MÅRBACKA

MÅRBACKA

BY

SELMA LAGERLÖF

TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH
BY
VELMA SWANSTON HOWARD

GARDEN CITY NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1925

COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
AT
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N.Y.

[THE STRÖMSTAD JOURNEY]

MÅRBACKA

[I
THE NURSEMAID]

ONCE they had a nursemaid at Mårbacka who was called Back-Kaisa. She must have been all of six feet high. She had a large-featured, swarthy, stern-looking face, her hands were hard and full of cracks, in which the children’s hair would catch when she combed it, and she was heavy and mournful.

A person of that sort could hardly be said to have been especially created for the nursery, and indeed Fru Lagerlöf had deliberated a long while before engaging her. The girl had never been out to service and knew nothing of the ways of people; she had grown up on a poor backwoods croft, among the wooded hills above Mårbacka, far from any other habitation.

Probably there was no one else available, or Fru Lagerlöf would not have had her come. That the girl did not know how to make up a bed, or build a fire in a tile-stove, or prepare a bath, was understood beforehand; but she was teachable and did not mind sweeping out the nursery every day, or dusting, or washing baby-clothes. What she could not seem to learn, however, was how to get along with the little folk. She never played with them or gave them a pleasant word. She knew no sagas and no songs. It was not that she meant to be unkind, but she was so constituted that romp and frolic and laughter were hateful to her. She would have liked the children to sit quietly, each in his or her little chair, without moving or talking.

Fru Lagerlöf was at all events quite pleased with the nursemaid. As for her not knowing any stories—well, the Mårbacka children had their grandmother, who every morning as soon as she was dressed gathered the youngsters about her, and sang and narrated for them till away up to dinner-time. And they had someone, too, who played with them, for Lieutenant Lagerlöf, whenever he had a spare moment, romped with his children.

Back-Kaisa was strong, patient, and dutiful. She was a person to be depended on. When her master and mistress went off to a party, they could rest assured that she did not run out and leave the children alone in the nursery. If only she’d had a more delicate touch she would have been admirable. But hers were no gentle clutches when little arms had to go into dress-sleeves. When she washed the children the soap always got into their eyes; and when she wielded the comb they felt as if every wisp of hair were being torn from their heads.

The nursery at Mårbacka was a light, warm, spacious room—the best in the whole house. But, unhappily, it was a gable-room, and to get there one had first to go out into the lower front hall, then up a flight of steps and across a big attic. The attic stairs were steep, and difficult for little feet to climb. Now the former nursemaid used to take a child on her arm and carry it up, but Back-Kaisa didn’t seem to know enough for that. And it was positively terrifying to walk the length of that attic—above all, after dark! So it seemed almost necessary that little hands should have a large hand to slip into. But Back-Kaisa, who had been accustomed to the dark of the wild forest, probably thought the attic at Mårbacka a nice safe place. She just stalked on and never so much as put out a hand. One was glad if one could even catch hold of a corner of her skirt.

The beds in which the three children slept had been made by the clever old carpenter at Askersby, and they were quite decorative, with a little row of spindles across each headboard; but they were in two sections that pulled out and pushed in like a drawer. Large as the nursery was, the three beds when open took up a lot of space; so it was well they could be folded during the day. Now that in itself was all right, but the clever old carpenter had somehow managed to make the beds in such a way that they sometimes sprang apart in the dead of the night.

When that happened, you were of course startled out of your sweetest slumber. Finding your bed cut off in the middle, you drew yourself into the upper end and tried to catch back sleep again. But somehow it would not come. After a while you stretched out your legs and let them dangle. In that position you lay waiting for the Sandman till you were as wide awake as in broad day. Then at last you decided to get up and try to push the two parts together. When you had apparently succeeded and had got the bedclothes nicely straightened, you crept back into bed as cautiously as possible, and stretched out once more with a feeling of satisfaction. All went well, sleep came stealing on, then a careless turn and—crickety-crash!—the bed was apart again ... which put an end to all hope of getting any sleep that night.

But Back-Kaisa slept peacefully through it all. It did not occur to any of the little ones that they might awaken her and ask for help. The former nursemaid had always jumped up the instant a bed broke down, and quickly fixed it without having to be asked.

Just over the nursery there was a little lumber-loft full of discarded looms and spinning-wheels, and amid all that old rubbish lived an owl.

At night that owl made a dreadful racket. To the children’s ears it sounded as if someone were rolling big, heavy logs over their heads. The former nursemaid used to laugh at them when they were frightened by the noise, and say there was nothing to be scared about—it was only the owl. But Back-Kaisa, who hailed from the forest, was afraid of all animals, furred and feathered. They were to her like evil spirits. So, whenever she was awakened in the night by the owl she would take out her prayer book and begin to read. Indeed she could not soothe the children; on the contrary, she terrified them so that the poor little owl grew into a huge monster with tiger-claws and eagle-wings. No words can picture how they lay shuddering to the very roots of their being at the thought of having a horrible ogre like that right above them. What if it should tear a hole through the ceiling with its great claws, and come swooping down...!

It can never be said of Back-Kaisa that she neglected the children, or beat them. But was that anything much? True, the former nursemaid had not been so particular about keeping them neat and clean; but she was oh, so good to them!

The children had three little wooden chairs which they regarded as their greatest treasure. These had been presented to them by the clever old carpenter of Askersby. Whether they were meant as compensation for his failure with the beds, they did not know, but they rather thought so. At any rate, the chairs were not failures. They were both light and strong, and could be used as tables and sleds. The children could ride them all around the room, stand upon them and jump to the floor, or lay them down and play they were a cow shed, a stable, or a rabbit hutch. Oh, there was nothing they could not be used for!

Why the children prized those chairs so highly could be seen at a glance by turning them upside down. On the bottom of each chair was the portrait of its owner. On one was Johan, a boy in blue with a long riding whip in his hand; on another posed Anna, a dainty little maid in a red frock and yellow leghorn hat—sniffing at a nosegay; while on the third was Selma, a tiny tot in a blue dress and striped apron, but with nothing in her hand and nothing on her head.

Now these portraits had been painted there to show to whom the chairs belonged, and the children regarded them as their property in quite a different sense from wearing apparel and other things they received from their parents. Their clothes travelled from one to another, and their nice toys were either locked away or set up on the corner bracket in the parlour; but the chairs, which bore their likenesses—who would have thought of depriving them of these?

Therefore, it was awfully mean of Back-Kaisa to put all three chairs on top of the high birch-wood bureau, as she did sometimes, so that the children could not get at them. What if she had but just scrubbed the nursery and the little chairs would leave ugly marks on the wet floor if trailed across it? The former nursemaid never would have had the heart to take the chairs away from them. No, not even for a moment.

Fru Lagerlöf saw, to be sure, that the maid did not understand her little ones and that they were afraid of her. But Back-Kaisa had been hired for a year, and Fru Lagerlöf could not very well send her away before her time was up. She hoped, however, that things would be better in the summer, when the children could play out of doors, and have less to do with the nursemaid.

One forenoon in the early summer, it happened that the youngest child, a little girl, had been left alone, and asleep, in the nursery. On awaking she sat up in bed, half-dazed, and wondered where everyone had gone; at the same time she felt singularly drowsy and uncomfortable. She remembered, as she came to herself somewhat, that earlier in the day she and the other children had been to Ås Springs with their father to bathe. On their return Back-Kaisa had put all three of them to bed—dressed as they were—that they might nap a while before dinner. But the beds on which Johan and Anna had lain now stood empty; so the little girl knew, of course, that they were already up and gone.

They were perhaps out in the garden playing? She felt a bit hurt at their running off like that, leaving her all by herself in the nursery. She had better crawl out of bed, she thought, and hurry down to them.

The little girl was then three and a half years old, and she could easily open the door and walk down the stairs. But to cross the dangerous attic alone ... She listened—perhaps someone was coming to fetch her.... No, there were no footsteps on the stair; she would have to venture by herself.

But now that she wanted to rise from her bed she could not. She tried again and again, only to sink back. Her legs did not seem to belong to her; she had lost all control of them.

The child was terror-stricken. The feeling of utter helplessness which came over her when the body refused to obey was something so dreadful she remembered it long, long afterwards—aye, all her life.

Naturally, she began to cry. She was in great trouble, and there was no grown person at hand to help or comfort her. But she had not been alone such a very long while when the door opened and Back-Kaisa appeared.

“Isn’t Selma coming down to dinner? The big folk——” Back-Kaisa stopped short.

The little girl never thought about its being the cross nursemaid who stood in the doorway. In her desperate plight she only saw a grown person who could help her—and put out her arms to her.

“Come and take me, Back-Kaisa!” she cried. “Come and take me!”

When the nurse came up to the bedside the little girl threw her arms about her neck and clung to her as no child had ever done before. A little tremor went through Back-Kaisa, and her voice was not real steady when she asked:

“What’s the matter with Selma? Is her sick?”

“I can’t walk, Back-Kaisa,” wailed the child.

Then a pair of strong arms lifted her up as easily as if she were just a tiny kitten, and all at once the stern, serious-minded woman knew how to talk to a little child.

“Naa—Selma mustn’t cry for that! Back-Kaisa’s going to carry Selma.”

And with that it seemed as if all the little one’s troubles had blown away. She was no longer afraid or unhappy. What did it matter that she herself could not walk when Back-Kaisa would carry her! And nobody had to tell her; she knew that one who had a good strong friend like Back-Kaisa was not so badly off after all.

[II
GRAND COMPANY]

JOHAN and Anna were driven nearly to distraction by the terrible commotion created by Selma’s illness.

That one may well understand. Johan was then seven years of age, and learning to read under the tutelage of Herr Tyberg. He was a boy, of course, and almost regarded as the eldest child; though, to be sure, he had an elder brother. But the latter mostly stayed with his maternal grandparents at Filipstad, and was hardly ever at home. And now, all at once, it seemed that nobody had a thought for him—Johan—but only for the littlest girl.

As for Anna—she was five, and she could already both sew and crochet. She was pretty to look at, too, and the elder daughter, and mamma’s pet. But what was the good of all that since Selma had gone and got sick?

The grown-ups, you see, were so touched by the sight of a child who could not walk. “How will the poor little thing go through life?” they would sigh.—— “She’ll have to stay in the one place always, and never see anything of the world.”—— “She’ll never get married and she’ll never be able to support herself.”—— “It’s going to be cruelly hard for her, poor child.” They were all very tender and full of pity for the sick girl. Now that Johan and Anna had nothing against; but folks didn’t have to forget that there were other children.

The worst one of all, though, was Back-Kaisa. She carried Selma on her back, prattled with her, and told her she was a perfect little angel. And, indeed, Father and Mother and Granny and Auntie were not much better. Didn’t the clever old carpenter at Askersby have to make her a little wagon, so that Back-Kaisa might draw her about? And were Johan and Anna ever allowed to borrow that wagon to cart sand in?—No, no! That was for Selma’s use, and they mustn’t soil it.

Johan and Anna both knew that when Selma could walk there had been nothing remarkable about her; but now visitors couldn’t come to the house but she must be carried in for them to see and make a fuss over. And if a peasant woman happened to drop into the kitchen Back-Kaisa was there in a jiffy, showing Selma to her. The exasperating thing about it all was that Back-Kaisa was forever saying what a good child Selma was—she never cried and never sulked, even though so helpless. And why shouldn’t she be good, thought Johan and Anna, the way she was treated! Carried about, and waited on, and petted, day in and day out!

Yes, Back-Kaisa was certainly very trying, Johan and Anna agreed. She could not bear to see Fru Lagerlöf make Anna a prettier dress than the one Selma got; and if any one happened to say of Johan, that he was a nice polite little boy, she’d always remark: “’Twould be a shame for one that’s able to walk, and can go where he likes, not to be good.”

That old Doctor Hedberg of Sunne was called in time and again on Selma’s account, Johan and Anna thought no more than right; nor did they complain when Högman’s Inga, who often came to the manor to mumble over sick cows and pigs, was consulted. But they felt it had gone rather far when once, in the absence of Lieutenant Lagerlöf, Back-Kaisa and Granny and the housekeeper put their heads together, and sent for the dangerous old witch-doctor of Högbergssäter—she who every Maundy Thursday greased a broomstick and went riding to the Witches’ Kitchen. They had heard that she had the power to set fire to a house by just looking at it, and were dreadfully uneasy the whole time she was at Mårbacka. They thought it very wrong of Back-Kaisa to bring a horrid creature like her to the house.

Of course Johan and Anna wanted to have Selma restored to health. They above everyone wished her well again. All the same, they didn’t think it a bit nice of her to go and catch a sickness no one could cure. But Back-Kaisa must have thought differently. For when neither Doctor Hedberg, who had so often cured them of coughs and colds, nor Högman’s Inga, who never failed with cows and pigs, nor yet the dangerous witch-hag, who could put life into a broomstick, had been able to help her, Back-Kaisa vowed she was growing more and more wonderful all the time. And when Lieutenant Lagerlöf finally took her to Karlstad and showed her to Surgeon Major Haak, who was the best doctor in the city, and even he could do nothing for her, then Back-Kaisa was ready to burst with pride. Now wouldn’t it have been better if Selma had taken on a sickness that would come to an end? So at least thought Johan and Anna.

The worst of it was that Selma was getting quite spoiled by Back-Kaisa’s being too good to her. Little as she was, she had found out that it was not necessary for her to be as obedient as the other children, who could stand on their feet. Above all, she did not have to eat food that was not to her liking. When Fru Lagerlöf set before her a helping of stewed carrots, or spinach, or some hard-boiled eggs, or a plate of ale-soup, she was not expected to finish her portion as in other days; she had only to push her plate away, and immediately Back-Kaisa ran out to the kitchen and fetched something Selma liked.

And it was not enough with that!—Johan and Anna noticed that when Doctor Hedberg and Högman’s Inga and the old witch had all failed to cure her, Selma thought herself too grand to eat plain fare. Why, she barely deigned to touch fried chicken and new potatoes and wild strawberries and cream. But when she had been to Karlstad, and the great Doctor Haak had said he could do nothing for her, then she would not eat anything but pastry and preserves.

Johan and Anna had heard that Aunt Nana Hammargren, who lived in Karlstad, was dreadfully worried about Selma, and feared she would starve to death; and they, too, felt that unless something happened very soon to change all this, it might end badly.

But something did happen.

One morning Back-Kaisa carried the little girl into the kitchen-bedroom and set her down among the pillows on Grandmother Lagerlöf’s big white bed.

“Now Selma’s going to see something,” she said.

The bed was made up—sheets and all—but it had not been slept in during the night, and apparently no one lay there now, either. Grandmother Lagerlöf, who was not usually up at that early hour, sat all dressed on the corner sofa; and Aunt Lovisa, who shared the kitchen-bedroom, was also up and dressed. They both looked happy and content, and when the little girl was well seated on the bed they arose and went over to her.

“Aha! Grand company came last night,” her grandmother said with a chuckle.

The little girl laughed, too, for what could be more delightful than having visitors in the house! She looked up and down and all around, wondering where the grand company might be. It was nowhere in the room, surely—not in the yellow corner-cupboard, nor behind the tall grandfather’s clock, nor under Auntie’s chiffonier. There was only one good hiding-place—the covered passage leading to the cellar; but the grand company could never have crawled in there.

It was all very strange! Why was she sitting on Granny’s bed, and why were the others standing there staring, as if the grand company were in the bed? She glanced from one to the other, quite bewildered. Presently Aunt Lovisa bent down and moved the pillows a little. Then Selma saw that by her side lay a small oblong bundle, to which she attached no importance whatever. Granny had said that grand company had come, and grand company meant only one thing—far-come visitors who brought toys and big bags of candy for the children. That was the company she was looking for.

“Are they in there?” she asked, pointing toward the parlour. She listened for the sound of voices from the next room; seeing how pleased and elated the others were, her expectations rose high.

“Why, she’s right there beside you.” Granny lifted a corner of the oblong bundle and revealed two tiny hands and a little wizened face.

The little girl gave the swaddling a scornful glance then looked away. She had seen such before, and did not care for them. Her thoughts were on the company with the candy bags.

“See,” said Aunt Lovisa, “this is a little sister who came to you last night, and you must be good to her.”

Here was something for which she was wholly unprepared. She would have been glad to welcome another sister—one who could walk and talk; but this swaddling did not interest her at all.

However, it was plain to her now that no grand company had come. Granny meant only the poor little baby, and she knew very well that it had not brought any candy.

She felt so bitterly disappointed that she just had to cry. Back-Kaisa was obliged to carry her out to the kitchen, lest her crying awaken the grand company.

And she had cause for tears. Her day of power and supremacy was over. Back-Kaisa had now to help Fru Lagerlöf with the care of the little newcomer, who was even more helpless and lost, as it were, than Selma. One couldn’t reason with the baby, so it was always she, Selma, who had to be patient, and wait.

From that time on they were not so keen about showing her to company. Now it was the swaddling that was brought forward to be seen and praised. All the glamour and greatness had dropped from her; she was no more now than Anna or Johan.

The year that followed she had many distressing experiences. She had not only to give up living exclusively on a diet of pastry and preserves, but things even went so far that when Fru Lagerlöf served her boiled carrots, or spinach, or pease-pods, no one removed her plate and brought her other fare. She had to eat what was set before her. If Anna received a prettier dress than Selma no one protested. On the contrary, they all thought it only fair, since Anna was the eldest daughter.

Ah, sometimes her heart sank way down into her boots, for she was not altogether certain that Back-Kaisa did not care just as much for the wee one as she did for her.

[III
THE DRIVE TO KARLSTAD]

BACK-KAISA and her charge were on a journey. They sat perched up on the box of the big close-carriage with Magnus, the coachman, who was so gripped by his responsibility of driving three horses on the dreadful road to Karlstad that not a word could be got out of him.

On the back seat of the carriage sat Fru Lagerlöf and Mamselle Lovisa, with Johan and Anna opposite, their backs to the horses. It was much more fun, of course, to sit on the coach-box and watch the horses than being shut in under the tilt. Johan would have liked to be up there with Magnus; but Fru Lagerlöf had said it was impossible to squeeze Back-Kaisa in on the front seat, and where she rode, Selma must ride. Lieutenant Lagerlöf was also along on the journey, but he rode alone at some distance ahead, in his carriole.

It was a year now since the little girl first lost the use of her legs, and in all that time she had not set foot on the ground. She was now being taken to the West Coast in the hope that the sea air and the baths might possibly effect a cure. She was the only invalid among them, but a summer at the seaside would no doubt be of benefit to all.

The little girl sitting up there on the driver’s seat had quite forgotten her affliction. She and Back-Kaisa were going away together, and the baby had been left at home! She was looking forward to a revival of those happy, never-to-be-forgotten times.

Snuggling close to the nurse, she put her arms about her neck and asked her again and again if she was not glad that they two could now be together, with no one to disturb them.

There was no reply. But the little girl did not much mind; Back-Kaisa had never been a talking person.

The great highroad to Karlstad was just one hill after another. There was the tortuous stretch round Bävik and Gunnarsby Hill, which was about three and a half English miles long; then came the steep grade up to the Sundgård mountains which was close to vertical. But most perilous of all was Kleva towering above an abyss. It was up and down the whole time, as if one were see-sawing between heaven and earth. Lieutenant Lagerlöf, to make the going easier, had ordered three horses put to the carriage—an arrangement to which neither horses nor driver was accustomed.

If anything was calculated to increase the little girl’s delight at having Back-Kaisa all to herself once more, it was being allowed to sit where she could look down at the frisky horses that dashed on as if the heavy carriage were only a toy wagon, tearing round the curves, with the vehicle sometimes on two wheels. Often the horses would stiffen their legs and make the downgrade almost on their haunches, and when they came to a sudden drop in the road, Magnus would stand up and use the whip desperately, to urge the horses on so that the high carriage would not come tumbling over them.

In the middle of one of these break-neck descents the little girl again turned to the nurse and said:

“Aren’t you glad, Back-Kaisa, to be alone with me? Aren’t you glad, Back-Kaisa, the baby isn’t along?”

There came no response now, either; and wondering, the child turned so that she could see the nurse’s face.... Back-Kaisa sat holding on to the seat, a fixed stare in her eyes, her lips compressed, her face the hue of ashes. “Isn’t Back-Kaisa glad——?” But the little girl now saw that Back-Kaisa was far from glad and she was so crestfallen she could have cried.

Then at last Back-Kaisa spoke:

“Hush up, Selma! You mustn’t talk when you’re facing such danger! Never’ve I known worse! But for your sake, I’d ’ve got down and gone home long ago.”

The little girl sat pondering the reply, not quite satisfied. She was never afraid when with Back-Kaisa, so why should Back-Kaisa be afraid when she was with her? It was nice of her, though, not to get down and go home; but it would have been nicer if she had felt too happy to be scared.

[IV
IN THE CABIN ON THE “UDDEHOLM”]

THE Mårbacka folk, though still on their journey, no longer sat in fear and trembling in the jolting carriage. Now they were on board a fine steamer called the Uddeholm.

They had spent the day in Karlstad, shopping and visiting with relatives. Toward evening they left the city and stood waiting a good while on the long pier that shoots far out into big Lake Vänern. No shore being visible in one direction, Back-Kaisa had at once become alarmed; she thought that over there must be the edge of the world. Wonderful to behold—for her as for the others—was the pretty steamer as she emerged from that “shoreless place” and came gliding toward the pier to take them on board.

When Back-Kaisa saw how her master and mistress, Mamselle Lovisa, Johan, and Anna all went up the gangplank without the least hesitancy, she of course followed, albeit reluctantly. She probably thought Lieutenant Lagerlöf had conscience enough not to expose his little ones deliberately to the peril of death. But what would become of them once they reached the world’s end? That was something beyond her ken. She would have liked to remain on deck to see whether the water went down a chasm, or wherever it went. But when dusk began to settle, the Mårbacka women and children were requested to go below-decks. They were conducted into something called a cabin, the smallest room they had ever seen, where they arranged themselves for the night.

On a narrow sofa that took up the whole side of one wall, Fru Lagerlöf lay without undressing. Opposite, on a similar sofa, was Mamselle Lovisa. Over Fru Lagerlöf, on a sort of shelf, Johan was stowed, and Anna occupied another shelf above Mamselle Lovisa’s sofa. On the floor, between the two sofas, with some blankets under them, lay Back-Kaisa and Selma. Thus, every bit of space was occupied; there was not the least little corner where one might stand or sit.

The lights were extinguished, the good-nights said, and everyone settled down to sleep. For a time it was dead still in the cabin. Then, all at once, the floor began to go up and down in the strangest way! The little girl rolled like a ball, first over toward Fru Lagerlöf’s sofa, then back toward the nurse. It was great fun; only she could not understand why the floor did not hold still. Presently she heard her mother and her aunt whisper to each other.

“I must have eaten too much of that rich salmon at the Sjöstedts’,” said her mother.

“I thought at the time it was not very sensible food they set before us,” Aunt Lovisa remarked. “And they knew we were to be out on Vänern.”

“No, Vänern isn’t pleasant!” sighed Fru Lagerlöf.

Then Back-Kaisa, too, began to whisper.

“Say, Frua, are we there yet?—there where the sea stops, and the water rushes down the bottomless pit?”

“My dear girl, there’ll be no stop to the sea to-night!” said Fru Lagerlöf, who did not know what Back-Kaisa was talking about.

Again there was silence for a space, but not stillness. The floor rocked on and the little girl continued her delightful rolling.

Fru Lagerlöf struck a match and lit the lantern.

“I must see whether the children are able to hold themselves on their shelves,” she said.

“Lord be praised for the light!” said Mamselle Lovisa. “Anyhow, there’s no chance of our getting a wink of sleep to-night.”

“Oh, Frua! Oh, Mamselle Lovisa! don’t you feel that we’re going down and down?” Back-Kaisa wailed. “Oh, how’ll we ever get out of this deep? How’ll we ever get back home?”

“Now, whatever does she mean?” queried Mamselle Lovisa.

“She says that we have reached the last extremity,” Fru Lagerlöf interpreted—no more comprehending than the other.

The little girl had a faint suspicion that they were uneasy. As for herself, she was exceedingly comfortable, lying as it were in a big rocking-swing.

The door-handle turned, the red hanging was swept to one side, and in the doorway stood Lieutenant Lagerlöf, chuckling.

“How is it, Gustaf?” asked Fru Lagerlöf anxiously. “Will it be a gale, do you think?”

“So you’re awake, all of you,” said the Lieutenant. “Ay, it has blown up a bit,” he conceded in a reassuring tone. “The Captain thought I’d better come down and tell you it will be no worse than it is.”

“What are you up to now?” Mamselle Lovisa asked him. “Aren’t you going to bed?”

“Where do you think I should sleep, Sister dear?” And there was something so screamingly funny about him as he stood in the doorway (further he could not come), looking up and down as if in search of a sleeping place—it set them all laughing. Fru Lagerlöf and Mamselle Lovisa, who had been lying there fearful and a little seasick, now sat up in their bunks to have their laugh out. Johan and Anna laughed so hard they nearly shook themselves off their “shelves.” Back-Kaisa forgot for the moment that she would soon be at that dreadful place where the lake ends, and laughed, too, and the little girl by her side was fairly choking with laughter.

Lieutenant Lagerlöf, who seldom laughed aloud, looked highly pleased.

“All’s right with you, I see,” he said. “So now I’ll go up again and chin with the captain.” Whereupon he bade them a cheery good-night, and went his way.

In the cabin the feeling of uneasiness and the qualms of seasickness returned. Fru Lagerlöf again made futile attempts to quiet Back-Kaisa, who went on moaning and wailing that they were getting nearer and nearer that bottomless pit. The little girl by her side must have fallen asleep, for she remembered no more of that night’s experiences.

[V
AT THE GOLDSMITH’S SHOP]

THE most trying part of the journey was over. The travellers were safely landed at Göteborg, where they cast away all care and set out in the glorious summer weather to view the city.

They wandered up Östra Hamngatan. Lieutenant Lagerlöf, stick in hand, hat pushed far back on his head, spectacles drawn far down on his nose, was in the lead. Behind him walked Fru Lagerlöf, holding Johan by the hand; behind her, Mamselle Lovisa, leading Anna; and last came Back-Kaisa who carried Selma on her arm—for it would never do, she thought, to let the little girl ride pig-back in a city.

Lieutenant Lagerlöf had donned a brown coat and light straw hat. Fru Lagerlöf and Mamselle Lovisa were attired in voluminous black silk skirts and fine velvet bodices, with white inserts and wrist-ruffles, over which they wore large cashmere shawls—folded tricornerwise—that almost concealed their dresses; and they had on Panama hats with broad, floppy brims. Johan was in black velvet breeches and smock, and Anna was dressed in a stiffly starched blue polka-dot print worn over a crinoline; and she had both hat and parasol. Selma had on a dress exactly like Anna’s, only she was wearing a sunbonnet instead of a hat, and had neither parasol nor crinoline.

The Lieutenant suddenly halted, turned, and looked back at his line of women and children. He nodded and smiled. It was plain he liked having them with him.

“Here none of us has ever been before,” he said, “so now we’ll look about.”

They sauntered on up the street, now looking at the buildings, now at the canals and little bridges, at passing vehicles and promenaders, at signs and lamp-posts; but most of all, of course, they peered into shop windows.

The Lieutenant did not hurry them, he wanted them to see and enjoy as much as their eyes could take in.

“Nobody here knows us, so gaze as long as you like,” said he.

Mamselle Lovisa stopped before a milliner’s window, where a hat trimmed with white swansdown and pink rosebuds had caught her eye. There she stood, with Anna by the hand, as if rooted to the spot. And of course Lieutenant and Fru Lagerlöf, Johan, Back-Kaisa, and Selma were also obliged to stop before the swansdown hat. But Mamselle Lovisa was not thinking of them; she stood as in a trance. It tickled the Lieutenant to see her so carried away, though after a long, vain wait for her to “come back,” so to speak, he lost patience.

“You’re not thinking of copying that hat, Lovisa?” he said. “Why, that’s more suitable for a girl of seventeen.”

“It may be a pleasure perhaps for one who is not so young to look at pretty things,” retorted Mamselle Lovisa, who, though past her first youth, was still comely and rather elegant in her attire.

When they were well away from the swansdown hat they came to a goldsmith’s shop. Now it was the Lieutenant who stopped first. As he stood feasting his eyes on the trays of sparkling rings and bracelets, shining silver spoons and goblets, and much else displayed in the window, he ejaculated innocent oaths of delight.

“Here we’ll go in!” he said abruptly.

“But, Gustaf!” Fru Lagerlöf protested, “we can’t be buying such things now.”

She laid a restraining hand on his arm, for he had already opened the big plate-glass door of the shop and was stepping in. There was nothing for the others to do but follow. By the time they were all inside he was over at the counter talking to a young clerk.

“No, thank you, I don’t wish to buy anything,” he said. “But, seeing so many choice things in the window, I thought I’d just step in and ask if I might also have a peep at the fine wares you have in the shop.”

The clerk looked a bit uneasy, and seemed at a loss what to reply. Fru Lagerlöf and Mamselle Lovisa now stood with their hands on the Lieutenant’s shoulders, trying to drag him away.

The goldsmith himself presently emerged from an inner room. He had evidently heard them come in, and probably thought he would do a brisk trade. Placing himself beside the clerk, he put the flat of his hands on the counter and inquired invitingly what was desired.

Lieutenant Lagerlöf repeated in substance what he had said to the clerk—that he would very much like to see the beautiful wares in the place though he could not afford to purchase any.

The goldsmith cocked his head and looked at the Lieutenant out of the corner of his eye.

“The gentleman, I take it, is a Värmlander?” he said.

“Hell, yes, of course I’m a Värmlander!” the Lieutenant wagged back. “What the deuce else should I be?”

Then everybody roared. The clerks all crowded round the Lieutenant, and from the inner rooms came a finely dressed woman—the wife of the goldsmith—who wanted to know what the fun was about.

Fru Lagerlöf and Mamselle Lovisa were so mortified they could have wished themselves back in the jolting carriage on the Karlstad road, or the rocking boat on stormy Vänern—anywhere but in that fine shop!

“Come now, Gustaf,” they urged, “for pity’s sake let us get out of here!”

“No, no, please don’t go!” begged the goldsmith in his most persuasive tone. “We should be so happy to show you what we carry here.”

He gave orders to the clerks, who ran up ladders and brought down everything from the shelves, opened cabinets, and took out all their contents, so that the long counter was literally covered with gold and silverware. The shop-keeper and his wife took up each article and showed it to the strangers, explaining its workmanship and what it was for.

Lieutenant Lagerlöf drew off his spectacles and polished the lenses with his silk handkerchief, the better to see. He picked up heavy silver tankards and examined their ornamentations, admiring and praising them.

“I say, Lovisa, this is worse than at the Deanery in Sunne!” he remarked to his sister.

Another time he held a large silver salver before the eyes of Back-Kaisa. “The Giant of Åsbergen doesn’t dine off finer plate—eh, Kaisa?” he said.

The clerks sniggered and joked among themselves, having fun at his expense. The goldsmith and his wife were also enjoying themselves, but in a different way. They were friendly, and liked the Lieutenant. It was not long before they knew who he was, and whom he had with him; that he was on his way to Strömstad to seek a cure for a child who had some hip trouble and could not walk.

Fru Lagerlöf and Mamselle Lovisa, seeing that all went well, composed themselves and began to look at and delight in the display. Fru Lagerlöf was pleased to find an old design in silver spoons, such as they once had in her parental home, and Mamselle Lovisa became quite as enraptured with a sugar bowl as she had been shortly before with the swansdown hat.

When they had finally seen enough and were saying good-bye, it seemed almost as if they were parting from old friends. The goldsmith, his wife, and all the clerks followed them out into the street. Passers-by must have thought they had made purchases amounting to thousands of kronor.

“I really must apologize,” said Lieutenant Lagerlöf, putting out his hand in a final farewell.

“Don’t think of it, Lieutenant!” answered the goldsmith.

“But we have put you to so much trouble,” Fru Lagerlöf interpolated in a deprecating tone.

“We have had a most enjoyable hour,” the goldsmith assured her, “so don’t be uneasy about us! One has to do something for one’s own pleasure, now and then, though one does stand in a shop.”

As the Lieutenant continued his stroll up Östra Hamngatan his hat was pushed farther back on his head than usual. He flourished his cane as he stepped along, proud of his adventure.

Fru Lagerlöf said in a low voice to Mamselle Lovisa: “I can’t tell you how anxious I was; I thought we would surely be thrown out.”

“It would never have done for any one but Gustaf,” replied Mamselle Lovisa, “but no one can resist him.”

[VI
GRAY ISLAND]

NOW the Mårbacka folk had no anxiety in providing for the table; they had only to run out to the market and purchase whatever was needed. They were not worrying about the cows not having good pasturage, nor the oats not coming up; they lived amid barren cliffs and water, and had forgotten there were such things in the world as fields and meadows. Nor did they have to stand in a hot kitchen preparing fancy dishes for far-come guests, nor worry their heads out of joint wondering where they’d find sleeping-room and bedding enough for all. If the animals sickened or the housekeeper and the maids fell to quarrelling, they were blissfully unaware of it. They had freedom and leisure for healthful amusements, with no cares or annoyances of any sort.

Never had they led such an easy, comfortable life. Fru Lagerlöf, who had come to Strömstad rather thin and worn, took on flesh and colour. She soon looked and felt ten years younger. Mamselle Lovisa, who was quite stout and logy, and so diffident she could hardly open her mouth when among strangers, lost weight, grew better looking, and more sociable. Johan and Anna made many friends among the little Strömstad children. Johan was quite wild about crabbing, and Anna had become so attached to two little girls, daughters of the confectioner, who were continually treating her to sweets, they both declared they never wanted to go home again.

As for the little sick girl, there had been no marked improvement; she was apparently no better or stronger. But that did not seem to trouble her. She had got her wish: Back-Kaisa and she were again inseparable friends; she could order her about and was being petted and spoiled by her just as in the first days of her illness.

But the one who had the best time was Lieutenant Lagerlöf. The first week or so he must have got many a sharp look and curt reply when he spoke to every person he met, as was his wont when walking along the road at home. But he was not daunted. It was a point of honour with him to be on friendly terms with people. Nor could the Strömstaders resist him in the long run. A smile lighted up the solemn faces of the pious women of the Schartuan sect when they passed him in the street. He had been in their cottages and drunk coffee with them, had asked after their husbands, and had praised their children. A gang of small boys tagged after him in the street, for they had discovered that he always had a pocketful of coppers. With the fishermen he was on so solid a footing that one after another asked him to go out mackerel fishing. All the old retired sea captains, who went about at home bored and longing to be out at sea, treated him to grog on their little verandas, and told him of their adventures and perils in the days when they knocked about the world.

Lieutenant Lagerlöf liked the people, and wanted to know how they lived their lives in their part of the country. He was no respecter of persons, but spoke to all, high and low, and he never lacked for topics of conversation. Good-humoured, kindly man that he was, it was not strange the Strömstaders liked him. And it cannot be said that he did not know his power.

Fortune favoured the Mårbacka folk in every way on this sojourn. For one thing, they found dear old friends from Värmland, in whose company they spent many pleasant hours. They were a Professor Tobiaeson of Filipstad, his wife and two sisters, and Professor Lundström, a bachelor—all of their own social circle.

Together, they made up a boating party and went sailing nearly every day. These outings were the delight of the children, for the Lieutenant, in his inimitable way, would then tell of his interesting encounters with the Strömstad folk. Besides, they always had a couple of large, well-stocked hampers in the boat, so that when they grew tired of sailing they could go ashore on one of the little rock islands and have a picnic spread. Then the children would run about and gather sea-shells—something they had never seen before. They wondered at their being allowed to take as many as they wished of these rare treasures, and they loved them as they loved the flowers and the berries of the field.

They were now out on one of their cruises. The weather was fine with just enough wind; the picnic baskets were full of goodies, and the Lieutenant was loaded with anecdotes. Everyone was looking forward to a pleasant evening.

Then, unhappily, some one remarked that they had not yet visited the island just outside Strömstad known as Gray Island. So they immediately decided to lay-to at the island on the return sail, and have their little supper there.

It seems that some hundred years back there lived on Gray Island an infamous old troll named Tita Gray, who was said to be more powerful than the Old Nick himself. When she was alive no human being was allowed to set foot on the island. Those who ventured met with instant mishap—broke an arm or a leg or slipped on the slimy rocks, and fell into the sea.

Since Tita Gray had long been dead and gone, it must be quite safe to visit the island, they thought. All the same the skipper warned them. He told how he and a couple of fellows were walking across the island one day in the spring, when suddenly one of them went down a cleft and fractured his leg.

That made the island all the more alluring to the party; they could hardly wait to set foot on it. Presently the boat turned toward the island and slipped in under the towering cliff wall. The skipper looked for a suitable mooring place.

Just then little Anna pulled at her mother’s arm, and said: “Mamma, Selma is crying.”

True, the child sat weeping. She had not been at all afraid during the sail—not till that moment. She, like the others, had thought it would be great fun to go ashore on Gray Island; but now that they were right under the rocky cliff, it looked so dark and menacing.

They all asked her why she was crying, but she would not say. She could not tell them she was afraid of a rock. However, she escaped further questioning, for the skipper had at last found a landing-place, and they had something else to think of.

The instant the boat struck, Professor Lundström seized the painter and jumped ashore. Then, as if an invisible hand had dealt him a blow in the chest, he staggered backwards and slipped off the ledge into the sea.

There was great consternation, and cries of alarm went up, but there was no long agony of suspense. With the swiftness of a gull after a fish, the skipper reached over the side of the boat, nabbed the long professor by the coat-collar and drew him up, dripping wet, of course, but quite unhurt.

Naturally, they were all very much shaken by the ghastly sight of a man going down into the perilous deep, and though, luckily, nothing serious had happened, they could not throw off their depression.

Professor Lundström then suggested that the whole party go ashore, and let him take the boat so that he might go back to Strömstad and change his clothes. As it was only a short sail, the boat could return for them whenever they wished.

But they had had enough of Gray Island. No one felt the least desire to step ashore and climb the threatening cliff.

As they sailed back to Strömstad they must have wondered if after all there was not some truth in the old myth about the island. In any case, it was a strange coincidence that the mishap should have occurred just there. They had been to most of the other little islands of the Strömstad skerries, and all had gone well.

“I thought it almost uncanny when the child began to cry,” said one of the sisters Tobiaeson. “I knew then that something would happen.”

“Now what does Lieutenant Lagerlöf think about it?” queried the other sister.

“What do I think? Well,” he replied, “I say it couldn’t have turned out differently when we sent a school-priest like him ashore. He was no man for Tita Gray.”

“Do you mean, Lieutenant, that if we had sent another—yourself perhaps—we would have had a better reception?”

“Gad, yes!” exploded the Lieutenant.

Lord, how they laughed! The pall of gloom lifted in a twinkling, as they pictured the meeting between Lieutenant Lagerlöf and Tita Gray.

Aye, aye, he knew right enough that he could have managed her.

Lord, how they laughed!

[VII
THE BIRD OF PARADISE]

THEY had taken for the summer a cosy little cottage at the end of Karlagatan, where they were so happy and content that Lieutenant Lagerlöf and the children named the place Little Mårbacka, which was assuredly the highest title of distinction they could bestow on a house in a strange city.

The little house fronted a bit of a garden enclosed by a picket-fence, and under the spreading trees they had their breakfasts and suppers. At the back of the house were a couple of potato patches, beyond which, over against a high cliff, stood a tiny hut not much larger than the cabin on the Uddeholm.

In that hut lived their hostess, Fru Strömberg, who was the wife of a sea captain. During the winter months she occupied the cottage herself, but summers she always let it to visitors. She now sat in her tiny cabin from morn till night, surrounded by blooming oleanders and tables and shelves laden with curios her husband had brought from foreign parts.

When Fru Lagerlöf and Mamselle Lovisa were having coffee with their friends and the Lieutenant had gone mackerel-fishing, and when Anna had gone over to the candy man’s daughters’ and Johan to his crabs, Back-Kaisa and Selma would repair to Fru Strömberg’s cabin.

Fru Strömberg was their special friend, and to sit with her under the oleanders was as restful as sitting with Grandmother on the corner sofa at Mårbacka. She could not tell stories, but she had many wonderful things to show them: big sea-shells that were full of sound and murmured when you put them to your ear; porcelain men from China with long pig-tails and long moustaches; and she had besides two very big shells, one a cocoanut, the other an ostrich egg.

Back-Kaisa and Fru Strömberg talked mostly of serious and religious things, which the child did not understand; but sometimes they touched on lighter subjects.

Fru Strömberg spoke of her husband and his voyages. He had a fine big ship called the Jacob, and just now he was on a voyage to St. Ypes, Portugal, to take on a cargo of salt. Back-Kaisa wondered how Fru Strömberg could have any peace of mind, knowing that her husband was drifting about on the perilous seas; Fru Strömberg replied that there was One who protected him, and therefore she felt that he was as safe on board his ship as when at home in the streets of Strömstad.

The kindly Fru Strömberg then turned to the little girl and said she hoped the captain would soon be at home, for there was something on the Jacob she thought Selma might like to see. They had a bird of paradise there.

“What is that?” asked the child, all interest now.

“It is a bird from Paradise,” Fru Strömberg told her.

“Selma has heard her grandmother talk about Paradise,” Back-Kaisa put in.

Yes, of course. She remembered that Granny had told her about Paradise, and that she (Selma) had pictured it as a place that looked like the little rose-garden on the west side of the house at Mårbacka. At the same time it was clear to her that Paradise had something to do with God. And now she somehow got the impression that the one who guarded Fru Strömberg’s husband so that he was as safe at sea as on land was the bird of paradise.

She wanted so much to meet that bird. It might be able to help her. Everyone felt so sorry for her mamma and papa because she was not getting well. And to think that they had made this expensive trip only on her account.

She would have liked to ask Back-Kaisa and Fru Strömberg whether they thought the bird of paradise would do something for her, but she was too shy. They might laugh at her, she feared. But she did not forget what Fru Strömberg had told her. Every day she wished the Jacob would come, so that the bird of paradise could fly ashore.

Then one day she heard, to her great joy, that the Jacob had arrived. But she did not speak of this to any one. To her there was something very sacred and mysterious about it all. Remembering how solemn her grandmother had been when telling about Adam and Eve, she did not want to tell Johan and Anna that on the Jacob there was a bird from Paradise which she was going to ask to cure her leg. No, she would not speak of it even to Back-Kaisa.

Now every time she went to see Fru Strömberg she expected to find the bird sitting warbling in one of her oleanders. But he did not appear. How strange! she thought. One day she asked Back-Kaisa about it, and was told the bird was on the ship. “But you’ll soon see it,” said Back-Kaisa, “for to-morrow we’re all going on board the Jacob.”

It seems that Captain Strömberg had hardly been home a day before he and Lieutenant Lagerlöf were bosom friends. The Lieutenant had already been out on the Jacob several times, and liked it so well that nothing would do but the whole family must see what a fine ship she was.

When they set out none of them had any real notion as to what boarding the Jacob meant. The little girl thought the ship would be lying alongside the quay like the big steamers. But indeed she lay in the offing. They had to get into a little boat and row out. It was strange to see that the nearer they got to the ship the larger she grew, till at last she loomed high as a mountain. To those in the rowboat it looked quite impossible to clamber up there.

Mamselle Lovisa said straight out that if it was to that high boat they were rowing she could not go aboard.

“Wait a bit, Lovisa,” said the Lieutenant, “and you’ll see it’s easier than you imagine.”

Then Mamselle Lovisa declared she would as soon think of climbing the flagpole at Laholmen. She thought they had better turn back at once.

Fru Lagerlöf and Back-Kaisa agreed with her, and were for going home. But Lieutenant Lagerlöf stuck to his point. There was no fear but they’d get aboard all right, he said. This was perhaps their one chance of a lifetime to see how it looked on a merchant vessel; and they ought not to miss such an opportunity.

“But once we’re up we’ll never be able to get down again,” argued Mamselle Lovisa.

They met a boat laden with sacks.

“See that boat, Lovisa?” the Lieutenant said. “Do you know what’s in those sacks?”

“My dear Gustaf,” returned Mamselle Lovisa wearily, “how should I know?”

“Well, they’re sacks of salt from the Jacob,” the Lieutenant informed her. “They have neither arms nor legs, yet they’ve come off the ship; so surely you should be able to do it.”

“You ought to dress up once in crinoline and long skirts,” snapped Mamselle Lovisa, “then perhaps you’d not be so brave.”

They went on like that the whole way out to the ship. The little girl who so longed to meet the bird of paradise wished with all her heart that her father might induce her aunt and the others to go on board; though she, too, thought they could never in the world get up there.

All the same they presently lay-to under a swaying rope-ladder. A couple of sailors jumped into the boat to help them with the climb. The first to be taken was the little sick girl. One of the sailors boosted her to his comrade, who bore her up the ladder and put her down on the deck; here he left her to go and help the others.

She found herself standing quite alone on a narrow strip of deck. Before her opened a great yawning hole, at the bottom of which something white was being put into sacks. She stood there a long while. Some of the folks down in the boat must have raised objections to climbing the ladder, since no one appeared. When the little girl had got her bearings, she glanced about for the bird of paradise. She looked up at the rigging and tackle. She had pictured the bird as being at least as large as a turkey, and easy for the eye to find.

Seeing no sign of it, she turned to the Captain’s cabin-boy, who had just come up, and asked him where the bird of paradise was.

“Come along,” he said, “and you shall see him.” He gave her a hand lest she might fall down the hole; then walking backwards, he led her down the companionway into the Captain’s cabin—a fine room, with polished mahogany walls and mahogany furniture.

In there, sure enough, was the bird of paradise!

The bird was even more beautiful than her imagination had pictured it. It was not alive, yet it stood in the middle of the table—whole and perfect in all its gorgeous plumage.

The little girl climbed up on to a chair and from there to the table. Then she sat down beside the bird and regarded its beauty. The cabin-boy, who stood by, showed her its long, light, drooping feathers.

“Look!” he said. “You can see he’s from Paradise, for he hasn’t any feet.”[^[1]]

Now that seemed to fit in very well with her own concept of Paradise: a place where one did not have to walk but moved about on wings. She gazed at the bird in adoration, her hands folded as in prayer. She wondered if the cabin-boy knew it was the bird that protected Captain Strömberg, but dared not ask him.

The child could have sat there all day lost in wonder; but her reverie was suddenly interrupted by loud shouts from the deck. It sounded as if someone were calling, “Selma! Selma!”

Immediately afterwards, they all came rushing into the cabin—Lieutenant Lagerlöf, Back-Kaisa, Fru Lagerlöf, Captain Strömberg, Johan, and Anna. They were so many they quite filled the room.

“How did you get here?” they asked as with one breath—wonder and amazement depicted on their faces.

With that, the little girl remembered that she had walked on the deck, had walked down the stairs and into the cabin—that no one had carried her.

“Now come down off the table,” said one, “and let us see whether you can walk.”

She crawled from the table to the chair, and from the chair to the floor. Yes, she could both stand and walk.

How they rejoiced! Their hopes had not been in vain; the object of the journey was fulfilled. The little girl was not going to grow up a helpless cripple, but a normal human being.

The grown folk said it was the splendid baths at Strömstad that had wrought the change. With tears of joy and gratitude, they blessed the sea, the air, the city and all therein—glad they had come.

The little girl, meanwhile, had her own thoughts about it. She wondered if it was not the bird of paradise that had helped her. Was it not the little marvel with the quivering wings which had come from that land where feet were not needed that had taught her to walk here on this earth, where it was such a very necessary thing?

[^[1]]The first birds of paradise seen in Europe were mounted without feet.—TRANSLATOR.

[VIII
THE KEEPSAKE]

THEY had said good-bye to Fru Strömberg and “Little Mårbacka.” The children had packed away their precious sea-shells and the grown-ups had locked their trunks. They were now going aboard the steamer that was to bear them away from Strömstad.

A lot of people had gathered at the wharf. There stood Captain Strömberg, their boating companions, and other summer visitors whose acquaintance they had made, and many, many more.

“All the old pilots and skippers and fishermen in town must be here,” observed a gentleman who had cruised with the Mårbacka folk.

“Yes; and all the fishwives and female bath attendants to boot,” said another.

“They must have come down to bid Gustaf good-bye,” Fru Lagerlöf remarked. “He seems to know everyone.”

Lieutenant Lagerlöf had to say farewell to so many that he came near losing the boat. They all knew he had come to Strömstad to seek a cure for a little child that could not walk, and had taken this opportunity to offer their felicitations on the happy outcome.

“Ay, but it’s good, Lieutenant, to see the little gal standin’ on the deck with the other kiddies,” said an old fisherman.

“It must have been your weakfish, Olaus, that set her up.”

“Ay, weakfish’s good eatin’,” the old man nodded.

The Lieutenant had already turned to a group of bath attendants.

“I give you thanks,” he said, “for you, also, had a share in the good work.”

“You must come aboard, Gustaf,” Fru Lagerlöf shouted from the deck. “The siren has sounded for the third time.”

At the very last moment two little girls ran up the gangplank and over to the Lagerlöf girls. They curtsied, shook hands, wished them bon voyage, slipped Anna and Selma each a parcel, then hurried ashore.

They were the daughters of the confectioner with whom Anna had played all summer. Selma hardly knew them at all, and was quite overwhelmed by their kindness in giving her, too, a parting gift.

Unfolding the wrapper, she found something very pretty—a strip of bright red satin ribbon, pasted on a bit of cardboard, on which there were some letters embroidered in black silk.

“It’s a bookmark,” Back-Kaisa said; “and that you should lay in the prayer book.”

“‘Remembrance’ it says there,” her mother explained. “That means you must never forget the little girl who worked it for you.”

The red satin ribbon with the black embroidered letters nestled between the covers of her prayer book for many, many years. When on a Sunday at church she would open the book and let her eyes rest on the bit of ribbon, it carried her back in memory to days long gone by.

She sensed the odours of the sea and before her eyes rose a vision of boats and sea-faring folk—hardly the sea itself, but sea-shells and jelly-fish and crabs and star-fish and weakfish and mackerel. Then from some obscure recess of memory emerged the little red house in Karlagatan. She saw the bird of paradise, Fru Strömberg, the Jacob, Gray Island, Östra Hamngatan, the Uddeholm, and the three horses that drew the big carriage. And last, she saw the horses turn in on a large sward, surrounded by low red buildings and enclosed by a white fence. They stopped before a wide red house, with small windows and a little porch, and she heard all in the carriage cry as with one voice: “Thank God we’re home again!”

The others, she remembered, recognized the place at once as Mårbacka, but not she. Had she been alone she would not have known what place it was. To be sure, she remembered her home, though until then she had never seen how it looked.

On the porch stood a little sweet-faced, slightly bent, white-haired old lady in a striped skirt and black jacket. That was her grandmother. Her she remembered quite well, though she had never before noticed her appearance.

It was the same with her brother Daniel and the baby, the housekeeper and Othello the spaniel—they were all quite new to her. True, she remembered them in a way; but this was the first time she had actually seen them.

Moreover, sitting in the little church, her head bowed over the prayer book, she knew that on that Strömstad visit she had not only learned to walk but to see.

It was thanks to that journey that she remembered her nearest and dearest as they were in their prime, when life was a joy to them. But for that, everything relating to those times would have faded out of mind. But with the help of the little red ribbon they lived on. “Let not forgetfulness grow over all this,” the ribbon said to her. “Remember your parents, who gave themselves no rest till they had found a cure for you. Remember Back-Kaisa, her great love and patience, how she braved the terrors of land and sea for your sake.”

[THE OLD HOUSEKEEPER’S TALES]

[I
GRANDMOTHER]

THE year after the Strömstad visit the little Mårbacka children had a great sorrow. They lost their dear grandmother.

Almost up to the very last they had sat with her on the corner sofa in the bedroom and listened to her stories and songs. They could not remember a time when their grandmother had not sung and narrated to them. It had been a glorious life. Never were children so favoured.

Where their grandmother had learned her stories and ballads they did not know, but she herself believed every word of them. When she had told something very wonderful, she would look deep into the eyes of the little children and say, with the utmost conviction: “All this is as true as that I see you and you see me.”

One morning when the children came down to breakfast they were not allowed to go into the kitchen-bedroom as usual to say good-morning to grandmother, because she was ill. All that day the corner sofa stood empty and it seemed as if the long storyless hours would never end.

A few days later the children were told their grandmother was dead, and when she lay shrouded they were brought in to kiss her hand. But they were afraid. Then some one said it was the last time they might thank Grandmother for all the pleasure she had given them. And then came the day when the stories and songs were borne away, shut up in a long black box, never to come again.

It was a sad loss to the little ones. It seemed as if the door to a beautiful, enchanted world, where they had freely passed in and out, had been closed. Now there was no one who knew how to open that door.

But after a while they learned to play with dolls and toys like other children, and then it may have appeared as if they no longer missed their grandmother or remembered her. But indeed she lived on in their hearts. They never tired of listening to the stories of her the old housekeeper told; they prized them as treasures they wanted to keep always.

[II
THE GHOST OF VILARSTENSBACKEN]

THE old housekeeper used to say it could not have been so very long ago that Mårbacka was first laid under the plow and became a regular homestead. In the old mistress’s youth it was still within man’s memory that the place had been a summer säter belonging to one of the old peasant farms to the west of the dale, nearer the Fryken.

But when in the world it was that the first herd of cattle grazed there and the first cattle-sheds were built, who could say? Herdsmen can hold to a place for thousands of years without leaving a trace after them. And indeed there was not much here at Mårbacka that had come down from their time.

The name Mårbacka, the old mistress believed, one of the herdsmen had given to the hilly moors below Åsberget, where they drove their horses and cattle to grass. She also thought they and their animals had beaten the roads.

That the herdsmen had broken the south road, along Åsberget, was clear, because from that direction they would have had to come with their cattle. The steep road to the east, which went straight down the mountain, was probably their work. By that they must have gone when they wished to visit säter folk on the other side of the mountain. The wretched road running northwest, toward Sunne, must once have been an old goat-path, and westward they could hardly have had any passage at all. To the west lay swampy bottomlands, through which ran a tortuous river. When the shepherdess stood upon the flat stone outside her säter cabin, she could see her home-farm on the other side of the dale; but to get there, she had to go a long way round, to north or southward.

The herdsmen must have wandered up from the south mostly, for Vilarsten, or Resting-stone, where they were wont to rest after their long tramp, still lay at the roadside, just south of the farm. But there was something about that road that made people afraid to venture out on it after dark.

At the time that Mårbacka was a summer säter there lived in the parish of Sunne a priest who was so harsh and exacting that a man who had been a servant in his home a few months went and hanged himself. The priest, when he learned what had happened, without stopping to think, cut the body down and carried it out into the yard. Then, because he had touched a suicide, and for no other reason, he was regarded as polluted and disgraced. The people of Sunne would not allow him to set foot in the church, which remained closed until another clergyman was called.

The Sunne priest used also to officiate at Ämtervik, where they had a church and a little parish house but no resident clergyman. He probably thought that in an out-of-the-way place like Ämtervik no one would know of his being “unclean”; there, surely, he might celebrate the Mass, as usual. So he rode down to Ämtervik. But the evil report was there before him. As he stood at the altar intoning the Mass, murmurs ran through the congregation; the people thought him unworthy to stand in the House of God. Nor did it end there. The Ämtervik peasants felt that he had shown them great disrespect. They were as good men as the Sunne folk, they said, and would not have a priest others had repudiated.

A few among the younger peasants got together and planned to give him something to remember. But knowing it was dangerous to lay violent hands on a priest, they decided to wait till he set out for home. He rode alone, and there were many lonely spots along the bridle-paths between Ämtervik and Sunne where the men could lie in wait for him.

The priest must have sensed danger, for instead of taking the usual road to Sunne to the west of the dale, he took the säter paths to eastward past Mårbacka—thinking to find his way home.

The men, ambushed at the roadside, seeing no sign of the priest, knew of course that he had eluded them, and thought they would have to go home without carrying out their purpose. But it happened that one of the men was a brother to the servant who had taken his own life on account of the priest and he was not going to let him escape so easily. He seized a long stackpole which had been left standing in the field since haying time, and set off toward the marshes; the others did likewise—running and leaping across the bogs. Just below Mårbacka-säter they touched firm ground; then, hurrying southward to intercept the priest, they came upon him in the road near the Resting-stone.

It may have been their intention merely to give him a sound thrashing; but, unluckily, there was the man who had a brother to avenge. He had a sword concealed under his cloak, and when the others had pulled the priest off the horse and thrown him to the ground, the man drew his sword and cut off the priest’s head.

The moment the deed was done they were filled with terror of discovery, and thought only of escape. They let the horse run loose and left the corpse lying at the roadside, to make it appear that the murder had been committed by wild robbers. Running for home by the way they had come, over the bogs, they hoped no one had seen them. They had not been on any passable road, and their venturing across the marshes would not have aroused suspicion.

Things went better than they expected. Inasmuch as the priest had been at odds with his parishioners, there was no eager search for him. When at last his body was found the crime was attributed to robbers and outlaws. Even in death he was regarded as unclean. No one would touch the body. Since the people deemed him unfit to rest in consecrated ground, they let him lie where he was, merely covering him with sod, over which they built a cairn of large stones to prevent wild beasts digging him out.