From a Swedish Homestead

Ingrid stopped half-way up the stairs and looked at it. There it was, light and fleeting, as impossible to grasp and hold fast as a sun-spot reflected by the prism of a chandelier, but just as visible, just as real. She thought of her recent dream, but this was different – this was reality.

When she had looked a little at the face, the lips began to move; they spoke, but she could not hear a sound. Then she tried to see what they said, tried to read the words from the lips, as deaf people do, and she succeeded.

'Do not let me go,' the lips said; 'do not let me go.'

And the anguish with which it was said! If a fellow-creature had been lying at her feet begging for life, it could not have affected her more. She was so overcome that she shook. It was more heart-rending than anything she had ever heard in her whole life. Never had she thought that anyone could beg in such fearful anguish. Again and again the lips begged, 'Do not let me go!' And for every time the anguish was greater.

Ingrid did not understand it, but remained standing, filled with unspeakable pity. It seemed to her that more than life itself must be at stake for one who begged like this, that his very soul must be at stake.

The lips did not move any more; they stood half open in dull despair. When they assumed this expression she uttered a cry and stumbled. She recognised the face of the crazy fellow as she had just seen it.

'No, no, no!' she said. 'It cannot be so! It must not! it cannot! It is not possible that it is he!'

The same moment the face vanished. She must have sat for a whole hour on the cold staircase, crying in helpless despair. But at last hope sprang up in her, strong and fair. She again took courage to raise her head. All that had happened seemed to show that she should save him. It was for that she had come here. She should have the great, great happiness of saving him.

In the little boudoir her ladyship was talking to Miss Stafva. It sounded so pitiful to hear her asking the housekeeper to persuade her son to remain a few days longer. Miss Stafva tried to appear hard and severe.

'Of course, I can ask him,' she said; 'but your ladyship knows that no one can make him stay longer than he wants.'

'We have money enough, you know. There is not the slightest necessity for him to go. Can you not tell him that?' said her ladyship.

At the same moment Ingrid came in. The door opened noiselessly. She glided through the room with light, airy steps; her eyes were radiant, as if she beheld something beautiful afar off.

When her ladyship saw her she frowned a little. She also felt an inclination to be cruel, to give pain.

'Ingrid,' she said, 'come here; I must speak with you about your future.'

The young girl had fetched her guitar and was about to leave the room. She turned round to her ladyship.

'My future?' she said, putting her hand to her forehead. 'My future is already decided, you know,' she continued, with the smile of a martyr; and without saying any more she left the room.

Her ladyship and Stafva looked in surprise at each other. They began to discuss where they should send the young girl. But when Miss Stafva came down to her room she found Ingrid sitting there, singing some little songs and playing on the guitar, and Hede sat opposite her, listening, his face all sunshine.

Ever since Ingrid had recognised the student in the poor crazy fellow, she had no other thought but that of trying to cure him; but this was a difficult task, and she had no idea whatever as to how she should set about it. To begin with, she only thought of how she could persuade him to remain at Munkhyttan; and this was easy enough. Only for the sake of hearing her play the violin or the guitar a little every day he would now sit patiently from morning till evening in Miss Stafva's room waiting for her.

She thought it would be a great thing if she could get him to go into the other rooms, but that she could not. She tried keeping in her room, and said she would not play any more for him if he did not come to her. But after she had remained there two days, he began to pack up his pack to go away, and then she was obliged to give in.

He showed great preference for her, and distinctly showed that he liked her better than others; but she did not make him less frightened. She begged him to leave off his sheepskin coat, and wear an ordinary coat. He consented at once, but the next day he had it on again. Then she hid it from him; but he then appeared in the man-servant's skin coat. So then they would rather let him keep his own. He was still as frightened as ever, and took great care no one came too near him. Even Ingrid was not allowed to sit quite close to him.

One day she said to him that now he must promise her something: he must give over curtsying to the cat. She would not ask him to do anything so difficult as give up curtsying to horses and dogs, but surely he could not be afraid of a little cat.

Yes, he said; the cat was a goat.

'It can't be a goat,' she said; 'it has no horns, you know.'

He was pleased to hear that. It seemed as if at last he had found something by which he could distinguish a goat from other animals.

The next day he met Miss Stafva's cat.

'That goat has no horns,' he said; and laughed quite proudly.

He went past it, and sat down on the sofa to listen to Ingrid playing. But after he had sat a little while he grew restless, and he rose, went up to the cat, and curtsied.

Ingrid was in despair. She took him by his arm and shook him. He ran straight out of the room, and did not appear until the next day.

'Child, child,' said her ladyship, 'you do exactly as I did; you try the same as I did. It will end by your frightening him so that he dare not see you any more. It is better to leave him in peace. We are satisfied with things as they are if he will only remain at home.'

There was nothing else for Ingrid to do but wring her hands in sorrow that such a fine, lovable fellow should be concealed in this crazy man.

Ingrid thought again and again, had she really only come here to play her grandfather's tunes to him? Should they go on like that all through life? Would it never be otherwise?

She also told him many stories, and in the midst of a story his face would lighten up, and he would say something wonderfully subtle and beautiful. A sane person would never have thought of anything like it. And no more was needed to make her courage rise, and then she began again with these endless experiments.

It was late one afternoon, and the moon was just about to rise. White snow lay on the ground, and bright gray ice covered the lake. The trees were blackish-brown, and the sky was a flaming red after the sunset.

Ingrid was on her way to the lake to skate. She went along a narrow path where the snow was quite trodden down. Gunnar Hede went behind her. There was something cowed in his bearing that made one think of a dog following its master.

Ingrid looked tired; there was no brightness in her eyes, and her complexion was gray.

As she walked along she wondered whether the day, which was now so nearly over, was content with itself – if it were from joy it had lighted the great flaming red sunset far away in the west.

She knew she could light no bonfire over this day, nor over any other day. In the whole month that had passed since she recognised Gunnar Hede she had gained nothing.

And to-day a great fear had come upon her. It seemed to her as if she might perhaps lose her love over all this. She was nearly forgetting the student, only for thinking of the poor fellow. All that was bright and beautiful and youthful vanished from her love. Nothing was left but dull, heavy earnest.

She was quite in despair as she walked towards the lake. She felt she did not know what ought to be done – felt that she must give it all up. Oh, God, to have him walking behind her apparently strong and hale, and yet so helplessly, incurably sick!

They had reached the lake, and she was putting on her skates. She also wanted him to skate, and helped him to put on his skates; but he fell as soon as he got on to the ice. He scrambled to the bank and sat down on a stone, and she skated away from him.

Just opposite the stone upon which Gunnar Hede was sitting was an islet overgrown with birches and poplars, and behind it the radiant evening sky, which was still flaming red. And the fine, light, leafless tops of the trees stood against the glorious sky with such beauty that it was impossible not to notice it.

Is it not a fact that one always recognises a place by a single feature? One does not exactly know how even the most familiar spot looks from all sides. And Munkhyttan one always knew by the little islet. If one had not seen the place for many years, one would know it again by this islet, where the dark tree-tops were lifted towards the sunset.

Hede sat quite still, and looked at the islet and at the branches of the trees and at the gray ice which surrounded it.

This was the view he knew best of all; there was nothing on the whole estate he knew so well, for it was always this islet that attracted the eye. And soon he was sitting looking at the islet without thinking about it, just as one does with things one knows so well. He sat for a long time gazing. Nothing disturbed him, not a human being, not a gust of wind, no strange object. He could not see Ingrid; she had skated far away on the ice.

A rest and peace fell upon Gunnar Hede such as one only feels in home surroundings. Security and peace came to him from the little islet; it quieted the everlasting unrest that tormented him.

Hede always imagined he was amongst enemies, and always thought of defending himself. For many years he had not felt that peace which made it possible for him to forget himself. But now it came upon him.

Whilst Gunnar Hede was sitting thus and not thinking of anything, he happened mechanically to make a movement as one may do when one finds one's self in accustomed circumstances. As he sat there with the shining ice before him and with skates on his feet, he got up and skated on to the lake, and he thought as little of what he was doing as one thinks of how one is holding fork or spoon when eating.

He glided over the ice; it was glorious skating. He was a long way off the shore before he realized what he was doing.

'Splendid ice!' he thought. 'I wonder why I did not come down earlier in the day. It is a good thing I was more here yesterday,' he said. 'I will really not waste a single day during the rest of my vacation.'

No doubt it was because Gunnar Hede happened to do something he was in the habit of doing before he was ill that his old self awakened within him.

Thoughts and associations connected with his former life began to force themselves upon his consciousness, and at the same time all the thoughts connected with his illness sank into oblivion.

It had been his habit when skating to take a wide turn on the lake in order to see beyond a certain point. He did so now without thinking, but when he had turned the point he knew he had skated there to see if there was a light in his mother's window.

'She thinks it is time I was coming home, but she must wait a little; the ice is too good.'

But it was mostly vague sensations of pleasure over the exercise and the beautiful evening that were awakened within him. A moonlight evening like this was just the time for skating; he was so fond of this peaceful transition from day to night. It was still light, but the stillness of night was already there, the best both of day and of night.

There was another skater on the ice; it was a young girl. He was not sure if he knew her, but he skated towards her to find out. No; it was no one he knew, but he could not help making a remark when he passed her about the splendid ice.

The stranger was probably a young girl from the town. She was evidently not accustomed to be addressed in this unceremonious manner; she looked quite frightened when he spoke to her. He certainly was queerly dressed; he was dressed quite like a peasant.

Well, he did not want to frighten her away. He turned off and skated further up the lake; the ice was big enough for them both.

But Ingrid had nearly screamed with astonishment. He had come towards her skating elegantly, with his arms crossed, the brim of his hat turned up, and his hair thrown back, so that it did not fall over his ears.

He had spoken with the voice of a gentleman, almost without the slightest Dalar accent. She did not stop to think about it. She skated quickly towards the shore. She came breathless into the kitchen. She did not know how to say it shortly and quickly enough.

'Miss Stafva, the young master has come home!'

The kitchen was empty; neither the housekeeper nor the servants were there. Nor was there anybody in the housekeeper's room. Ingrid rushed through the whole house, went into rooms where no one ever went. The whole time she cried out, 'Miss Stafva, Miss Stafva! the young master has come home!'

She was quite beside herself, and went on calling out, even when she stood on the landing upstairs, surrounded by the servants, Miss Stafva, and her ladyship herself. She said it over and over again. She was too much excited to stop. They all understood what she meant. They stood there quite as much overcome as she was.

Ingrid turned restlessly from the one to the other. She ought to give explanations and orders, but about what? That she could so lose her presence of mind! She looked wildly questioning at her ladyship.

'What was it I wanted?'

The old lady gave some orders in a low, trembling voice. She almost whispered.

'Light the candles and make a fire in the young master's room. Lay out the young master's clothes.'

It was neither the place nor the time for Miss Stafva to be important. But there was all the same a certain superior ring in her voice as she answered:

'There is always a fire in the young master's room. The young master's clothes are always in readiness for him.'

'Ingrid had better go up to her room,' said her ladyship.

The young girl did just the opposite. She went into the drawing-room, placed herself at the window, sobbed and shook, but did not herself know that she was not still. She impatiently dried the tears from her eyes, so that she could see over the snowfield in front of the house. If only she did not cry, there was nothing she could miss seeing in the clear moonlight. At last he came.

'There he is! there he is!' she cried to her ladyship. 'He walks quickly! he runs! Do come and see!'

Her ladyship sat quite still before the fire. She did not move. She strained her ears to hear, just as much as the other strained her eyes to see. She asked Ingrid to be quiet, so that she could hear how he walked. Ah, yes, she would be quiet. Her ladyship should hear how he walked. She grasped the window-sill, as if that could help her.

'You shall be quiet,' she whispered, 'so that her ladyship can hear how he walks.'

Her ladyship sat bending forward, listening with all her soul. Did she already hear his steps in the court-yard? She probably thought he would go towards the kitchen. Did she hear that it was the front steps that creaked? Did she hear that it was the door to the front hall that opened? Did she hear how quickly he came up the stairs, two or three steps at a time? Had his mother heard that? It was not the dragging step of a peasant, as it had been when he left the house.

It was almost more than they could bear, to hear him coming towards the door of the drawing-room. Had he come in then, they would no doubt both have screamed. But he turned down the corridor to his own rooms.

Her ladyship fell back in her chair, and her eyes closed. Ingrid thought her ladyship would have liked to die at that moment. Without opening her eyes, she put out her hand. Ingrid went softly up and took it; the old lady drew her towards her.

'Mignon, Mignon,' she said; 'that was the right name after all. But,' she continued, 'we must not cry. We must not speak about it. Take a stool and come and sit down by the fire. We must be calm, my little friend. Let us speak about something else. We must be perfectly calm when he comes in.'

Half an hour afterwards Hede came in; the tea was on the table, and the chandelier was lighted. He had dressed; every trace of the peasant had disappeared. Ingrid and her ladyship pressed each other's hands.

They had been sitting trying to imagine how he would look when he came in. It was impossible to say what he might say or do, said her ladyship. One never had known what he might do. But in any case they would both be quite calm. A feeling of great happiness had come over her, and that had quieted her. She was resting, free from all sorrow, in the arms of angels carrying her upwards, upwards.

But when Hede came in, there was no sign of confusion about him.

'I have only come to tell you,' he said, 'that I have got such a headache, that I shall have to go to bed at once. I felt it already when I was on the ice.'

Her ladyship made no reply. Everything was so simple; she had never thought it would be like that. It took her a few moments to realize that he did not know anything about his illness, that he was living somewhere in the past.

'But perhaps I can first drink a cup of tea,' he said, looking a little surprised at their silence.

Her ladyship went to the tea-tray. He looked at her.

'Have you been crying, mother? You are so quiet.'

'We have been sitting talking about a sad story, I and my young friend here,' said her ladyship, pointing to Ingrid.

'I beg your pardon,' he said. 'I did not see you had visitors.'

The young girl came forward towards the light, beautiful as one would be who knew that the gates of heaven the next moment would open before her.

He bowed a little stiffly. He evidently did not know who she was. Her ladyship introduced them to each other. He looked curiously at Ingrid.

'I think I saw Miss Berg on the ice,' he said.

He knew nothing about her – had never spoken to her before.

A short, happy time followed. Gunnar Hede was certainly not quite himself; but those around him were happy in the belief that he soon would be. His memory was partly gone. He knew nothing about certain periods of his life; he could not play the violin; he had almost forgotten all he knew; and his power of thinking was weak; and he preferred neither to read nor to write. But still he was very much better. He was not frightened; he was fond of his mother; he had again assumed the manners and habits of a gentleman. One can easily understand that her ladyship and all her household were delighted.

Hede was in the best of spirits – bright and joyous all day long. He never speculated over anything, put to one side everything he could not understand, never spoke about anything that necessitated mental exertion, but talked merrily and cheerfully. He was most happy when he was engaged in bodily exercise. He took Ingrid out with him sledging and skating. He did not talk much to her, but she was happy to be with him. He was kind to Ingrid, as he was to everyone else, but not in the least in love with her. He often wondered about his fiancée– wondered why she never wrote. But after a short time that trouble, too, left him. He always put away from him anything that worried him.

Ingrid thought that he would never get really well by doing like this. He must some time be made to think – to face his own thoughts, which he was afraid of doing now. But she dared not compel him to do this, and there was no one else who dared. If he began to care for her a little, perhaps she might dare. She thought all they now wanted, every one of them, was a little happiness.

It was just at that time that a little child died at the Parsonage at Raglanda where Ingrid had been brought up; and the grave-digger was about to dig the grave.

The man dug the grave quite close to the spot where the previous summer he had dug the grave for Ingrid. And when he had got a few feet into the ground he happened to lay bare a corner of her coffin. The grave-digger could not help smiling a little to himself. Of course he had heard that the dead girl lying in this coffin had appeared. She was supposed to have unscrewed her coffin-lid on the very day of her funeral, risen from the grave, and appeared at the Parsonage. The Pastor's wife was not so much liked but that people in the parish rather enjoyed telling this story about her. The grave-digger thought that people should only know how securely the dead were lying in the ground, and how fast the coffin-lids..

He interrupted himself in the midst of this thought. On the corner of the coffin which was exposed the lid was not quite straight, and one of the screws was not quite fast. He did not say anything, he did not think anything, but stopped digging and whistled the whole reveille of the Vermland Regiment – for he was an old soldier. Then he thought he had better examine the thing properly. It would never do for a grave-digger to have thoughts about the dead which might come and trouble him during the dark autumn nights. He hastily removed some more earth. Then he began to hammer on the coffin with his shovel. The coffin answered quite distinctly that it was empty – empty.

Half an hour after the grave-digger was at the Parsonage. There was no end to the questionings and surmises. So much they were all agreed upon – that the young girl had been in the Dalar man's pack. But what had become of her afterwards?

Anna Stina stood at the oven in the Parsonage and looked after the baking, for of course there was baking to be done for the new funeral. She stood for a long time listening to all this talk without saying a word. All she took care of was that the cakes were not burnt. She put sheet-tins in and took sheet-tins out, and it was dangerous to approach her as she stood there with the long baker's shovel. But suddenly she took off her kitchen-apron, wiped the worst of the sweat and the soot from her face, and was talking with the Pastor in his study almost before she knew how it had come about.

After this it was not so very wonderful that one day in March the Pastor's little red-painted sledge, ornamented with green tulips, and drawn by the Pastor's little red horse, pulled up at Munkhyttan. Ingrid was of course obliged to go back with the Pastor home to her mother. The Pastor had come to fetch her. He did not say much about their being glad that she was alive, but one could see how happy he was. He had never been able to forgive himself that they had not been more kind to their adopted daughter. And now he was radiant at the thought that he was allowed to make a new beginning and make everything good for her this time.

They did not speak a word about the reason why she had run away. It was of no use bringing that up again so long after. But Ingrid understood that the Pastor's wife had had a hard time, and had suffered many pangs of conscience, and that they wanted to have her back again in order to be good to her. She felt that she was almost obliged to go back to the Parsonage to show that she had no ill-feeling against her adopted parents.

They all thought it was the most natural thing that she should go to the Parsonage for a week or two. And why should she not? She could not make the excuse that they needed her at Munkhyttan. She could surely be away for some weeks without it doing Gunnar Hede any harm. She felt it was hard, but it was best she should go away, as they all thought it was the right thing.

Perhaps she had hoped they would ask her not to go away. She took her seat in the sledge with the feeling that her ladyship or Miss Stafva would surely come and lift her out of it, and carry her into the house again. It was impossible to realize that she was actually driving down the avenue, that she was turning into the forest, and that Munkhyttan was disappearing behind her.

But supposing it was from pure goodness that they let her go? They thought, perhaps, that youth, with its craving for pleasure, wanted to get away from the loneliness of Munkhyttan. They thought, perhaps, she was tired of being the keeper of a crazy man. She raised her hand, and was on the point of seizing the reins and turning the horse. Now that she was several miles from the house it struck her that that was why they had let her go. She would have liked so much to have gone back and asked them.