Jerusalem by Selma Lagerloef

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Then Halvor bent down and gave the poor wretch a lift, for his back
was broken. He had to be put into a wagon and driven home. He would
never again have the use of his legs. From that time forth Elof was
confined to his bed, a helpless cripple. But he could talk, and all
day long he kept begging for brandy. The doctor had left strict
orders with Karin not to give him any spirits, lest he drink
himself to death. Then Elof tried to get what he wanted by
shrieking and making the most hideous noises, especially at night.
He behaved like a madman, and disturbed every one's rest.

That was Karin's most trying year. Her husband sometimes tormented
her until it seemed as though she could not stand it any longer.
The very air became polluted by his vile talk and profanity, so
that the home was like a hell. Karin begged the Storms to keep
little Ingmar with them also during the holidays; she did not want
her brother to be at home with her for a day, not even at
Christmas.

All the servants at the Ingmar Farm were distantly related to the
family, and had always lived on the place. But for the feeling that
they belonged to the Ingmarssons, they could not have gone on
serving under such conditions. There were precious few nights that
they were allowed to sleep in peace. Elof was constantly hitting
upon new ways of tormenting both the servants and Karin, to make
them give in to his demands.

In this misery Karin passed a winter and a summer and another
winter.

But Karin had a retreat to which she would flee at times in order
to be alone with her thoughts. Behind the hop garden there was a
narrow seat upon which she often sat, with her elbows on her knees
and her chin resting in her hands, staring straight ahead, yet
seeing nothing. Fronting her were great stretches of cornfields,
beyond which was the forest, and in the distance the range of hills
and Mount Klack.

One evening in April she sat on her bench, feeling tired and
listless, as one often does in the springtime when the snow turns
to slush and the ground is still unwashed by spring rains. The hops
lay sleeping under a cover of fir brush. Over against the hills
hung a thick mist, such as always accompanies a thaw. The birch
tops were beginning to turn brown, but all along the skirt of the
forest there was still a deep border of snow. Spring would soon
be there in earnest, and the thought of it made her feel even more
tired. She felt that she could never live through another summer
like the last one. She thought of all the work ahead of her--sowing
and haymaking; spring baking and spring cleaning; weaving and
sewing--and wondered how she would ever get through with it all.

"I might better be dead," she sighed. "I seem to be here for no
other purpose than to prevent Elof killing himself with drink."

Suddenly she looked up, as if she had heard some one calling her.
Leaning against the hedge, looking straight at her, stood Halvor
Halvorsson. She did not know just when he had come, but apparently
he had been standing there a good while.

"I thought I should find you over here," Halvor said.

"Oh, did you?"

"I remembered how in days gone by you used to step away, and come
here to sit and brood."

"I didn't have much to brood over at that time."

"Then your troubles were mostly imaginary."

Karin mused as she looked at Halvor: "He must be thinking what a
fool I was not to have married him, who is such a handsome and
dignified man. Now he's got me where he can crow over me, and he
has come only to laugh at me."

"I've been inside talking with Elof," Halvor enlightened. "It was
really him I wanted to see."

Karin made no reply, but sat there, frigid and unresponsive, her
eyes fixed on the ground and her hands crossed, prepared to meet
all the scorn she fancied Halvor would now heap upon her.

"I said to him," Halvor continued, "that I considered myself
largely to blame for his misfortune, since it was at my place that
he got hurt." He paused a moment, as if waiting for some expression
from her, either of approval or disapproval. But Karin was silent.
"So I have asked him to come and live with me for a while. It would
at least be a change, and he could see more people than he meets
here."

Then Karin raised her eyes, but otherwise remained as motionless as
before.

"We have arranged to have him sent to my place to-morrow morning. I
know he'll come, because he thinks he can get his liquor. But, of
course, you must know, Karin, that that's out of the question. No,
indeed! It's no more to be had with me than with you. I shall
expect him to-morrow. He is to occupy the little room off the shop,
and I've promised him that I'll let his door stand open, so that he
may see all persons who come and go."

At Halvor's first words Karin wondered whether this was not
something he had made up, but gradually it dawned on her that he
was in earnest.

As a matter of fact, Karin had always imagined that Halvor had
courted her only because of her money and good connections. It had
never occurred to her that he might have loved her for herself
alone. She probably knew she was not the kind of girl that men care
for. Nor had she herself been in love, either with Halvor or Elof.
But now that Halvor had come to her in her trouble, and wanted to
help her, she was completely overwhelmed by the bigness of the man.
She marvelled that he could be so kind. She felt that surely he
must like her a little, since he had come like that, to help her.

Karin's heart began to beat violently and anxiously. She awoke to
something she had never before experienced, and wondered what it
meant. Then all at once she realized that Halvor's kindness had
thawed her frozen heart, and that love was beginning to flame up in
her. Halvor went on unfolding his plan, fearing all the while that
she might oppose him. "It's hard for Elof, too," he pleaded. "He
needs a change of scene, and he won't make as much trouble for me
as he has made for you. It will be quite different when he's got a
man to reckon with."

Karin hardly knew what she should do. She felt that she could not
make a movement or say a word without letting Halvor see that she
was in love with him; yet she knew she would have to give him some
kind of an answer.

Presently Halvor stopped talking and simply looked at her.

Then Karin rose, involuntarily went up to him, and patted him on
the hand. "God bless you, Halvor!" she said in broken tones. "God
bless you!"

Despite all her precautions, Halvor must have divined something,
for he quickly grasped her hands and drew her to him.

"No! No!" she cried in alarm, freeing herself; then she hurried
away.

***

Elof had gone to live with Halvor. All summer he lay in the little
bedroom off the shop. Halvor was not troubled with the care of him
for a great while, for in the autumn he died.

Shortly after his death Mother Stina said to Halvor: "Now you must
promise me one thing: promise me that you will exercise patience as
regards Karin."

"Of course I'll have patience," Halvor returned, wonderingly.

"She's somebody worth winning, even if one has to wait seven long
years."

But it was not so easy for Halvor to have patience, for he soon
learned that this one and that one was paying court to Karin. This
began within a fortnight of Elof's funeral.

One Sunday afternoon Halvor sat on the steps in front of his shop,
watching the people coming and going. Presently it occurred to him
that an unusual number of fine rigs were moving in the direction of
the Ingmar Farm. In the first carriage sat an inspector from
Bergsana Foundry, in the second was the son of the proprietor of
the Karmsund Inn, and last came the Magistrate Berger Sven Persson,
who was the richest man in western Dalecarlia, and a sensible and
highly esteemed man, too. He was not young, to be sure; he had been
twice married, and was now a widower for the second time.

When Halvor saw Berger Sven Persson driving by, he could not
contain himself any longer. He jumped to his feet and started down
the road; in almost no time he was over the bridge and on the side
of the river where the Ingmar Farm lay.

"I'd like to know where all those carriages have gone to," he said
to himself. He followed the wheel ruts, half running, but all the
while becoming more and more determined. "I know this is stupid of
me," he thought, remembering Mother Stina's warning. "But I'm only
going as far as the gate, to see what they're up to down there."

In the best room at the Ingmars sat Berger Sven Persson and two
other men, drinking coffee. Ingmar Ingmarsson, who still lived at
the schoolhouse, was at home over Sunday. He sat at table with them
and acted as host, for Karin had excused herself, saying she had
some work to do in the kitchen, as the maids had gone down to the
mission house to hear the schoolmaster preach.

It was deadly dull in the parlour. All the men sat drinking their
coffee without exchanging a word. The suitors were practically
strangers to one another, and all three of them were watching for
an opportunity to slip into the kitchen for a private word with
Karin.

Presently the door opened and in stepped another caller, who was
received by Ingmar, and conducted to the table.

"This is Tims Halvor Halvorsson," said Ingmar, introducing the
newcomer to Berger Sven Persson.

Sven Persson did not rise, but greeted Halvor with a sweep of the
hand, saying, somewhat facetiously:

"It is a pleasure to meet so distinguished a personage."

Ingmar noisily drew up a chair for Halvor, so that he was spared
the embarrassment of replying.

From the moment Halvor entered the room, all the suitors became
chatty and began to talk big. Each in turn praised and championed
the others. It was as if they had all agreed among themselves to
stand together until Halvor was well out of the game.

"The magistrate is driving a fine horse to-day," the inspector
began.

Berger Sven Persson took up the fun by complimenting the inspector
on having shot a bear the winter before. Then the two turned to the
innkeeper's son, and said something in praise of a house his father
was building.

Finally all three of them bragged about the wealth of Bergen Sven
Persson. They waxed eloquent, and with every word they gave Halvor
to understand that he was too lowly a man to think of pitting
himself against them. And Halvor certainly did feel very
insignificant, and bitterly regretted having come.

Just then Karin came along with fresh coffee. At sight of Halvor
she brightened for an instant; then it occurred to her that his
calling on her so soon after her husband's death looked rather bad.
"If he is in such a hurry, people will surely say that he hadn't
given Elof proper care, and that he wanted him out of the way so he
could marry me." She would rather he had waited two or three years
before coming; that would have been long enough to make folks see
that he had not been impatient for Elof's departure. "Why need he
be in such haste?" she wondered. "Surely he must know that I don't
want anyone but him."

Every one had stopped talking the moment Karin appeared, wondering
how she and Halvor would greet each other. They barely touched
hands. .At which the magistrate expressed his delight by a short
whistle, while the inspector broke into a loud guffaw. Haldor
quietly turned to him. "What are you laughing at?" he said.

The inspector was at a loss for an answer. With Karin there he did
not wish to say anything that might give offence.

"He is thinking of a hound that raises a hare and allows some one
else to catch it," remarked the innkeeper's son, insinuatingly.

Karin turned blood red, but refilled the coffee cups. "Berger Sven
Persson and the rest of you will have to be satisfied with plain
coffee," she said. "We no longer serve spirits to any one on this
farm."

"Nor do I at my home," said the magistrate approvingly.

The inspector and the innkeeper's son kept quiet; they understood
that Sven Persson had scored heavily.

The magistrate straightway began to discourse on temperance and its
salutary effects. Karin listened to him with interest, and agreed
with all that he said. Seeing that this was the kind of talk that
would appeal to her, the magistrate began to spread himself, and
delivered long-winded harangue on the curse of liquor and
drunkenness. Karin recognized all her own thoughts on the subject,
and was glad to find that they were shared by so intelligent a man
as the magistrate.

In the middle of his monologue Berger Sven Persson glanced over at
Halvor, who sat at the table, looking glum and sulky, his coffee
cup untouched.

"It's pretty rough on him," thought Berger Sven Persson,
"particularly if there's any truth in what people say about his
having given Elof a little lift on his way into the next world.
Anyway, he did Karin a good service by relieving her of that
dreadful sot." And since the magistrate seemed to think that he had
as good as won the game, he felt rather friendly toward Halvor.
Raising his cup, he said: "Here's to you, Halvor! You certainly
did Karin a good turn when you took her drunken sot of a husband
off her hands."

Halvor did not respond to the toast. He sat looking the man
straight in the eyes, and wondered how he should take this.

The inspector again burst out laughing. "Yes, yes, a good turn," he
haw-hawed, "a real good turn."

"Yes, yes, a real good turn," echoed the innkeeper's son, with a
chuckle.

Before they were done laughing, Karin had vanished like a shadow
through the kitchen door; but she could hear from the kitchen all
that was said inside. She was both sorry and distressed over
Halvor's untimely visit. It would probably result in her never
being able to marry Halvor. It was plain that the gossips were
already spreading evil reports. "I can't bear the thought of
losing him," she sighed.

For a time no sound came from the sitting-room, but presently she
heard a noise as if a chair were being pushed back. Some one had
evidently risen.

"Are you going already, Halvor?" young Ingmar was heard to say.

"Yes," Halvor replied. "I can't stop any longer. Please say good-bye
to Karin for me."

"Why don't you go into the kitchen and say it for yourself?"

"No," Halvor was heard to answer, "we two have nothing more to say
to each other."

Karin's heart began to pump hard, and thoughts came rushing into
her head, as if on wings. Now Halvor was angry at her--and no
wonder! She had hardly dared even to shake hands with him, and when
the others had scoffed at him, she never opened her mouth in his
defence, but quietly sneaked away. Now he must think she did not
care for him, and was therefore going, never to return. She could
not understand why she should have treated him so shabbily--she who
was so fond of him. Then, all at once her father's old saying came
to her: "The Ingmarssons need have no fear of men; they have only
to walk in the ways of God."

Karin hastily opened the door, and stood facing Halvor before he
could manage to leave the room.

"Are you leaving so soon, Halvor?" she asked. "I thought you were
going to stay to supper."

Halvor stood staring at Karin. She seemed to be completely changed;
her cheeks were aglow, and there was something tender and appealing
about her which he had never seen before.

"I'm going, and I'm not coming back," said Halvor. He had not
caught her meaning, apparently.

"Do stay and finish your coffee," she urged. Then she took him by
the hand and led him back to the table. She turned both white and
red, and several times she all but lost her courage. Just the same
she braved it out, although there was nothing she feared so much as
scorn and contempt. "Now he will at least see that I'm willing to
stand by him," she thought. Turning toward her guests, she said:
"Berger Sven Persson and all of you! Halvor and I have not spoken
of this matter--as I have so recently become a widow--but now it
seems best that you should all know that I would rather marry
Halvor than any one else in the world." She paused to get control
of her voice, then concluded: "Folks may say what they like about
this, but Halvor and I have done nothing wrong."

When Karin had finished speaking, she drew nearer to Halvor, as if
seeking protection against all the cruel slander that would come
now.

The men were speechless, mostly from astonishment at Karin
Ingmarsson, who looked younger and more girlish than ever before in
her life.

Then Halvor said in a voice vibrant with feeling: "Karin, when I
received your father's watch, I felt that nothing greater could
have happened to me; but this thing which you have just done
transcends everything."

Whereupon Berger Sven Persson, who was in many ways an excellent
man, arose.

"Let us all congratulate Karin and Halvor," he said, graciously,
"for every one must know that he whom Karin, daughter of Ingmar,
has chosen is a man of sterling worth."

IN ZION

That an old country schoolmaster should sometimes be a little too
self-confident is not surprising: for well nigh a lifetime he has
imparted knowledge and given advice to his fellowmen. He sees that
all the peasants are living by what he has taught, and that not one
among them knows more than what he, their schoolmaster, has told
them. How can he help but regard all the people in the parish as
mere school children, however old they may have grown? It is only
natural that he should consider himself wiser than every one else.
It seems almost an impossibility for one of these regular old
school persons to treat any one as a grown-up, for he looks upon
each and every one as a child with dimpled cheeks and wide innocent
baby eyes.

One Sunday, in the winter, just after service, the pastor and the
schoolmaster stood talking together in the vestry; the conversation
had turned upon the Salvation Army.

"It's a singular idea to have hit upon," the pastor remarked. "I
never imagined that I should live to see anything of that sort!"

The schoolmaster glanced sharply at the pastor; he thought his
remark entirely irrelevant. Surely the pastor could never think
that such an absurd innovation would find its way into their
parish.

"I don't believe you are likely to see it, either," he said
emphatically.

The pastor, knowing that he himself was a weak and broken-down man,
let the schoolmaster have things pretty much his own way, but all
the same, he could not refrain from chaffing him a little,
occasionally.

"How can you feel so cocksure that we shall escape the Salvation
Army, Storm?" he said. "You see, when pastor and schoolmaster stand
together, there's no fear of any nuisance of that sort crowding in.
Yet I'm not altogether certain, Storm, that you do stand by me. You
preach to suit yourself in your Zion."

To this the schoolmaster did not reply at once. Presently he said,
quite meekly: "The pastor has never heard me preach."

The mission house was a veritable rock of offence. The clergyman
had never set foot in the place. And now that this mooted question
had come up, both men were sorry they had said anything to hurt
each other's feelings. "Perhaps I'm unjust to Storm," thought the
pastor. "During the four years that he has been holding his
afternoon Bible Talks, on Sundays, there has been a larger
attendance at the morning church services than ever before, and I
haven't seen the least sign of division in the church. Storm has
not destroyed the parish, as I feared he would. He is a faithful
friend and servant, and I mean to show him how much I appreciate
him."

The little misunderstanding of the forenoon resulted in the
pastor's attending the schoolmaster's meeting in the afternoon.

"I'll give Storm a pleasant surprise," he thought. "I will go to
hear him preach in his Zion."

On the way to the mission house the pastor's thoughts went back to
the time it was built. How full the air had been of prophecies, and
how firmly he had believed that God had intended it to be something
great! But nothing much had happened. "Our Lord must have changed
His mind," he thought, amused at his entertaining such queer ideas
regarding our Lord.

The schoolmaster's Zion was a large hall with light-coloured walls.
On either side hung wood engravings of Luther and Melanchton, in
fur-trimmed cloaks; along the borders, close to the ceiling, ran
highly illuminated Bible texts, embellished with flowers and
heavenly trumpets and bassoons. At the front of the room, above the
speaker's platform, hung an oleograph representing the Good
Shepherd.

The large bare room was full of people, which was all that seemed
necessary to create an atmosphere of impressive solemnity. Most of
the people were dressed in the picturesque peasant costume of the
parish, and the starched and flaring white headgear of the women
made the room look as if it were filled with large white-winged
birds.

Storm had already commenced his address, when he saw the pastor
come down the aisle, and take a seat in the front row.

"You're a wonderful man, Storm!" thought the school-master.
"Everything comes your way. Here's the pastor himself to do you
honour."

During the time that the schoolmaster had been holding meetings,
he had explained the Bible from cover to cover. That afternoon he
spoke of the Heavenly Jerusalem and everlasting bliss, as given in
the Book of the Revelation. He was so pleased at the parson having
come, that he kept thinking to himself: "For my part I shouldn't
ask for anything better than to stand on a platform through all
eternity, teaching good and obedient children; and if, on occasion,
our Lord Himself should drop in to hear me, as the pastor has done
to-day, no one in heaven would be more delighted than I."

The pastor became interested when the schoolmaster began to talk
about Jerusalem, and the strange misgivings which he had had long
ago flashed through his mind again. In the middle of the service
the door opened, and a number of people came in. There were about
twenty, and they stopped at the door so as not to disturb the
meeting. "Ah!" thought the parson. "I knew something was going to
happen."

Storm had no sooner said "Amen" than a voice, coming from some one
in the group down by the door, piped up: "I should very much like
to say a few words."

"That must be Hoek Matts Ericsson," thought the pastor, and others
with him. For no one else in the parish had such a sweet and
childlike treble.

The next moment a little meek-faced man made his way up to the
platform, followed by a score of men and women who seemed to be
there for the purpose of supporting and encouraging him.

The pastor, the schoolmaster, and the entire congregation sat in
suspense. "Hoek Matts has come to tell us of some awful calamity,"
they thought. "Either the king is dead, or war has been declared,
or perhaps some poor creature has fallen into the river and been
drowned." Still Hoek Matts did not look as if he had any bad news to
impart. He seemed to be in earnest and somewhat stirred, but at the
same time he looked so pleased that he could hardly keep from
smiling.

"I want to say to the schoolmaster and to the congregation," he
began, "that Sunday before last, while I was sitting at home with
my family, the Spirit descended upon me, and I began to preach. We
couldn't get down here to listen to Storm, on account of the ice
and sleet, and we sat longing to hear the Word of God. Then all at
once I had the feeling that I could speak myself. I've been
preaching now for two Sundays, and all my folks at home and our
neighbours, too, have told me that I ought to come down here and
let all the people hear me."

Hoek Matts also said he was astonished that the gift of speech
should have fallen upon so humble a man. "But the schoolmaster
himself is only a peasant," he added, with a little more
confidence.

After this preamble, Hoek Matts folded his hands and was ready to
begin preaching at once. But by that time the schoolmaster had
recovered from his first shock of surprise.

"Do you think of speaking here now, Hoek Matts--immediately?"

"Yes, that's my intention," the man replied. He grew as frightened
as a child when Storm glowered at him. "It was my purpose, of
course, to first ask leave of the schoolmaster and the rest," he
stammered.

"We're all through for the day," said Storm, conclusively.

Then the meek little man began to beg with tears in his voice:
"Won't you please let me say a few words? I only want to tell of
the things that have come to me when walking behind the plow and
when working by myself at the kiln; and now they want to come out."

But the schoolmaster, though he had had such a day of triumph
himself, felt no pity for the poor little man. "Matts Ericsson
comes here with his own peculiar notions, and claims that they are
messages from God," he declared rebukingly.

Hoek Matts dared not venture a protest, and the schoolmaster opened
the hymnbook.

"Let us all join in singing hymn one hundred and eighty-seven,"
he said. Whereupon he read out the hymn in stentorian tones, then
he began to sing at the top of his voice, "Are your windows open
toward Jerusalem."

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