She received the message of privation with enthusiasm.
“I will do what you want—sacrifice myself and smile at it.”
“And not hate my poor friends?”
She smiled mournfully. “As long as I love you, I will love them.”
“Now for the first time I know what kind of woman you are. It is heavy to leave you.”
“Farewell, Gösta! Go now with God! My love shall not lure you into sin!”
She turned to go inside. He followed her.
“Will you soon forget me?”
“Go now, Gösta! We are only human.”
He threw himself down on the sleigh, but then she came back.
“Aren’t you thinking about the wolves?”
“I am thinking about just them, but they have done their work. They have nothing more to do with me tonight.”
Once again he extended his arms to her, but Don Juan became impatient and set off. He did not pick up the reins. He sat, turned around, and looked back. Then he leaned against the frame and cried in despair.
“I have possessed happiness and driven it away from me. I myself drove her away from me. Why didn’t I keep her?”
Oh, Gösta Berling, strongest and weakest among people!
CHAPTER 5
LA CACHUCHA
Warhorse, warhorse! Old one, now standing tethered on the field, do you recall your youth?
Do you recall the day of battle, courageous one? You sprang forth as if you were borne by wings, your man floated above you like flickering flames, on your black brisket splashes of blood glistened among frothy foam. In a harness of gold you sprang forth, the ground thundering beneath you. You shivered with pleasure, courageous one. Oh, how lovely you were!
It is a gray, twilight hour up in the cavaliers’ wing. In the large room the cavaliers’ red-painted cases stand along the walls, and their feast-day clothes hang on hooks in the corner. The firelight from the fireplace plays on white-plastered walls and on gold-checked curtains that conceal the box beds on the walls. The cavaliers’ wing is not a royal state room, not a seraglio with upholstered divans and soft pillows.
But from within, Lilliecrona’s fiddle is heard. He is playing “La Cachucha” in the twilight. Over and over again he plays it.
Cut off the strings, break apart the bow! Why is he playing this confounded dance? Why is he playing it just when Örneclou, the lieutenant, is lying ill with gout pains so severe that he can’t move in his bed? No, tear the fiddle from him and throw it against the wall, if he won’t stop!
La cachucha, is that for us, maestro? Will it be danced across the tottering floorboards of the cavaliers’ wing, between cramped walls, blackened with smoke and greasy with grime, under its low ceiling? Curse you, the way you play!
La cachucha, is that for us, for us cavaliers? Outside the snowstorm howls. Do you mean to teach the snowflakes to dance in rhythm, are you playing for the light-footed children of the blizzard?
Female bodies, which tremble under the pulse beat of hot blood, small sooty hands, which have thrown aside the cooking pot to grasp the castanets, naked feet under tucked-up skirts, yard coated with flakes of marble, crouching gypsies with bagpipe and tambourine, Moorish arcades, moonlight and black eyes, do you have those, maestro? If not, let the fiddle rest!
Cavaliers are drying their wet clothes by the fire. Should they swirl around in their tall boots with iron-shod heels and thumb-thick soles? They have waded through the ell-deep snow the whole day to reach the bear’s winter lair. Do you think they should dance in their wet, steaming homespun clothes, with the shaggy bruin as a partner?
Evening sky, glittering with stars, red roses in dark female hair, tormenting sweetness in the evening air, untaught grace in the movements, love rising out of the earth, raining from the sky, hovering in the air, do you have this, maestro? If not, why force us to long for such things?
Cruelest of men, are you sounding the attack for a tethered warhorse? Rutger von Örneclou is lying in his bed, imprisoned by gout pains. Spare him the torment of sweet memories, maestro! He too has worn a sombrero and a gaudy hairnet, he too has owned a velvet jacket and a sash with a dagger tucked in it. Spare old Örneclou, maestro!
But Lilliecrona plays la cachucha, always la cachucha, and Örneclou is tormented like the lover who sees the swallow make its way to his beloved’s distant dwelling; like the stag who is chased past the refreshing spring by the hastening drive.
Lilliecrona takes the fiddle from his chin for a moment.
“Lieutenant, do you remember Rosalie von Berger?”
Örneclou swears a terrible oath.
“She was light as a candle flame. She glistened and danced like the diamond at the tip of the bow. I’m sure you remember her from the theater in Karlstad. We saw her when we were young, do you remember, lieutenant?”
And the lieutenant remembered! She was small and breathless. She was sparklingly fiery. She could dance la cachucha. She taught all the bachelors in Karlstad to dance la cachucha and snap the castanets. At the governor’s ball a pas de deux was danced by the lieutenant and Miss von Berger, costumed as Spaniards.
And he had danced the way you dance under the fig trees and plane trees, like a Spaniard, a real Spaniard.
No one in all of Värmland could dance la cachucha like him. No one could dance it, so that it was worth mentioning, better than he.
What a cavalier Värmland lost, when the gout stiffened his legs and large bumps grew over his joints! What a cavalier he had been, so slender, so beautiful, so knightly! Handsome Örneclou he was called by those young girls who could have fallen into mortal feud over a dance with him.
Then Lilliecrona again starts la cachucha, always la cachucha, and Örneclou is carried back to old times.
There he stands, and there she stands, Rosalie von Berger. They had just been alone together in the changing room. She was a Spaniard, he a Spaniard. He was allowed to kiss her, but carefully, for she was afraid of his blackened mustaches. Now they are dancing. Ah, the way you dance under fig trees and plane trees: she gives way, he follows, he becomes bold, she proud, he wounded, she conciliatory. When at last he falls to his knees and receives her in his outstretched arms, a sigh passes through the ballroom, a sigh of rapture.
He had been like a Spaniard, a real Spaniard.
Just at that bow stroke he had bowed like that, stretched his arms like that, and set forth his foot in order to float forward on tiptoe. What grace! He could have been chiseled in marble.
He does not know how it happened, but he has got his foot over the edge of the bed, he is standing upright, he is bowing, he raises his arms, snaps his fingers, and wants to float forward across the floor in the same way as before, when he used such tight shiny leather shoes that the stocking foot had to be cut away.
“Bravo, Örneclou! Bravo, Lilliecrona, play some life into him!”
His foot betrays him; he cannot get up on tiptoe. He kicks with one leg a few times, but no more than that; he again falls down on the bed.
Handsome señor, you have grown old.
Perhaps the señorita has as well?
It is only under the plane trees of Granada that la cachucha is danced by eternally young gypsies. Eternally young, like the roses are, because every spring there are new ones.
So the time has come to cut off the fiddle strings.
No, play, Lilliecrona, play la cachucha, always la cachucha!
Teach us that although we in the cavaliers’ wing now have sluggish bodies and stiff limbs, yet in our feelings we are always the same, always Spaniards.
Warhorse, warhorse!
Say that you love the sounding trumpet, which lures you away at a gallop, even if you tug your foot bloody on the iron links of the tether!
CHAPTER 6
THE BALL AT EKEBY
Oh, women of bygone ages!
To speak of you is like speaking of heaven: you were pure beauty, pure light. Eternally youthful, eternally lovely and tender as a mother’s eye
s, when she looks down at her child. Soft as young squirrels you curled around a man’s neck. Never did your voices quiver with rage, never did your brows furrow, never did your gentle hands become rough and hard. Sweet vestals, you stood like jeweled images in the temple of the home. Incense and prayers were offered to you, through you love performed its miracles, and poetry affixed a gold-gleaming halo around your head.
Oh, women of bygone ages, this is the story of how yet another one of you gave Gösta Berling her love.
A fortnight after the ball at Borg there was a party at Ekeby.
What a party it was! Old men and women would turn young again, smiling and happy, if they as much as spoke of it.
But no wonder, for at that time the cavaliers were sole masters of Ekeby. The majoress was wandering around the countryside with a beggar’s purse and cane, and the major was living at Sjö. He could not even be present at the party, for smallpox had broken out at Sjö, and he was afraid of spreading the contagion further.
What a wealth of enjoyment was packed into those twelve sweet hours, starting with the popping of the cork of the first wine bottle at the dinner table up to the final stroke of the fiddle, when midnight had long since passed. Down they sank into the abyss of time, those spangled hours, enchanted by fiery wine, by the most luscious food, by the grandest music, by the cleverest plays, by the loveliest tableaux. Down they sank, dizzy from the most delirious dance. Where else could be found such smooth floors, such courtly cavaliers, such beautiful women!
Oh, women of bygone ages, well you understood how to brighten up a ball. Currents of fire, of genius and youthful energy, coursed through anyone who approached you. It was worth the effort to squander your gold on the wax candles that would light up your fairness, on the wine that fostered the merriment in your hearts; for your sake it was worth the effort to dance the soles of your shoes to dust and wear out the arm that wielded the fiddle bow.
Oh, women of bygone ages, it was you who held the key to the gate of paradise.
The halls of Ekeby are swarming with the sweetest of your sweet company. There is the young Countess Dohna, sparklingly happy and desirous of play and dance, as befits her twenty years; and there are the beautiful daughters of the judge at Munkerud and the happy misses of Berga; there is Anna Stjärnhök, a thousand times more beautiful than before in the tender melancholy that has come over her ever since that night when she was pursued by the wolves; there are many more as well, who are not yet forgotten, I suppose, but soon will be; and there is also the beautiful Marianne Sinclaire.
She—the celebrated one, who had shone at the king’s court, glistened in the castles of counts, the queen of beauty, who has traveled around the countryside and received homage everywhere; she, who struck the spark of love wherever she appeared, had condescended to come to the cavaliers’ ball.
At that time the honor of the province of Värmland was held high, borne by many proud names. The happy children of that beautiful land had much to be proud of, but when they mentioned their glorious ones, they never neglected to mention Marianne Sinclaire.
The saga of her conquests filled the land.
There was talk of the crowns of counts that had hovered over her head, of the millions that had been laid at her feet, of the warriors’ swords and poets’ wreaths, whose brilliance enticed her.
And not only was she beautiful. She was brilliant and erudite. The best men of the day were happy to converse with her. She herself was not an author, but many of her ideas, the seeds of which she planted in the souls of her poetic friends, came alive in verse.
She seldom remained for long in Värmland, in bear country. Her life was spent in constant travels. Her father, the wealthy Melchior Sinclaire, sat at home at Björne with his wife, allowing Marianne to travel to her distinguished friends in the great cities or at the grand estates. His enjoyment was in telling about all the money she went through, and both of the old people lived happily in the sheen from Marianne’s radiant existence.
Her life was a life of amusements and applause. The air around her was love, love was her light and lantern, love her daily bread.
She herself had often loved—often, often—but never had such a fire of desire lasted long enough so that the shackles that bind for life could be forged.
“I’m waiting for him, the strong one who will take me by storm,” she used to say about love. “Until now he hasn’t climbed over any walls or swum across any moats. He has come tamely, without wildness in his gaze and madness in his heart. I await the mighty one, who will carry me out of myself. I want to know love so strong within me, that I tremble at the thought of him; now I only feel the kind of love at which my prudence smiles.”
Her presence gave fire to the conversation, life to the wine. Her glowing soul raised the tempo in the fiddle bows, and the dance floated in sweeter delirium than before across the boards she touched with her dainty foot. She was radiant in the tableaux, she brought genius to the comedies, her lovely lips . . .
Oh, hush, it wasn’t her fault, it was never her intention! It was the balcony, it was the moonlight, the lace veil, the knight’s attire, the song, that were to blame. These poor young people were innocent.
All this that led to so much misfortune was done, however, with the best of intentions. Squire Julius, who was knowledgeable about everything, had arranged a tableau, solely so that Marianne could shine in all her brilliance.
In the theater that was set up in the large salon at Ekeby, the hundred guests sat watching the yellow moon of Spain wander across a dark night sky on the stage. A Don Juan came stealthily along the street in Seville and stopped under an ivy-clad balcony. He was disguised as a monk, though an embroidered cuff could be seen sticking out under his sleeve and the point of a shining rapier under the hem of his robe.
The disguised one raised his voice in song:The mouth of no girl do I kiss
nor raise my lips to goblet’s rim
a foaming glass of wine.
A cheek whose skin a pale caress
a glance from me has set on fire
such looks do not my heart inspire,
a gaze in search of mine.
Come not to the grated window,
señora, with your beauty fair!
Away from you I shrink.
A rosary and cowl to show
my heart is in the Virgin’s care,
and water, should the fever flare,
my one consoling drink.
When he fell silent, Marianne came out onto the balcony, dressed in black velvet and a lace veil. She leaned out over the railing and sang, slowly and ironically:Why do you tarry, pious man,
at midnight at my balcony?
Do you pray for my soul?
But then suddenly warmly and lively:No, quickly flee! Someone may come.
Your rapier will be seen ’ere long.
They hear, despite all sacred song,
spurs jingling at your heels.
At these words the monk cast off his disguise, and Gösta Berling stood under the balcony in a silk and gold knight’s costume. He did not heed the beauty’s warning, but on the contrary he climbed up one of the balcony posts, swung himself over the balustrade, and just as Squire Julius had arranged it, fell to his knees at the feet of the lovely Marianne.
She smiled fetchingly at him, as she extended her hand for him to kiss, and while the two young people were looking at each other, absorbed in love, the curtain fell.
And before her was Gösta Berling, his face pliant as a poet’s and bold as a commander’s, with deep eyes, glistening with rogu ishness and genius, that begged and coaxed. He was lithe and powerful, fiery and captivating.
While the curtain went up and down, the two young people remained standing in the same position. Gösta’s eyes held fast the beautiful Marianne, they begged, they coaxed.
The applause died out, the curtain remained still; no one could see them.
Then the beautiful Marianne leaned down and kissed Gösta Berling. She didn’
t know why; she had to. He extended his arms around her head and held her tight. She kissed him again and again.
But it was the balcony, it was the moonlight, it was the lace veil, the knight’s costume, the song, the applause, that were all to blame; these poor young people were innocent. They hadn’t wished for this. Nor had she turned down noble crowns, which had hovered over her head, and left behind the millions that had lain at her feet, out of longing for Gösta Berling; nor had he already forgotten Anna Stjärnhök. No, they were without guilt; neither of them had wished for this.
It was gentle Lövenborg, with a tear in his eye and a smile on his lips, who was the curtain puller that day. Distracted by many sorrowful memories, he took scarce notice of the things of this world and had never learned to manage them properly. When he saw that Gösta and Marianne had taken a new position, he believed that this too was part of the tableau, and so he began to pull on the curtain rope.
The young people on the balcony noticed nothing, until the storm of applause again came thundering toward them.
Marianne gave a start and tried to flee, but Gösta held her fast, whispering:
“Be still now, they think this is part of the tableau.”
He felt how her body shuddered and how the fervor of the kisses died out on her lips.