Jerusalem by Selma Lagerloef

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Meanwhile, he thought: "It was well after all that the pastor
happened in to-day; now he can see that I know how to maintain
order in my Zion."

But no sooner was the hymn finished than a man jumped to his feet.
It was proud and dignified Ljung Bjoern Olafsson, who was married to
one of the Ingmar girls, and was the owner of a large farmstead in
the heart of the parish.

"We down at this end think that the schoolmaster might have
consulted our wishes before turning Matts Ericsson down," he
mildly protested.

"Oh, you think so, do you, Sonny?" The schoolmaster spoke in
just the kind of tone he would have used in reproving some young
whippersnapper. "Then let me tell you that no one but myself has
any say here, in this hall."

Ljung Bjoern turned blood red. He had not meant to provoke a quarrel
with Storm, but had simply wished to soften the blow for Hoek Matts,
who was an inoffensive man. Just the same, he could not help
feeling chagrined over the reply he had got; but before he could
think of a retort, one of the men who had come in with Hoek Matts
spoke up:

"Twice I have heard Hoek Matts preach, and must say that he is
wonderful. I believe that every one present would be helped by
hearing him."

The schoolmaster answered pleasantly enough, but in the old
admonishing tone of the classroom: "Surely you understand, Krister
Larsson, that I can't allow this. Were I to let Hoek Matts preach
to-day, then you, Krister, would want to preach next Sunday, and
Ljung Bjoern the Sunday after!"

At this several persons laughed; but Ljung Bjoern was ready with a
sharp rejoinder: "I see no reason why Krister and I shouldn't be
as well qualified to preach as the schoolmaster," he said.

Thereupon Tims Halvor arose and tried to quiet them and to prevent
possible strife. "Those of us who have furnished the money to build
and run this mission should be consulted before any new preacher is
allowed to speak."

By that time Krister Larsson had become aroused and was on his feet
again. "I recall to mind that when we built this hall we were all
agreed that it should be a free-for-all meetinghouse and not a
church where only one man is allowed to preach the Word."

When Krister had spoken every one seemed to breathe freer. Only one
short hour before it had not occurred to them that they could ever
wish to hear any speaker but the schoolmaster. Now they thought it
would be a treat to hear something different. "We'd like to hear
something new and to see a fresh face behind the rostrum," somebody
muttered.

In all likelihood there would have been no further disturbance if
only Bullet Gunner had remained away that day. He, too, was a
brother-in-law of Tims Halvor and a tall, gaunt-looking fellow,
with a swarthy skin and piercing eyes. Gunner, as well as every one
else, liked the schoolmaster, but what he liked even more was a
good scrap.

"There was a lot of talk about freedom while we were building this
house," said Gunner "but I haven't heard a liberal word since the
place was first opened."

The schoolmaster grew purple. Gunner's remark was the first
evidence of any actual hostility or revolt. "Let me remind you,
Bullet Gunner, that here you have heard the true freedom preached,
as Luther taught it; but here there has been no license to preach
the kind of new-fangled ideas that spring up one day and fall to
the ground the next."

"The schoolmaster would have us think that everything new is
worthless as soon as it touches upon doctrine," Gunner replied
soothingly and half regretfully. "He approves of our using new
methods of caring for our cattle, and wants us to adopt the latest
agricultural machinery; but we are not allowed to know anything
about the new implements with which God's acres are now being
tilled."

Storm began to think that Bullet Gunner's bark was worse than his
bite. "Is it your meaning," he said, adopting a facetious tone,
"that we should preach a different doctrine here from the
Lutheran?"

"It is not a question of a new doctrine," roared Gunner, "but as to
who shall preach; and, as far as I know, Matts Ericsson is as good
a Lutheran as either the schoolmaster or the parson."

For the moment the schoolmaster had forgotten about the parson; but
now he glanced down at him. The clergyman sat quietly musing, his
chin resting upon the knob of his cane. There was a curious gleam
in his eyes, which were fixed upon Storm, never leaving him for a
second.

"After all, perhaps it would have been just as well if the parson
hadn't come to-day," thought the schoolmaster. What was then taking
place reminded Storm of something he had experienced before. It
could be just like this in school sometimes, on a bright spring
morning, when a little bird perched itself outside the schoolroom
window and warbled lustily. Then all at once the children would
tease and beg to be excused from school; they abandoned their
studies and made so much fuss and noise that it was almost
impossible to bring them to order. Something of the same sort had
come over the congregation after Hoek Matts's arrival. However, the
schoolmaster meant to show the pastor and all of them that he was
man enough to quell the mutiny. "First, I will leave them alone and
let the ringleaders talk themselves hoarse," he thought, and went
and sat down on a chair behind the table on which the water bottle
stood.

Instantly there arose against him a perfect storm of protests; for
by that time every one had become inflated with the idea that they
were all of them just as good as the schoolmaster. "Why should he
alone be allowed to tell us what to believe and what not to
believe!" they shouted.

These ideas seemed to be new to most of them, yet from the talk it
became evident that they had been germinating in their minds ever
since the schoolmaster had built the mission house, and shown them
that a plain, ordinary man can preach the Word of God.

After a bit Storm remarked to himself: "The tempest of the children
must have spent itself by this. Now is the time to show them who is
master here." Whereupon he rose up, pounded the table with his
fist, and thundered: "Stop! What's the meaning of all this
racketing? I'm going now, and you must go, too, so that I may put
out the lights and lock up."

Some of them actually did get up, for they had all gone to Storm's
school, and knew that when their teacher rapped on the table it
meant that everybody had to mind. Yet the majority stoically kept
their seats.

"The schoolmaster forgets that now we are grown men," said one;
"but he still seems to think we should run just because he happens
to rap on the table!" said another.

They went right on talking about their wanting to hear some new
speakers, and which ones they should call in. They were already
quarrelling among themselves as to whether it should be the
Waldenstromites or colporteurs from the National Evangelical
Union.

The schoolmaster stood staring at the assemblage as if he were
looking at some weird monstrosity. For up to that time he had seen
only the child in each individual face. But now all the round baby
cheeks, the soft baby curls, and the mild baby eyes had vanished,
and he saw only a gathering of adults, with hard, set faces; he
felt that over such as these he had no control. He did not even
know what to say to them.

The tumult continued, growing louder and louder. The schoolmaster
kept still and let them rage. Bullet Gunner, Ljung Bjoern, and
Krister Larsson led the attack. Hoek Matts, who was the innocent
cause of all the trouble, rose to his feet time and again and
begged them to be quiet, but no one listened to him.

Once again the schoolmaster glanced down at the parson, who was
still quietly musing, the same gleam in his eyes, which were fixed
on the schoolmaster.

"He's probably thinking of that evening four years ago when I told
him I would build a mission," thought Storm. "He was right, too.
Everything has turned out just as he said it would: heresy, revolt,
and division. Perhaps we might have escaped all this if I hadn't
been so bent upon building my Zion."

The instant this became clear to the schoolmaster, his head went
up and his backbone straightened. He drew from his pocket a small
key of polished steel. It was the key to Zion! He held it toward
the light so that it could be seen from all parts of the hall.

"Now I'm going to lay this key upon the table," he said, "and I
shall never touch it again, for I see now that it has unlocked the
door to everything which I had hoped to shut out."

Whereupon the schoolmaster put the key down, took up his hat, and
walked straight over to the pastor.

"I want to thank you, Parson, for coming to hear me to-day," he
said; "for if you hadn't come to-day you never could have heard
me."

THE WILD HUNT

There were many who thought that Elof Ersson should have found no
peace in his grave for the shameful way in which he had dealt with
Karin and young Ingmar. He had deliberately made way with all of
his and Karin's money, so she would suffer hardship after his
death. And he left the farm so heavily mortgaged, that Karin would
have been forced to turn it over to the creditors, had not Halvor
been rich enough to buy in the property and pay off the debts.
Ingmar Ingmarsson's twenty thousand kroner, of which Elof had been
sole trustee, had entirely disappeared. Some people thought that
Elof had buried the money, others that he had given it away; in any
case, it was not to be found.

When Ingmar learned that he was penniless, he consulted Karin as to
what he should do. Ingmar told his sister that of all things he
would prefer to be a teacher, and begged her to let him remain with
the Storms until he was old enough to enter college. Down at the
village he would always be able to borrow books from the
schoolmaster or the pastor, he said, and, moreover, he could help
Storm at the school, by reading with the children; that would be
excellent practice.

Karin turned this over in her mind before answering. "I suppose you
wouldn't care to remain at home, since you can't become master
here?" she said.

When Storm's daughter heard that Ingmar was coming back, she pulled
a long face. It seemed to her that if they must have a boy living
with them, they might better have the judge's good-looking son,
Bertil, or there was jolly Gabriel, the son of Hoek Matts Ericsson.

Gertrude liked both Gabriel and Bertil, but as for Ingmar, she
couldn't exactly tell what her feelings were toward him. She liked
him because he helped her with her lessons and minded her like a
slave; but she could also become thoroughly put out with him
sometimes, because he was clumsy and tiresome and did not know how
to play. She had to admire his diligence and his aptitude for
learning, yet at times she fairly despised him for not being able
to show off what he could do.

Gertrude's head was always full of droll fancies and dreams, which
she confided to Ingmar. If the lad happened to be away for a few
days, she grew restless, and felt that she had no one to talk to;
but as soon as he got back she hardly knew what she had been
longing for.

The girl had never thought of Ingmar as a boy of means and good
family connections, but treated him rather as though he were a
little beneath her. Yet when she heard that Ingmar had become poor,
she wept for him, and when he told her that he would not try to get
back his property, but meant to earn his own living as a teacher,
she was so indignant she could hardly control herself.

The Lord only knows all she had dreamed that he would be some day!

The children at Storm's school were given very rigid training. They
were held strictly to their tasks, and only on rare occasions were
they allowed any amusements. However, all this was changed the
spring Storm gave up his preaching. Then Mother Stina said to him:
"Now, Storm, we must let the young folks be young. Remember that
you and I were young once. Why, when we were seventeen, we danced
many a night from sundown to sunup."

So, one Saturday night, when young Gabriel and Gunhild, the
councilman's daughter, paid a visit to the Storms, they actually
had a dance at the schoolhouse.

Gertrude was wild with delight at being allowed to dance, but
Ingmar would not join in. Instead, he took up a book, and went
and sat down on the sofa by the window. Time and again Gertrude
tried to make him lay down his book, but Ingmar, sulky and shy,
refused to budge. Mother Stina looked at him and shook her head.
"It's plain he comes of an old, old stock," she thought. "That kind
can never be really young."

The three who did dance had such a good time! They talked of going
to a regular dance the next Saturday evening, and asked the
schoolmaster and Mother Stina what they thought about it.

"If you will do your dancing at Strong Ingmar's, I give my
consent," said Mother Stina; "for there you will meet only
respectable folk."

Then Storm also made it conditional. "I can't allow Gertrude to go
to a dance unless Ingmar goes along to look after her," he said.

Whereupon all three rushed up to Ingmar and begged him to accompany
them.

"No!" he growled, without even glancing up from his book.

"It's no good asking him!" said Gertrude in a tone that made Ingmar
raise his eyes. Gertrude looked radiantly beautiful after the
dance. She smiled scornfully, and her eyes flashed as she turned
away. It was plainly to be seen how much she despised him for
sitting there so ugly and sulky, like some crotchety old man.
Ingmar had to alter his mind and say "yes"--there was no way out
of it.

A few evenings later while Gertrude and Mother Stina sat spinning
in the kitchen, the girl suddenly noticed that her mother was
getting uneasy. Every little while she would stop her spinning-wheel
and listen. "I can't imagine what that noise is," she said. "Do you
hear anything, Gertrude?"

"Yes, I do," replied the girl. "There must be some one upstairs in
the classroom."

"Who could be there at this hour?" Mother Stina flouted. "Only
listen to the rustling and the pattering from one end of the room
to the other!"

And there certainly was a rustling and a pattering and a bumping
about over their heads, that made both Gertrude and her mother
feel creepy.

"There must surely be some one up there," insisted Gertrude.

"There can't be," Mother Stina declared. "Let me tell you that this
thing has been going on every night since you danced here."

Gertrude perceived that her mother imagined the house had been
haunted since the night of the dance. If that idea were allowed to
become fixed in Mother Stina's mind, there would be no more dancing
for Gertrude.

"I'm going up there to see what it is," said the girl, rising; but
her mother caught hold of her skirt.

"I don't know whether I dare let you go," she said.

"Nonsense, mother! It's best to find out what this is."

"Then I'd better go with you," the mother decided.

They crept softly up the stairs. When they got to the door they
were afraid to open it. Mother Stina bent down and peeped through
the keyhole. Presently she gave a little chuckle.

"What pleases you, mother" asked Gertrude.

"See for yourself, only be very quiet!"

Then Gertrude put her eye to the keyhole. Inside, benches and desks
had been pushed against the wall, and in the centre of the
schoolroom, amid a cloud of dust, Ingmar Ingmarsson was whirling
round, with a chair in his arms.

"Has Ingmar gone mad!" exclaimed Gertrude.

"Ssh!" warned the mother, drawing her away from the door and down
the stairs. "He must be trying to teach himself to dance. I suppose
he wants to learn how, so he'll be able to dance at the party," she
added, with smirk. Then Mother Stina began to shake with laughter.
"He came near frightening the life out of me," she confessed.
"Thank God he can be young for once!" When she had got over her fit
of laughing, she said: "You're not to say a word about this to
anybody, do you hear!"

***

Saturday evening the four young people stood on the steps of the
schoolhouse, ready to start. Mother Stina looked them over
approvingly. The boys had on yellow buckskin breeches and green
homespun waistcoats, with bright red sleeves. Gunhild and Gertrude
wore stripe skirts bordered with red cloth, and white blouses, with
big puffed sleeves; flowered kerchiefs were crossed over their
bodices, and they had on aprons that were as flowered as their
kerchiefs.

As the four of them walked along in the twilight of a perfect
spring evening, nothing was said for quite a long time. Now and
then Gertrude would cast a side glance at Ingmar thinking of how
he had worked to learn to dance. Whatever the reason--whether it
was the memory of Ingmar's weird dancing, or the anticipation of
attending a regular dance--her thoughts became light and airy. She
managed to keep just a little behind the others, that she might
muse undisturbed. She had made up quite little story about how the
trees had come by their new leaves.

It happened in this way, she thought: the trees, after sleeping
peacefully and quietly the whole winter, suddenly began to dream.
They dreamt that summer had come. They seemed to see the fields
dressed in green grass and waving corn; the hawthorn shimmered with
new-blown roses; brooks and ponds were spread with the leaves of
the water-lily; the stones were hidden under the creeping tendrils
of the twin flower, and the forest carpet was thick with star
flowers. And amid all this that was clothed and decked out, the
trees saw themselves standing gaunt and naked. They began to feel
ashamed of their nakedness, as often happens in dreams.

In their confusion and embarrassment, the trees fancied that all
the rest were making fun of them. The bumblebees came buzzingly up
to mock at them, the magpies laughed them to scorn, while the other
birds sang taunting ditties.

"Where shall we find something to put on?" asked the trees in
despair; but they had not a leaf to their names on either twig or
branch, and their distress was so terrible that it awakened them.

And glancing about, drowsy like, their first thought was: "Thank
God it was only a dream! There is certainly no summer hereabout.
It's lucky for us that we haven't overslept."

But as they looked around more carefully, they noticed that the
streams were clear of ice, grass blades and crocuses beeped out
from their beds of soil, and under their own ark the sap was
running. "Spring is here at all events," said the trees, "so it
was well we awoke. We have slept long enough for this year; now
it's high time we were getting dressed."

So the birches hurriedly put on some sticky pale green leaves, and
the maples a few green flowers. The leaves of the alder came forth
in such a crinkly and unfinished state that they looked quite
malformed, but the slender leave: of the willow slipped out of
their buds smooth and shapely from the start.

Gertrude smiled to herself as she walked along and thought this
up. She only wished she had been alone with Ingmar so she could
have told it all to him.

They had a long way to go to get to the Ingmar Farm--more than an
hour's tramp. They followed the riverside; all the while Gertrude
kept walking a little behind the others. Her fancy had begun to
play around the red glow of the sunset, which flamed now above the
river, now above the strand. Gray alder and green birch were
enveloped by the shimmer, flashing red one instant, the next taking
on their natural hues.

Suddenly Ingmar stopped, and broke off in the middle of something
he was telling.

"What's the matter, Ingmar?" asked Gunhild.

Ingmar, pale as a ghost, stood gazing at something in front of him.
The others saw only a wide plain covered with grain fields and
encircled by a range of hills, and in the centre of the plain a big
farmstead. At that moment the glow of sunset rested upon the farm;
all the window pans glittered, and the old roofs and walls had a
bright red glimmer about them.

Gertrude promptly stepped up to the others, and after a quick
glance at Ingmar, she drew Gunhild and Gabriel aside.

"We mustn't question him about anything around here," she said
under her breath. "That place over yonder is the Ingmar Farm. The
sight of it has probably made him sad. He hasn't been at home in
two years--not since he lost all his money."

The road which they had taken was the one leading past the farm
and down to Strong Ingmar's cabin, at the edge of the forest.

Soon Ingmar came running after, calling, "Hadn't we better go this
way instead?" Then he led them in on a bypath that wound around the
edge of the forest, and by which they could reach the cabin without
having to cross the farm proper.

"You know Strong Ingmar, I suppose?" said Gabriel.

"Oh, yes," young Ingmar replied. "We used to be good friends in the
old days."

"Is it true that he understands magic?" asked Gunhild.

"Well--no!" Ingmar answered rather hesitatingly, as if half-believing
it himself.

"You may as well tell us what you know," persisted Gunhild.

"The schoolmaster says we mustn't believe in such things."

"The schoolmaster can't prevent a person seeing what he sees and
believing what he knows," Gabriel declared.

Ingmar wanted to tell them all about his home; memories of his
childhood came back to him at sight of the old place. "I can tell
you about something that I saw once," he said. "It happened one
winter when father and Strong Ingmar were up in the forest working
at the kiln. When Christmas came around, Strong Ingmar offered to
tend the kiln by himself, so that father could come home for the
holidays. The day before Christmas, mother sent me up to the forest
with a basket of good fare for Strong Ingmar. I started early, so
as to be there before the midday dinner hour. When I came up,
father and Strong Ingmar had just finished drawing a kiln, and all
the charcoal had been spread on the ground to cool. It was still
smoking and, where the coals lay thickest, it was ready to take
fire, which is something that must not happen. To prevent that is
the most important part of the entire process of charcoal making.
Therefore, father said as soon as he saw me: 'I'm afraid you'll
have to go home alone, little Ingmar. I can't leave Strong Ingmar
with all this work.' Strong Ingmar walked along the side of the
heap where the smoke rose thickest. 'You can go, Big Ingmar,' he
said. 'I've managed worse things than this.' In a little while the
smoke grew less. 'Now let's see what kind of a Christmas treat
Brita has sent me,' said Strong Ingmar, taking the basket from me.
'Come, let me show you what a fine house we've got here.' Then he
took me into the hut where he and father lived. At the back was a
rude stone, and the other walls were made up of branches of spruce
and blackthorn. 'Well, my lad, you never guessed that your father
had a royal castle like this in the forest, eh?' said Strong
Ingmar. 'Here are walls that keep out both storm and frost,' he
laughed, thrusting his arm clean through the spruce branches.

"Soon father came in laughing. He and the old man were black with
soot and reeking with the odour of sour charcoal smoke. But never
had I seen father so happy and full of fun. Neither of them could
stand upright in the hut, and the only furniture in the place were
two bunks made of spruce twigs and a couple of flat stones on which
they had built a fire; yet they were perfectly contented. They sat
down, side by side, on one of the bunks, and opened the basket. 'I
don't know whether you can have any of this,' said Strong Ingmar to
father, 'for it's my Christmas dinner, you know.' 'Seeing it's
Christmas Eve you must be a good to me,' said father. 'At a time
like this I suppose it would never do to let a poor old charcoal
burner starve,' Strong Ingmar then said.

"They carried on like that all the time they were eating. Mother
had sent a little brandy along with the food. I marvelled that
people could be so happy over food and drink. 'You'll have to tell
your mother that Big Ingmar has eaten up everything,' said the old
man, 'and that she will have to send more to-morrow.' 'So I see,'
said I.

"Just then I was startled by a crackling noise in the fireplace. It
sounded as if some one had cast a handful of pebbles on the stones.
Father did not notice it, but at once Strong Ingmar said: 'What, so
soon?' Yet he went on eating. Then there was more crackling; this
time it was much louder. Now it sounded as if a shovelful of stones
had been thrown on the fire. 'Well, well, is it so urgent!' Strong
Ingmar exclaimed. Then he went out. 'The charcoal must be afire!'
he shouted back. 'Just you sit still, Big Ingmar. I'll attend to
this myself.' Father and I sat very quiet.

"In a little while Strong Ingmar returned, and the fun began anew.
'I haven't had such a merry Christmas in years,' he laughed. He had
no sooner got the words out of his mouth than the crackling started
afresh. 'What, again? Well, I never!' and out he flew in a jiffy.
The charcoal was afire again. When the old man came back for the
second time, father said to him: 'I see now that you have such good
help up here that you can get along by yourself.' 'Yes, you can
safely go home and keep your Christmas, Big Ingmar, for here there
are those who will help me.' Then father and I went home, and
everything was all right. And never, either before or afterward,
was any kiln tended by Strong Ingmar known to get afire."

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