grove she came running after me.

"'Kaisa!' she called, 'have you been up at Bergskog lately?'

"'I was there day before yesterday,' I replied.

"'Gracious me! were you there day before yesterday? And I feel as
if I hadn't been at home in years!' It wasn't easy to know just
what to say to her, for she looked as if she couldn't bear the
least little thing and would be ready to cry at whatever I might
say. 'You can surely go home for a visit?' I said. 'No; I don't
think I shall ever go home again.' 'Oh, do go,' I urged. 'It's
beautiful up there now; the woods are full of berries; the bushes
are thick with red whortleberries.' 'Dear me!' she said, her eyes
growing big with surprise, 'are there whortleberries already?'
'Yes, indeed. Surely you can get off a day, just to go home and eat
your fill of berries?' 'No, I hardly think I want to,' she said.
'My going home would make it all the harder to come back to this
place.' 'I've always heard that the Ingmars are the best kind of
folks to be with,' I told her. 'They are honest people.' 'Oh, yes,'
she said, 'they are good in their way.' 'They are the best people
in the parish,' I said, 'and so fair-minded.' 'It is not considered
unfair then to take a wife by force.' 'They are also very wise.'
'But they keep all they know to themselves.' 'Do they never say
anything?' 'No one ever says a word more than what is absolutely
necessary.'

"I was just about to go my way, when it came to me to ask her where
the wedding was going to be held--here or at her home. 'We're
thinking of having it here, where there is plenty of room.' 'Then
see to it that the wedding day isn't put off too long,' I warned.
'We are to be married in a month,' she answered.

"But before Brita and I parted company, it struck me that the
Ingmarssons had had a poor harvest, so I said it was not likely
that they would have a wedding that year. 'In that case I shall
have to jump into the river,' she declared.

"A month later I was told that the wedding had been put off and,
fearing that this would not end well, I went straight to Bergskog
and had a talk with Brita's mother. 'They are certainly making a
stupid blunder down at the Ingmar Farm,' I told her. 'We are
satisfied with their way of doing things,' she said. 'Every day we
thank God that our daughter has been so well provided for.'"

"Mother needn't have given herself all this bother," Ingmar was
thinking, "for no one from this farm is going to fetch Brita. There
was no reason for her being so upset at the sight of the arch: that
is only one of those things a man does so that he can turn to our
Lord and say: 'I wanted to do it. Surely you must see that I meant
to do it.' But doing it is another matter."

"The last time I saw Brita," Kaisa vent on, "was in the middle of
the winter after a big snowfall. I had come to a narrow path in the
wild forest, where it was heavy walking. Soon I came upon some one
who was sitting in the snow, resting. It was Brita. 'Are you all by
yourself up here?' I asked. 'Yes, I'm out for a walk.' she said. I
stood stockstill and stared at her; I couldn't imagine what she was
doing there. 'I'm looking round to see if there are any steep hills
hereabout,' she then said. 'Dear heart! are you thinking of casting
yourself from a cliff?' I gasped, for she looked as if she was
tired of life.

"'Yes,' she said. 'If I could only find a hill that was high and
steep I'd certainly throw myself down.' 'You ought to be ashamed to
talk like that, and you so well cared for.' 'You see, Kaisa, I'm a
bad lot.' 'I'm afraid you are.' 'I am likely to do something
dreadful, therefore I might better be dead.' 'That's only silly
gabble, child.' 'I turned bad as soon as I went to live with those
people.' Then, coming quite close to me, with the wildest look in
her eyes, she shrieked: 'All they think about is how they can
torture me, and I think only of how I can torture them in return.'
'No, no, Brita; they are good people.' 'All they care about is to
bring shame upon me.' 'Have you said so to them?' 'I never speak to
them. I only think and wonder how I'm going to get even with them.
I'm thinking of setting fire to the farm, for I know he loves it.
How I'd like to poison the cows! they are so old and ugly and white
around the eyes that one would think they were related to him.'
'Barking dogs never bite,' I said. 'I've got to do something to
him, or I'll never have any peace of mind.' 'You don't know what
you are saying, child,' I protested. 'What you are thinking of
doing would forever destroy your peace of mind.'

"All at once she began to cry. Then, after a little, she became
very meek and said that she had suffered so from the bad thoughts
that came to her. I then walked home with her and, as we parted
company, she promised me that she would do nothing rash if I would
only keep a close mouth.

"Still I couldn't help thinking that I ought to talk to some one
about this," said Kaisa. "But to whom? I felt kind of backward
about going to big folk like yourselves--"

Just then the bell above the stable rang. The midday rest was over.
Mother Martha suddenly interrupted the old woman: "I say, Kaisa, do
you think things can ever be right again between Ingmar and Brita?"

"What?" gasped the old woman in astonishment.

"I mean, if by chance she were not going to America, do you suppose
she would have him?"

"Well, I should say not!"

"Then you are quite sure she would give him no for an answer."

"Of course she would."

Ingmar sat on the edge of the bed, his legs dangling over the side.

"Now you got just what you needed, Ingmar," he thought; "and now I
guess you'll take that journey to-morrow," he said, pounding the
edge of the bed with his fist. "How can mother think she'll get me
to stay at home by showing me that Brita doesn't like me!"

He kept pounding the side of the bed, as if in thought he were
knocking down something that was resisting him.

"Anyway, I'm going to chance it once more," he decided. "We Ingmars
begin all over again when things go wrong. No man that is a man can
sit back calmly and let a woman fret herself insane over his
conduct."

Never had he felt so keenly his utter defeat, and he was determined
to put himself right.

"I'd be a hell of a man if I couldn't make Brita happy here!" he
said.

He dealt the bedpost a last blow before getting up to go back to
his work.

"As sure as you're born it was Big Ingmar that sent old Kaisa here,
in order to make me tale that trip to the city."

IV

Ingmar Ingmarsson had arrived in the city, and was walking slowly
toward the big prison house, which was beautifully situated on the
crest of a hill overlooking the public park. He did not glance
about him, but went with eyes downcast, dragging himself along with
as much difficulty as though he were some feeble old man. He had
left off his usual picturesque peasant garb on this occasion, and
was wearing a black cloth suit and a starched shirt which he had
already crumpled. He felt very solemn, yet all the while he was
anxious and reluctant.

On coming to the gravelled yard in front of the jail he saw a guard
on duty and asked him if this was not the day that Brita Ericsson
was to be discharged.

"Yes, I think there is a woman coming out to-day," the guard
answered.

"One who has been in for infanticide," Ingmar explained.

"Oh, that one! Yes, she'll be out this forenoon."

Ingmar stationed himself under a tree, to wait. Not for a second
did he take his eyes off the prison gate. "I dare say there are
some among those who have gone in there that haven't fared any too
well," he thought. "I don't want to brag, but maybe there's many a
one on the inside that has suffered less than I who am outside.
Well, I declare, Big Ingmar has brought me here to fetch my bride
from the prison house," he remarked to himself. "But I can't say
that little Ingmar is overpleased at the thought; he would have
liked seeing her pass through a gate of honour instead, with her
mother standing by her side, to give her to the bridegroom. And
then they should have driven to the church in a flower-trimmed
chaise, followed by a big bridal procession, and she should have
sat beside him dressed as a bride, and smiling under her bridal
crown."

The gate opened several times. First, a chaplain come out, then it
was the wife of the governor of the prison, and then some servants
who were going to town. Finally Brita came. When the gate opened he
felt a cramp at the heart. "It is she," he thought. His eyes
dropped. He was as if paralyzed, and could not move. When he had
recovered himself, he looked up; she was then standing on the steps
outside the gate.

She stood there a moment, quite still; she had pushed back her
headshawl and, with eyes that were clear and open, she looked out
across the landscape. The prison stood on high ground, and beyond
the town and the stretches of forest she could see her native
hills.

Suddenly she seemed to be shaken by some unseen force; she covered
her face with her hands and sank down upon the stone step. Ingmar
could hear her sobs from where he stood.

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