Jerusalem by Selma Lagerloef

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Gunhild thanked Ingmar for his story, but Gertrude walked on in
silence, as if she had become frightened. It was beginning to get
dark; everything that had looked so rosy a while ago was now either
blue or gray. Here and there in the forest could be seen a shiny
leaf that gleamed in the twilight like the red eye of a troll.

Gertrude was astonished at Ingmar having talked so much and so
long. He seemed like another person since coming in on home ground;
he carried his head higher than usual, and stepped with firmer
tread. Gertrude did not quite like this change in him; it made her
feel uneasy. All the same she spunked up, and began to tease Ingmar
about his going home to dance.

Then at last they came to a little gray hut. Candles were burning
inside, the windows being too small to let in much light. They
caught the sound of violin music and the clatter of dancing feet.
Still the girls paused, wonderingly. "Is it here?" they questioned.
"Can any one dance here? The place looks too small to hold even one
couple."

"Go along inside," said Gabriel; "the hut isn't as tiny as looks."

Outside the door, which was open, stood a group of boys and girls
who had danced themselves into a warm glow; the girls were fanning
themselves with their headshawls, and the boys had pulled off their
short black jackets in order to dance in their bright green red-sleeved
waistcoats.

The newcomers edged their way through the crowd by the door into
the hut. The first person they saw was Strong Ingmar--a little fat
man, with a big head and a long beard.

"He must be related to the elves and the trolls," thought Gertrude.
The old man was standing upon the hearth, playing his fiddle, so as
not to be in the way of the dancers.

The hut was larger than it had appeared from the outside, but it
looked poor and dilapidated. The bare pine walls were worm-eaten,
and the beams were blackened by smoke. There were no curtains at
the windows, and no cover on the table. It was evident that Strong
Ingmar lived by himself. His children had all left him and gone to
America, and the only pleasure the old man had in his loneliness
was to gather the young folks around him on a Saturday evening, and
let them dance to his fiddle.

It was dim in the hut, and suffocatingly close. Couple after couple
were whirling around in there. Gertrude could scarcely breathe, and
wanted to hurry out again, but it was an impossibility to get past
the tight wedge of humanity that blocked the doorway.

Strong Ingmar played with a sure stroke and in perfect time, but
the instant that young Ingmarsson came into the room he drew his
bow across the strings, making a rasping noise that brought all the
dancers to a stop. "It's nothing," he shouted. "Go on with the
dance!"

Ingmar placed his arm around Gertrude's waist to dance out the
figure. Gertrude seemed very much surprised at his wanting to
dance. But they could get nowhere, for the dancers followed each
other so closely that no one who had not been there at the start
could squeeze in between them.

The old man stopped short, rapped on the fender with his bow, and
said in a commanding voice: "Room must be made for Big Ingmar's son
when there's any dancing in my shack!"

With that every one turned to have a look at Ingmar, who became so
embarrassed that he could not stir. Gertrude had to take hold of
him and fairly drag him across the floor.

As soon as the dance was finished, the fiddler came down to greet
Ingmar. When he felt Ingmar's hand in his, the old man pretended to
be very much concerned, and instantly let go of it. "My goodness!"
he exclaimed, "be careful of those delicate schoolmaster hands! A
clumsy old fellow like me could easily crush them."

He took young Ingmar and his friends up to the table, driving away
several old women who were sitting there, looking on. Presently he
went over to the cupboard and brought out some bread and butter and
root beer.

"I don't, as a rule, offer refreshments at these affairs," he said.
"The others have to be content with just music and dancing, but
Ingmar Ingmarsson must have a bite to eat under my roof."

Drawing up a little three-legged stool, the old man sat down in
front of Ingmar, and looked sharply at him.

"So you're going to be a school-teacher, eh?" he queried.

Ingmar closed his eyes for a moment, and there was the shadow of a
smile on his lips, but all the same he answered rather mournfully:
"They have no use for me at home."

"No use for _you_?" cried the old man. "You don't know how soon you
may be needed on the farm. Elof lived only two years, and who knows
how long Halvor will hold out?"

"Halvor is a strong, hearty fellow," Ingmar reminded.

"You must know, of course, that Halvor will turn the farm over to
you as soon as you're able to buy it back."

"He'd be a fool to give up the Ingmar Farm now that it has fallen
into his hands."

During this colloquy Ingmar sat gripping the edge of the plain deal
table. Suddenly a noise was heard as of something cracking. Ingmar
had broken off a corner of the table. "If you become a school-teacher,
he'll never let you have the farm," the old man went on.

"You think not?"

"Think--think? Well it's plain how you have been brought up. Have
you ever driven a plow?"

"No."

"Or tended a kiln, or felled a huge pine?"

Ingmar sat there looking quite placid, but the table kept crumbling
under his fingers. Finally the old man began to take notice.

"See here, young man!" he said when he saw what was happening, "I
shall have to take you in hand once more." Then he picked up some
of the splinters of the table and tried to fit them into place.
"You rogue! You ought to be going around to fairs, showing your
tricks for money!" he laughed, and dealing Ingmar a hard whack on
the shoulder, he remarked: "Oh, you'd make a fine school-teacher,
you would!"

In a twinkling he was back at the fireplace, fiddling away. Now
there was a snap and a go to his performance. He beat time with his
foot and set the dancers whirling. "This is young Ingmar's polka,"
he called out. "Hoop-la! Now the whole house must dance for young
Ingmar!"

Two such pretty girls as Gertrude and Gunhild had to be in every
dance, of course. Ingmar did not do much dancing. He stood talking
most of the time with some of the older men at the farther end of
the room. Between dances the people crowded around him as if it did
them good just to look at him.

Gertrude thought Ingmar had entirely forgotten her, which made her
quite miserable. "Now he feels that he is the son of Big Ingmar,
and that I am only the school-master's Gertrude," she pouted. It
seemed strange to her that she should take this so to heart.
Between the dances some of the young folks went out for a breath of
air. The night had grown piercingly cold. It was quite dark, and as
no one wanted to go home, they all said: "We'd better wait a little
while; the moon will soon be out. Now it's too dark to start for home."

Once, when Ingmar and Gertrude happened to be standing outside the
door, the old man came and drew the boy away. "Come, let me show
you something," he said, and taking Ingmar by the hand, he led him
through a thicket a short distance away from the house. "Stand
still now and look down!" he said presently. Then Ingmar found
himself looking down a cleft, at the bottom of which something
white shimmered. "This must be Langfors Rapids," said young Ingmar.

"Right you are," nodded the old man. "Now what do you suppose a
waterfall like that can be used for, eh?"

"It might be used to run a mill," said Ingmar thoughtfully.

The old man laughed to himself. He patted Ingmar on the back, then
gave him a dig in the ribs that almost sent him into the rapids.
"But who's going to put up a mill here? Who's going to get rich,
and who's going to buy the Ingmar Farm, eh?" he chuckled.

"I'd just like to know," said Ingmar.

Then the old man began unfolding a big plan he had in mind: Ingmar
was to persuade Tims Halvor to put up a sawmill below the rapids,
and afterward lease it to him. For many years the old man's dream
had been to find a way by which Big Ingmar's son might come into
his own again. Ingmar stood quietly looking down at the foaming
rapids.

"Come, let's go back to the house and the dancing!" said the old
man, but as Ingmar did not stir he waited patiently. "If he's the
right sort, he won't reply to this today, nor yet to-morrow," he
remarked to himself. "An Ingmarsson has to have time to consider."

And as they stood there, all at once they heard a sharp and angry
bark that seemed to come from some dog running loose in the forest.

"Do you hear that, Ingmar?" asked the old man.

"Yes; that must be a dog on the rampage."

Then they heard the bark more distinctly; it seemed to be coming
nearer, as if the beast were heading straight for the hut. The old
man seized Ingmar by the wrist. "Come, boy!" he said. "Get into the
house as quick as you can!"

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

"Get in, I tell you!"

As they made for the hut, the angry barking sounded as if it were
quite close to them.

"What kind of dog is it?" Ingmar asked, again and again.

"Get inside, only get inside!" cried the old man, fairly pushing
Ingmar into the narrow passageway. Before closing the outer door he
shouted: "If there are any of you outside, come in at once!" As he
stood holding the door open, people came running from all
directions. "In with you, in with you!" he shrieked at them, and
stamped impatiently.

Meanwhile the people in the hut were becoming alarmed. They all
wanted to know what was amiss. When the old man had made sure that
everybody was inside, he closed and bolted the door.

"Are you mad, to be running about when you hear the mountain dog!"
At that moment the barking was heard just outside the hut; it was
as if the mountain dog were chasing round and round the house,
emitting hideous yowls.

"Isn't it a real dog?" asked a young rustic.

"You can go out and call to it if you like, Nils Jansson."

Then all were silent, listening to the howling thing which
continued to go round and round without a stop. It sounded weird
and dreadful. They began to shudder and shake, and some turned as
white as death. No, indeed, this was no ordinary dog; anybody could
tell that! It was doubtless some demon let loose from hell, they
thought.

The little old man was the only one who moved about. First he
closed the flue, then he went around and snuffed out the candles.

"No, no!" cried the womenfolk, "don't put out the lights!"

"You must let me do what is best for all of us," said the old man.

One of the girls caught hold of his coat. "Is the mountain dog
dangerous?" she asked.

"No, not he, but what comes after."

"And what comes after?"

Again the old man listened. Presently he said: "Now we must all be
very still."

Instantly there was breathless silence. Once again the terrible
howling seemed to circle the hut, but it grew less distinct as it
went across the marsh and up the mountains on the other side of the
valley. Then came an ominous stillness. Presently some man, who
couldn't hold in any longer, said that the _dog_ was gone.

Without a word Strong Ingmar raised his hand and dealt the man a
blow across the mouth.

From far away at the top of Mount Flack came a piercing sound; it
was like a howling wind, but it could also have been a blast from a
horn. Now and again prolonged blare could be heard, then roaring
and tramping and snorting.

All at once the thing came dashing down from the mountain with an
awful roar. They could tell when it had reached the foot of the
slope; they could tell when it swept the skirt of the forest; and
when it was directly above them. It was like the rolling of thunder
across the face of the earth; it was as if the whole mountain had
come tumbling into the valley. When it seemed to be almost upon
them, every head went down. "It will crush us," they all thought.
"It will surely crush us."

But what they felt was not so much the fear of death, as terror
lest it might be the prince of darkness himself coming, with all
his demons. What frightened them most were the shrieks and moans
that could be heard above the other noises. There were wails and
groans, laughter and bellowings, whines and hisses. When that which
they had supposed was a big thunderstorm was right upon them, it
seemed to be a mingling of groans and curses, of sobs and angry
cries, of the blast of horns, of crackling fire, of the plaints of
doomed spirits, of the mocking laughter of demons, of the flapping
of huge wings.

They thought all the furies of the infernal regions had been let
loose that night, and would overwhelm them. The ground trembled,
and the hut swayed as if it were going to topple over. It was as if
wild horses were prancing on the roof; as if howling ghosts rushed
past the door, and as if owls and bats were beating their wings
against the chimney.

While this was happening, some one put an arm around Gertrude's
waist and drew her to her knees. Then she heard Ingmar whisper: "We
must kneel down, Gertrude, and ask God to help us."

Only the moment before Gertrude had imagined she was dying, so
terrible was the fear that held her. "I don't mind having to die,"
she thought; "the awful part of it is that the powers of evil are
hovering over us."

But Gertrude had no sooner felt Ingmar's protecting arm around her
than her heart began to beat once more, and the feeling of numbness
in her limbs was gone. She snuggled close to him. She was not
frightened now. How wonderful! Ingmar must have felt afraid also,
yet he was able to impart to her a sense of security and
protection.

Finally the terrible noises died away; they heard only the faintest
echoes of them in the distance. They seemed to have followed in the
trail of the dog, down through the marsh and up into the mountain
passes beyond Olaf's Peak.

And yet the silence in Strong Ingmar's but was unbroken. No one
moved, no one spoke; at times it was as if fear had extinguished
all life there. Now and then through the stillness a deep sigh was
heard. No one moved for a long, long time. Some of the people were
standing up against the walls, others had sunk down on the benches,
but most of them were kneeling upon the floor in anxious prayer.
All were motionless, stunned by fear.

Thus hour after hour passed, and during that time there was many a
one in that room who ransacked his soul and resolved to live a new
life--nearer to God and farther away from His enemies, for each of
those present thought: "It is something that _I_ have done which
has brought this upon us. This has happened because of _my_ sins. I
could hear how the fiends kept calling to me and threatening me,
and shrieking my name, as they rushed by."

As for Gertrude, her only thought was: "I know now that I can never
live without Ingmar; I must always be near him because of that
feeling of confidence he gives one."

Then gradually the day began to break, the faint light of dawn came
stealing into the hut, revealing the many blanched faces. The
twitter of a bird was heard, then of another, and another. Strong
Ingmar's cow began to low for her breakfast, and his cat, who never
slept in the house on nights when there was dancing, came to the
door and mewed. But no one inside moved until the sun rolled up
from behind the eastern hills. Then, one by one, they stole out
without a word or even a good-bye.

Outside the house the departing guests beheld the signs of the
night's devastation. A huge pine, which had stood close to the
gate, had been torn up by the roots and thrown down; branches and
fence posts were littered over the ground; bats and owls had been
crushed against the side walls of the hut.

Along the broad roadway leading to the top of Mount Klack all the
trees had been blown down. No one could bear to look at this long,
so they all hurried on toward the village.

It was Sunday, and most people were still in their beds, but a few
persons were already out tending to their cattle. An old man had
just emerged from his house with his Sunday coat, to brush and air
it. From another house came father, mother, and children--all
dressed up for a holiday outing. It was a great relief to see
people quietly going about their business, unconscious of the awful
things that had happened in the forest during the night.

At last they came to the riverside, where the houses were less
scattered, and then to the village. They were glad to see the old
church and everything else. It was comforting to see that
everything down here looked natural: the sign-board in front of the
shop creaked on its hinges as usual; the post-office horn was in
its regular place; and the inn-keeper's dog lay sleeping, as
always, outside his kennel. It was also a gladsome surprise to them
to see a little bird-berry bush that had blossomed overnight, and
the green seats in the pastor's garden, which must have been put
out late in the evening. All this was decidedly reassuring. But
just the same no one ventured to speak until they had reached their
several homes.

When Gertrude stood on the steps of the schoolhouse, she said to
Ingmar: "I have danced my last dance, Ingmar."

"And I, too," Ingmar solemnly declared.

"And you'll become a clergyman, won't you, Ingmar? And if you can't
become a preacher, you must at least be a teacher. There is so much
evil in the world one has to fight against."

Ingmar looked straight at Gertrude. "What did those voices say to
you?" he asked.

"They said that I had been caught in the toils of sin, and that the
devil would come and take me, because I was so fond of dancing."

"Now I must tell you what I heard," said Ingmar. "It seemed to me
that all the old Ingmarssons were threatening and cursing me
because I wanted to be something more than a peasant, and to do
something besides just tilling the soil and working in the forest."

HELLGUM

The night of the dance at Strong Ingmar's, Tims Halvor was away
from home, and his wife, Karin, slept alone in the little chamber
off the living-room. In the night Karin had a frightful dream. She
dreamt that Elof was alive and was holding a big revel. She could
hear him in the next room clinking glasses, laughing loudly, and
singing ribald songs. She thought, in the dream, that Elof and his
boon companions were getting noisier and noisier, and at last it
sounded as though they were trying to break up both tables and
chairs. Then Karin became so frightened that she awoke. But even
after she had awakened the noise continued. The earth shook, the
windows rattled, the tiles on the roof were loosened, and the old
pear trees at the gables lashed the house with their stout
branches. It was as if Judgment Day had come.

Just when the noise was at its height a window pane was sprung,
and the shattered glass fell jingling against the floor. A violent
gust of wind rushed through the room, and then Karin thought she
heard a laugh quite close to her ear--the same kind of laugh that
she had heard in the dream. She fancied she was about to die. Never
had she felt such a sense of terror; her heart stopped, and her
whole body became numb and cold as ice.

All at once the noise died down, and Karin, as it were, came back
to life. The raw night wind came sweeping into the room; so after a
little Karin decided to get up and stuff something into the broken
window pane. As she stepped out of the bed, her legs gave way, and
she found that she could not walk. She did not cry for help, but
quietly laid down again. "I'll surely be able to walk when I feel
more composed," she thought. In a few moments she made another
attempt. This time, too, her legs failed her, and she fell prone on
the floor beside the bed.

In the morning, when people were astir in the house, the doctor was
called in. He was at a loss to understand what had come over Karin.
She did not appear to be ill, nor was she paralyzed. He was of the
opinion that her trouble had been brought on by fright.

"You'll soon be all right again," he assured her. Karin listened to
the doctor, but said nothing. She felt certain that Elof had been
in the room during the night, and that he was the cause of her
trouble. She also had the feeling that she would never recover from
this shock.

All that morning she sat up in bed, and brooded. She tried to
reason out why God had let this trial come upon her. She examined
her conscience thoroughly, but could not discover that she had
committed any special sin that merited such a terrible punishment.
"God is unjust to me," she thought.

In the afternoon she was taken to Storm's mission house, where at
that time a lay preacher named Dagson led the meetings. She hoped
that he could tell her why she had been punished in this way.

Dagson was a popular speaker, and never had he had so many hearers
as on that afternoon. My, but what a gathering of people down at
the mission house! And no one talked of anything but what had
happened in the night at Strong Ingmar's hut. The whole community
was in a state of terror, and had turned out in full force, in
order to hear the Word of God preached with a force that would
annihilate their fears. Hardly a quarter of the people could get
inside; but windows and doors were wide open, and Dagson had such a
powerful voice that he could be heard even by those on the outside.
Of course he knew what had occurred, and what the people wanted to
hear. He opened his address with a terror-striking word picture of
hell and the prince of darkness. He reminded them of the evil one
who skulks about in the dark to capture souls, who lays the snares
of sin and sets the traps of vice. The people shuddered. They
seemed to see a world full of devils, tempting and enticing them to
destruction. Everything was a sin and a danger. They were wandering
among pitfalls, hunted and tormented like the wild beasts of the
forest. When Dagson talked in this strain, his voice pierced the
room like a blasting wind, and his words were like tongues of fire.

All who heard Dagson's sermon likened it to a roaring torrent of
flame. With all this talk about demons and fire and smoke, they had
the same feeling as when trapped in a burning forest--when the fire
creeps along the moss upon which you are treading, and smoke clouds
fill the air you breathe, and the heat singes your hair, while the
roar of the fire fills your ears, and flying sparks set fire to
your clothing.

Thus did Dagson drive the people through flame and smoke and
desolation. They had fire in front of them, fire behind them, and
fire to left and right of them, and saw only destruction ahead of
them. Yet, after taking them through all these horrors, he finally
led them to a green spot in the forest, where it was peaceful and
cool and safe. In the centre of a flowery meadow sat Jesus, with
His arms outstretched toward the fleeing and hunted men and women
who cast themselves at His feet. Now all danger was past, and they
suffered no further distress nor persecution.

Dagson spoke as he himself felt. If he could only lay himself down
at Jesus' feet, a sense of great peace and serenity would come to
him, and he had no more fear of the snares of the world.

After the service there was great emotional excitement. Many
persons rushed up to the speaker and thanked him, with tears
streaming down their faces. They told him that his words had
awakened them to a true faith in God. But all this time Karin sat
unmoved. When Dagson had finished speaking, she raised her heavy
eyelids and looked up at him, as if reproaching him for not having
given her anything. Just then some one outside cried in a voice
loud enough to be heard by the entire congregation:

"Woe, woe, woe to those who give stones for bread! Woe, woe, woe to
those who give stones for bread!"

Whereupon everybody rushed out, curious to see who it was that had
spoken those words, and Karin was left sitting there in her
helplessness. Presently members of her own household came back, and
told her that the person who had cried out like that was a tall,
dark stranger. He and a pretty, fair-haired woman had been seen
coming down the road, in a cart, during the service. They had
stopped to listen, and just as they were about to drive on, the man
had risen up and spoken. Some folks thought they knew the woman.
They said she was one of Strong Ingmar's daughters--one of those
who had gone to America and married there. The man was evidently
her husband. Of course it is not so easy to recognize a person whom
one has known as a young girl in the ordinary peasant costume, when
she comes back a grown woman dressed up in city clothes.

Karin and the stranger were evidently of the same mind regarding
Dagson. Karin never went to the mission house again. But later in
the summer, when a Baptist layman came to the parish, baptizing and
exhorting, she went to hear him, and when the Salvation Army began
to hold meetings in the village, she also attended one of these.

The parish was in the throes of a great religious upheaval. At all
the meetings there were awakenings and conversions. The people
seemed to find what they had been seeking. Yet among all those whom
Karin had heard preach, not one could give her any consolation.

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