Short Fiction quotes

He began to have all sorts of thoughts about the note, and why Halfvorson did not inquire for it. Perhaps it was not Halfvorson’s? Perhaps it had lain in the shop for a long time? Perhaps it no longer had any owner?

Thoughts are contagious.

—At supper Halfvorson had begun to speak of money and moneyed-men. He told Petter Nord about all the poor boys who had amassed riches. He began with Whittington and ended with Astor and Jay Gould. Halfvorson knew all their histories;

And then the wisdom that is hidden in the old ring dance forced itself upon the little pleasure-loving Värmland boy, forced itself into his very fibre, blended with every drop of blood, soaked into his brain and marrow. It is so; that is the meaning.

Between Christmas and Easter, between the festivals of birth and death, comes life’s fasting.

One shall ask nothing of life; it is a poor, miserable fast. One shall never trust it, however it may appear. The next moment it is gray and ugly again. It is not its fault, poor thing, it cannot help it!

“What kind of people do you suppose live in this town?” said Long-Petter, musingly.

“Bees,” answered Cobbler-Petter, who had received his name because he had once lived in the same house as a shoemaker.

Of course, little by little, they perceived a few people. In the windows, behind shining panes and white curtains, appeared young, pretty faces, and they saw children playing on the terraces. But no noise disturbed the silence.

And they did right.

For the little town is like the Milo Aphrodite. It has alluring beauty, and it lacks arms to hold fast.

I shall almost be compelled to leave reality, and turn to the world of saga and extravagance to be able to relate what now happened.

And standing there with all the six young ones fluttering and playing about him, he nodded contentedly to someone whom he did not see.

“I let you off,” he said, “I let you off. I have not kept my word, so you need not keep yours.”

And it seemed to him as if the mountains ceased to tremble and as if the river laid itself down in easy calm in its bed.

She had very red cheeks, very dark hair. She was exuberant in figure, moving with vigor and life. Her clothes were shabby but bright in color. Red bands edged the striped skirt and bright colored worsted fringes outlined the seams of her bodice.

Other young maidens resemble roses and lilies, but she was like the heather, strong, gay and glowing.

The hunter watched with pleasure as the big, splendid woman danced on the red heath among the playing grasshoppers and the fluttering butterflies. While he looked at her he laughed so that his mouth was drawn up towards his ears.

When his little eyes again turned towards the light of day, they shone with pleasure at the sight of her. He was still silent; but he drew forward the hand which she had placed about his waist and caressed it gently.

He was a child of starvation and early toil.

He was dry and pallid, thin and anaemic. She was touched by his faintheartedness; he who nevertheless seemed to be about thirty years old. She thought that he must live quite alone in the forest since he was so pitiful and so meanly dressed.

The boy answered with infinite assurance:

“That would be awful in others, but not in witches. They have to do so.”

Berg Rese found that he had here come upon a new way of regarding the world and things.

The boy continued with his mysterious smile, proud at being an unsolvable riddle:

“It is like speaking of birds who do not fly, to talk of thieves who do not steal.”

Berg Rese pretended to be stupid in order to find out what he wanted. “No one can be called a thief without having stolen,” he said.

It was Christmas night, a real Christmas night.

The goblins raised the mountain roofs on lofty gold pillars and celebrated the midwinter festival. The brownies danced around the Christmas porridge in new red caps.

Yes, that was what she would have written in her book, and perhaps much else as beautiful and wonderful. Who knows?

Only one thing we know, that books are forgotten, but such a life as hers never is.

The old prophetess’s eyes closed and she sank into visions.

If it had only been of any use! If she, who lived by mending the fishermen’s nets, knew why she clung so to life! If she had made anyone happy or had improved anybody!

It never occurred to her to think that she who considers her life a failure because she has done no good to others, perhaps by that thought of humility has saved her own soul.

“And you must listen to my mother’s portrait when the young men propose to you.

Truly there is no one in the whole fishing-village who understands getting married better than that picture.

”

She did not understand it. She had not meant to deceive him. Even if she had liked to chat with the young apprentice, what had her husband to do with that?

Love is an illness, but it is not mortal.

She had meant to bear it through life with patience. How had her husband discovered her most secret thoughts?

He sank back into the darkness. He cursed, that he by his discourse had converted his wife and daughter. He had possessed the most precious of gifts and lost it. His pain was extreme.—But it is not by such grief that genius lives.

He was a painter without hands, a singer who had lost his voice.

He had only spoken of his sorrow. What should he speak of now?

When he was settled there he started off on adventures. He travelled about the earth, climbed up to the stars, and even higher. He played and talked by turns, and the whole household gathered about him and listened.

Life grew proud and beautiful when the richness of that one soul shone on it.

Therefore they loved him as they loved Christmas time, pleasure, the spring sun. And when little Ruster came, their Christmas peace was destroyed. They had worked in vain if he was coming to tempt away their master.

“Little Axel, do not sit there! Think of Uncle Reuben, who died when he was eight years old, just as you are now, because he sat and rode on a stone railing. You must never sit there again.”

Such a jealous old pudding-head, that Uncle Reuben!

He could not bear it, of course, because Axel was killing dragons and rescuing princesses. If he did not look out, he, Axel, would show that he could win glory too.

That was as much of a sign to the young people as if they had seen an old Royalist bow before King Charles’s portrait.

It made them understand that Uncle Reuben always must remain great, however he abused his position, only because he had been so deeply loved.

In these days, when all greatness is so carefully examined, he has to be used with greater moderation than formerly. The limit for his age is lower;

How has “it” come? That which she dares not call by name?

“It” has come like the dew to the grass, like the color to the rose, like the sweetness to the berry, imperceptibly and gently without announcing itself beforehand.

It is also no matter how “it” came or what “it” is. Were it good or evil, fair or foul, still it is forbidden; that which never ought to exist. “It” makes her anxious, sinful, unhappy.

She wishes never to think of “it,” and yet she has to think of “it” constantly. How has she become so wicked? And then she searches and wonders how “it” came.

Ah Downie! How tender are our souls, and how easily awakened are our hearts!

She was sure that “it” had not come at breakfast, surely not at breakfast.

Hede walked quietly and listened. His thoughts flew restlessly from plan to plan.

Sometimes events happen which become like symbols, like signs, which one must obey.

There must be some meaning in what had now happened to him. If he could only understand it rightly, it might help him towards arriving at a wise resolution.

It was no use his thinking of how strong he was, and that these small peasant horses never did any harm to anyone: he who has become possessed of such fears cannot reason with himself.

Fear is a heavy burden, and it is hard for him who must always carry it.

It was strange that he managed to get past all the horses. The last few steps he took in two long jumps, and when he got into the churchyard he closed the gate after him, and began to threaten the horses with his clenched fist.

he only listened. Was it not strange that one heard all these beautiful things as soon as one let the bow glide over the strings? The violin did that. It knew how it ought to be, and the Dalar man only sat and listened.

Melodies grew out of that violin as grass grows out of the earth.

No one could understand how it happened. Our Lord had ordered it so.

She was so pleased with it that she kissed it over and over again. It made her think more kindly of her adopted mother than she had ever done before. But in any case she would, of course, think kindly of her now.

One who has come straight from the grave must think kindly and gently of everything living and moving on the face of the earth.

She could now understand so well that the Pastor’s wife was bound to love her own children more than her adopted daughter.

This was the most dreadful part of all that had happened to her: that she could have lived in the Parsonage for six years, and not even been able to make herself so much loved that they wished to keep her alive.

And those whom no one loves have no right to live.

She could not exactly say how she knew it was so, but it was as clear as daylight.

This was worse than sentence of death. It was much more cruel than an ordinary sentence of death. She knew what it was like.

It was like felling a tree⁠—not in the usual manner, when the trunk is cut through, but by cutting its roots and leaving it standing in the ground to die by itself.

There the tree stands, and cannot understand why it no longer gets nourishment and support.

It was not only that she looked so strange in the clothes she had borrowed from Anna Stina, and which did not at all fit her, but her sister Stafva would never take her into her service, she looked so wretched and pitiful.

It was like engaging a breath of wind. The girl could be of no more use than a sick butterfly.

As soon as they were ready, they went down the hill to the lake. It was only a short distance. Then they came to the land belonging to the Manor House.

But there was always dainty food on the table, and her ladyship and Ingrid were always waited upon and dressed like fine ladies of rank.

If nothing thrived on the old estate, there was, at any rate, fertile soil for dreams, and even if they did not nurse and cultivate flowers there, Ingrid was not the one to neglect her dream-roses.

They grew up around her whenever she was alone. It seemed to her then as if red dream-roses formed a canopy over her.

“We are obliged to,” said Miss Stafva.

“Those bats are Mistress Sorrow’s birds, and she has commanded us to receive them.”

Ingrid saw that Miss Stafva did not wish to say anything more about that matter, and she began to sew again;

They were very kind to her, as far as she knew, but it really did not matter. If she had come to a palace full of everything one could most desire, that would likewise have been the same to her.

No bed is soft enough to give rest unto one whose heart is full of longing.

In the beginning she had asked them every day, as modestly as she could, if they would not let her go home, now that she had had the great happiness of seeing her mother and her brothers and sisters.

But at the present moment she could not enjoy anything.

“Longing takes the fragrance from the rose, and the light from the full moon,” says an old proverb.

But Ingrid was glad for what she heard in church. It did her good to hear how the disciples were comforted in their longing. She was glad that Jesus thought of comforting those who longed so greatly for Him.

They caressed her and praised her because she had run away from the Parsonage. For them nothing was dull or sad, but everything was bright and hopeful.

They simply had no standard by which to measure reality, and therefore its hardness could not affect them.

They compared everything they heard with the pieces from marionette theatres and pantomimes. Of course, one also put a little sorrow and misery into the pantomime, but that was only done to heighten the effect. And, of course, everything would end well.

“Yes, that is right,” she cried; “go out of your mind again.

I call that manly to go mad in order to escape a little anguish.

”

But in his eyes her emotion only made her more beautiful. A wonderful peace came over him, and a great and humble thankfulness. Something great and wonderful had come to him in his deepest humiliation. It must be a great love—a great love.

He had sat bemoaning his wretchedness, and Love came and knocked at his door.

He would not merely be tolerated when he came back to life; people would not only with difficulty refrain from laughing at him.

Fortune favoured him, and he amassed immense riches, which he hoped to leave as an inheritance to his only son. Unfortunately, this only son had not inherited his father’s ability. This happens, unfortunately, all the world over.

A rich man’s only son. Need one say more? It is, and always will be, the same story.

One would almost think that the gods give rich men these incorrigible idlers, these dull, pale, languid fools of sons, to show man what unutterable folly it is to amass riches. When will the eyes of mankind be opened?

One can understand that an unhappy creature commits suicide in order to escape the persecution of man; but only a fool like Silvius Antonius could think of adopting such means to flee from the gods.

One recalls involuntarily the story of the man who, to escape from the lion, sprang right into its open jaws.

Young Silvius was much too effeminate to choose a bloody death. Neither had he any inclination to die from a painful poison. After careful consideration, he resolved to die the gentle death of the waves.

There was a multitude of trees, fighting with each other for light and air. Trees strove and struggled, trees were crippled and weighed down by other trees. Trees took root in the branches of other trees.

Trees strove and fought as if they had been human beings.

But if man or beast moved in this world of trees they must have other modes of making their way than those which the Romans knew, for from the ground right up to the top of the forest was a network of stiff bare branches.

And when he did that all Storräde’s beauty vanished. He saw that Storräde’s eyes were cruel and her mouth sensual. In each of her features he saw a sin. He could still see she was beautiful, but he no longer took pleasure in her countenance.

He began to loathe her as if she were a beautiful poisonous snake.

When the Queen saw the King come a victorious smile passed over her lips.

Hjalte’s hand trembled when he lifted the hangings that covered the entrance to the tent.

He thought this was the most beautiful moment of his life.

“Never have I fought for a greater cause,” he said. “Never have I longed so eagerly for anything as this marriage.”

He felt that the hilt of the sword now burnt in his hand. King Olaf said aloud to himself:

“Formerly thou wert the slave of many lusts; now thou hast but one master, and that is God.”

With these words he put back the sword into its sheath, and began to walk to and fro on the bridge. Astrid remained lying in the same position. King Olaf saw that she crouched in fear of death every time he went past her.

“Is it permitted to do anything for these poor doomed ones?”

“When has God forbidden Love to do good or Mercy to solace?”

Then the monk went his way, and old Agnete went to her hut and thought it all over. The whole evening she pondered how she could help the doomed who were wandering on the glaciers.

A red glow lay over San Giorgio and San Marco, and over the whole shore, studded with palaces. And in the lovely morning radiant Venetian ladies came out on to the loggias and greeted with smiles the rising day.

Venice was once again the beautiful goddess, rising from the sea in her shell of rose-coloured pearl.

Beautiful as never before, she combed her golden hair, and threw the purple robe around her, to begin one of her happiest days.

He envied not only those who could live in luxury and pleasure, and were happy; he envied quite as much the most miserable cripple.

What he wanted was life, solely life.

Then the priests and the monks came to see him. It made him almost happy, for now he had someone upon whom he could wreak his anger. He first allowed them to talk a little.

She heard that his tone was contemptuous, but she thought he meant that she had spoken too presumptuously.

“I do not understand it myself,” she said, “but so it is.”

“Is it an imagination or a dream?” he said.

“Is it right to compare such a wooden chest with God’s providence?”

“All comparisons are incomplete, Monseigneur; all human thoughts are vain.”

Father Verneau bowed once again, and quietly withdrew from the audience-room.

Of course there was responsibility in the matter; that he had always known.

One must endure to the very last when one was an Ingmar.

The thought rushed through him that it was not befitting for him to be found frozen to death in the wild forest. He would not have that handed down to posterity; and he stood up again and began to walk.

The old woman straightened herself a little at these words. At that moment the Dean saw in her the symbol of her whole race. He understood what it was that had made these heavy, silent people, century after century, the leaders of the whole parish.

“It behooves the Ingmars to set the people a good example,” she said. “It behooves us to show that we humble ourselves before God.”

He saw how the fate which a man has worked out in his past life will pursue him to the end. And to think there were actually people who thought they could escape it!

Escape it! escape! All was noted and written down; the one colour and the one figure necessitated the other, and everything came about as it was bound to come about.

Suddenly Colonel Beerencreutz sat up in bed; he would look at the flowers and the roses, and think that perhaps our Lord could forget after all.

He had been a shrewd little fellow, young as he was. He had exerted all his little brain to find out how he could get a little share of her love.

It is incomprehensible that children can love so deeply.

She never understood it whilst he was alive.

But it was not often that she sorrowed like this. Earlier in life she had always been afraid lest some great sorrow should overtake her, but now it seemed to her that sorrow was not what she had then thought it to be.

Sorrow was only to live over and over again through something which was no more.

Sorrow in her case was to become familiar with her child’s whole being, and to seek to understand him. And that sorrow had made her life so rich.

But no one will cry; all the handkerchiefs will be kept tightly rolled up; not one will be applied to the eyes. You need not speculate as to whether people will shed as many tears over you as they would over others.

They would cry if it were the proper thing, but it is not the proper thing.

You can understand that if there were much sorrowing over one grave, it would not look well for those over whom no one sorrowed. They know what they were about at Svartsjö.

All the congregation will follow you to the churchyard, you may be sure of that. But I will tell you something: All those who follow you look so small and poor. They are not fine town’s-people, you know—only plain, simple Svartsjö folk.

There is only one who is great and important, and that is you in your coffin⁠—you who are dead.

The others the next day will have to resume their heavy and toilsome work. They will have to live in poor old cottages and wear old, patched clothes; the others will always be plagued and worried, and dragged down and humbled by poverty.

And I even remember that when she had finished a story, she used to lay her hand on my head and say:

“All this is as true, as true as that I see you and you see me.”

I also remember that she could sing songs, but this she did not do every day. One of the songs was about a knight and a sea-troll, and had this refrain: “It blows cold, cold weather at sea.”

But then someone said to us that it would be the last time we could thank grandmother for all the pleasure she had given us.

And I remember how the stories and songs were driven from the homestead, shut up in a long black casket, and how they never came back again.

I remember that something was gone from our lives. It seemed as if the door to a whole beautiful, enchanted world—where before we had been free to go in and out—had been closed.

I remember that something was gone from our lives.

It seemed as if the door to a whole beautiful, enchanted world⁠—where before we had been free to go in and out⁠—had been closed.

And now there was no one who knew how to open that door.

Then grandmother laid her hand on my head, and said: “You must remember this, for it is as true, as true as that I see you and you see me.

It is not revealed by the light of lamps or candles, and it does not depend upon sun and moon; but that which is needful is, that we have such eyes as can see God’s glory.

”

It was then that a very great and holy night sank down over the earth.

It was the darkest night that anyone had ever seen. One could have believed that the whole earth had fallen into a cellar-vault.

It was impossible to distinguish water from land, and one could not find one’s way on the most familiar road. And it couldn’t be otherwise, for not a ray of light came from heaven.

and had one wandered in the desert, the sand would not have crunched under one’s feet. Everything was as motionless as if turned to stone, so as not to disturb the holy night.

The grass was afraid to grow, the dew could not fall, and the flowers dared not exhale their perfume.

On this night the wild beasts did not seek their prey, the serpents did not sting, and the dogs did not bark.

And she uttered words which she appeared to be reading among the stars.

“Upon Capitol Hill shall the Redeemer of the world be worshiped⁠—Christ⁠—but not frail mortals.”

When she had said this, she strode past the terror-stricken men, walked slowly down the mountain, and disappeared.

The Drought chuckled to himself and nodded to his hearers, as much as to say: “Am I not right?

There are things which are drier than the desert sands, but there is nothing more barren than the human heart.

”

Let me see an army prepare to meet the enemy! Let me see the excitement and the hot struggle, when horsemen charge down upon a troop of foot-soldiers! Let me see the brave men who rush forward to scale the walls of a beleaguered city!

Nothing is pleasing to my sight but war.

I long to see the Roman Eagles glisten in the air! I long for the trumpets’ blast, for shining weapons, for the splash of red blood!

Far away in one of the Eastern deserts many, many years ago grew a palm tree, which was both exceedingly old and exceedingly tall.

All who passed through the desert had to stop and gaze at it, for it was much larger than other palms; and they used to say of it, that some day it would certainly be taller than the obelisks and pyramids.

When the vinedresser had accompanied the slave, and come home again to the hut, he found his wife still awake.

“I can not sleep,” said she. “I am thinking that these two will meet: he who loves all mankind, and he who hates them. Such a meeting would be enough to sweep the earth out of existence!”

Old Faustina was in distant Palestine, on her way to Jerusalem. She had not desired that the mission to seek the Prophet and bring him to the Emperor should be entrusted to anyone but herself. She said to herself:

Again he lay still a long time; then he let himself glide down to the floor—and he knelt before the picture:

“Thou art Man!” said he. “Thou art that which I never dreamed I should see.”

And he pointed to his disfigured face and destroyed hands. “I and all others are wild beasts and monsters, but thou art Man.”

Then the Emperor looked up. And, lo! his features were transformed, and he was as he had been before the illness.

It was as if the illness had had its root and sustenance in the contempt and hatred of mankind which had lived in his heart; and it had been forced to flee the very moment he had felt love and compassion.

The following day Tiberius despatched three messengers.

When they had heard all, they wept silently, and the man said: “I know that all my life I shall ponder what would have happened if these two had met.” But the woman answered:

“It could not happen in any other way. It was too great a thought that these two should meet. God knew that the world could not support it.”

The third messenger traveled to Palestine and brought back with him to Capri some of Jesus’ disciples, and these began to teach there the doctrine that had been preached by the Crucified One.

Ah, yes! It was at that time, too, that the cricket became blind and the ant missed her wings, so many strange things happened on that day!

Our Lord sat there, big and gentle, and planned and created all day long, and towards evening He conceived the idea of making a little gray bird.

“Remember your name is Robin Redbreast,” said our Lord to the bird, as soon as it was finished. Then He held it in the palm of His open hand and let it fly.

But our Lord only smiled a little and said: “

I have called you Robin Redbreast, and Robin Redbreast shall your name be, but you must look to it that you yourself earn your red breast feathers.

” Then our Lord lifted His hand and let the bird fly once more—out into the world.

As soon as the bird had returned to his nest his young ones cried to him: “Thy breast is red! Thy breast feathers are redder than the roses!”

“It is only a drop of blood from the poor man’s forehead,” said the bird; “it will vanish as soon as I bathe in a pool or a clear well.”

But no matter how much the little bird bathed, the red color did not vanish—and when his little young ones grew up, the bloodred color shone also on their breast feathers, just as it shines on every Robin Redbreast’s throat and breast until this very …

“You say such things only that you may not have to listen to my prayers,” said Saint Peter. “Who wouldn’t be happy in Paradise?”

“One who does not feel joy over the happiness of others can not rest content here,” said our Lord.

“Then there are others than my mother who do not belong here,” said Saint Peter, and our Lord observed that he was thinking of Him.

Then God’s old servant raised his head and answered:

“What kind of a Paradise is this, where I can hear the moans of my dearest ones, and see the sufferings of my fellow men!”

The face of our Lord became o’ercast by the deepest sorrow. “What did I desire more than to prepare a Paradise for all, of nothing but light and happiness?” He said.

“ ‘Saint Peter, Saint Peter,’ He said earnestly. ‘Remember that henceforth this knight shall become more pious than Godfrey.

Whence do piety and gentleness spring, if not from my sepulchre?

You shall see Raniero di Raniero help widows and distressed prisoners. You shall see him care for the sick and despairing as he now cares for the sacred candle flame.’ ”

When he noticed what a fine animal he was, he felt a little sorry for the rider. He called out to him: “Come, come, we must not be too cruel toward a Christian. You shall have my old horse to ride.”

It was a miserable old screw of a horse. It moved as stiffly, and with as much difficulty, as if it were made of wood.

When the robbers had gone at last, and Raniero had mounted the wretched horse, he said to himself: “I must have become bewitched by this candle flame. For its sake I must now travel along the roads like a crazy beggar.”

But as he rode on alone through the country, it kept recurring to him that he had participated in something similar once before.

“It is as if all my life long I had heard tell of nothing else,” said he.

One evening he rode into a city. It was after sundown, and the housewives stood in their doorways and watched for their husbands. Then he noticed one who was tall and slender, and had earnest eyes. She reminded him of Francesca degli Uberti.

He was astonished at this thought, but grew more and more certain that the matter stood thus.

For the first time he began to understand why Francesca had left him, and that it was not with feats of arms he should win her back.

The journey which Raniero made was of long duration. This was in part due to the fact that he could not venture out when the weather was bad. Then he sat in some caravansary, and guarded the candle flame. These were very trying days.

When at last he was startled out of his sleep, the ground around him was wet, and he hardly dared glance toward the light, for fear it might be quenched.

But the light burned calmly and steadily in the rain, and Raniero saw that this was because two little birds flew and fluttered just above the flame.

They caressed it with their bills, and held their wings outspread, and in this way they protected the sacred flame from the rain.

“It was lighted at Christ’s sepulchre,” said Raniero.

“Then it can only be called Gentleness and Love of Humanity,” said she.

Raniero laughed at the answer. He thought himself a singular apostle of virtues such as these.

… the bearers of sacred fire who have lived in Florence and have made the city one of the most glorious on earth, have taken Raniero as their model, and have thereby been encouraged to sacrifice, to suffer and endure, this may here be left untold.

For what has been done by this light, which in dark times has gone out from Jerusalem, can neither be measured nor counted.

She comprehends that he wants to swear himself free for the sake of his wife. But even if the truth were to make trouble in his home, he should not for that reason throw away his soul’s salvation.

There is nothing so terrible as perjury. There is something uncanny and awful about that sin.

There is no mercy or condonation for it. The gates of the infernal regions open of their own accord when the perjurer’s name is mentioned.

While the Judge is looking at her, a great change comes over him. All the ennui and displeasure in his face vanishes, and the large, rough-hewn visage becomes beautiful with the most beautiful emotion. “Ah, see!” he thinks—

“Ah, see! such is the mettle of my people. I shall not be vexed at them when there is so much love and godliness even in one of the humblest.”

Suddenly the Judge feels his eyes fill up with tears; then he pulls himself together, almost ashamed, and casts a hasty glance about him.

She has laid down the Bible and stands wiping away the tears with the crumpled up handkerchief.

“Thank you!” says the Judge once more, taking her hand and shaking it as if it belonged to a real man’s man.

Let no one imagine that the girl who had passed through such a trying ordeal at the bar of justice thought that she had done anything praiseworthy! On the contrary, she considered herself disgraced before the whole court room.

Gudmund stood still a moment and listened for footsteps. He thought that never before had he sensed such stillness.

It was as though the whole forest held its breath and stood waiting for something extraordinary to happen.

No one tramped in the forest, no branch was broken, and no stone rolled down.

“Well, then, you will come home tomorrow,” he said, putting out his hand to say goodbye.

“I shall never forget that you came to me tonight!” said Helga, and her great gratitude got the mastery over her shyness.

“Oh, yes, it was well perhaps that I came,” he said quite calmly, and he felt rather pleased with himself. “You will go in now, of course?”

“No, it was not the boy I longed for. I knew that he was well cared for and that mother was kind to him. It was nothing in particular.

I felt as though I were a wild bird that had been caged, and I thought I should die if I were not let out.

”

He saw her as she stood in the court room and snatched the Bible, and heard how she cried out: “I withdraw the suit. I am still fond of him and I don’t want him to swear falsely.” It was thus he would have Hildur.

Helga had become for him a standard by which he measured people.

Though certainly there were many who were equal to her in affection!

Then she looked up, and her large eyes stared coldly at him.

“Was it with that hand you guided the knife?” she asked.

Gudmund did not answer her, but turned to the Juryman. “Now I am sure of my case,” he said. “It is useless to talk of a wedding.”

It took hold of him with the strength of a loosened torrent.

He had been bound the whole time he knew her. All that had drawn him to her he had held back.

Now, at last, he was freed from the thought of marrying someone else—free to love her.

He walked rapidly across the floor and back, then he stopped suddenly before Hildur. “And you—why do you tell me this?”

“Surely I do not wish to stand beneath Helga in magnanimity!”

“Oh, Hildur, Hildur!” he cried, placing his hands on her shoulders and shaking her to give vent to his emotion. “You don’t know, oh, you don’t know how much I like you at this moment! You don’t know how happy you have made me!”

Although they drove with such speed that the horses were extended like stretched rubber bands and the coach cleared the turns on two wheels, the King poked his head out of the window and shouted to the postilion:

“Why don’t you go ahead? Do you think you are driving over eggs?”

Since they had to drive over poor country roads at such a mad pace, it would have been almost a miracle had the harness and wagon held together! And they didn’t, either;

The King rose from the chair and walked over to the window. He stood for a moment and looked upon the group of people outside. The longer he looked, the clearer his large eyes shone, and his figure seemed to grow.

“You may greet the pastor of this congregation, and say that for Sweden’s King there is no sight more beautiful than to see a people such as this!”

Then the King turned from the window and looked at the clergyman. He began to smile.

“But if the kingdom is in danger?” said the parson.

“The kingdom is better served with men than with money,” remarked the King.

When he had said this, he bade the clergyman farewell and went out from the vestry.

“Then of course you have our answer?” said the peasant. “We asked you to go in and talk with our parson, that he might give you an answer from us.”

“I have the answer,” said the King.

He beckoned to Jan Öster to return to his place. Then he himself walked forward a step or two, and turned around that all might see him.

Then he flung the bow far from him, pulled out his case-knife, and cut all four violin strings, which snapped with a sharp twang.

“It shall not be said of me that I count myself better than Jan Öster!” said he.

Then he himself walked forward a step or two, and turned around that all might see him. Then he flung the bow far from him, pulled out his case-knife, and cut all four violin strings, which snapped with a sharp twang.

“It shall not be said of me that I count myself better than Jan Öster!”

said he.

The bow ran on and on, and magically called forth one tune after another.

Always it was something new, and it was so beautiful that the poor fiddler must have known how little his own skill was worth.

And it was this that tortured him worse than the fatigue.

“He who plays upon my violin understands the art. But never in all my born days have I been anything but a bungler.

Now for the first time I’m learning how music should sound.

”

When Robber Mother stepped inside the door of a cabin, no one dared refuse to give her whatever she demanded; for she was not above coming back the following night and setting fire to the house if she had not been well received.

Robber Mother and her brood were worse than a pack of wolves, and many a man felt like running a spear through them; but it was never done, because they all knew that the man stayed up in the forest, and he would have known how to wreak vengeance if anything had happened to the children or the old woman.

Now that Robber Mother went from house to house and begged, she came one day to Övid, which at that time was a cloister. She rang the bell of the cloister gate and asked for food.

yet she sauntered leisurely between all the small patches, each of which had been planted with its own species of rare flower, and looked at them as if they were old acquaintances. At some she smiled, at others she shook her head.

Abbot Hans loved his herb garden as much as it was possible for him to love anything earthly and perishable.

Wild and terrible as the old woman looked, he couldn’t help liking that she had fought with three monks for the privilege of viewing the garden in peace. He came up to her and asked in a mild tone if the garden pleased her.

Pine and spruce trees were so thickly clothed with red cones that they shone like crimson mantles. The juniper berries changed color every second, and forest flowers covered the ground till it was all red, blue, and yellow.

Abbot Hans bent down to the earth and broke off a wild strawberry blossom, and, as he straightened up, the berry ripened in his hand.

The mother fox came out of her lair with a big litter of black-legged young. She went up to Robber Mother and scratched at her skirt, and Robber Mother bent down to her and praised her young.

Robber Father was standing out on a marsh eating raspberries. When he glanced up, a big black bear stood beside him.

Robber Father broke off an osier twig and struck the bear on the nose. “Keep to your own ground, you!” he said; “this is my turf.”

Then the huge bear turned around and lumbered off in another direction.

Then Abbot Hans marked how all grew still; the birds hushed their songs, the flowers ceased growing, and the young foxes played no more.

The glory now nearing was such that the heart wanted to stop beating; the eyes wept without one’s knowing it; the soul longed to soar away into the Eternal.

From far in the distance faint harp tones were heard, and celestial song, like a soft murmur, reached him.