Then comes the spring flood, and the dam starts to give way.
The fall at Ekeby is a mighty granite stair, down which the waves of the Björksjö River come rushing. They become dizzy with the speed, tumbling end over end and spraying foam over one another, again tumbling down over a stone, over a log, and then up again to fall again, again and again, foaming, hissing, roaring.
And now these wild, inflamed waves, intoxicated by the spring air, dizzy with their newfound freedom, start to storm the old stone wall. They come hissing and tearing, storm high up on it and then pull back, as if they had struck their white-locked heads. This is a storming as good as any; they take great pieces of ice as shelter, they take logs as battering rams, they pry, break, roar against this poor wall, until suddenly it seems as if someone had called them to attention. Then they rush backward, and after them a large stone comes loose from the dam and sinks with a crash down into the stream.
It appears as if this surprised them; they stand still, they rejoice, they take counsel . . . and then set about anew! There they are again with ice chunks and logs, mischievous, unmerciful, wild, crazy with the lust to destroy.
“If only the dam were gone,” say the waves, “if only the dam were gone, then it would be the smithy’s turn and the mill’s turn.
“Now is the day of freedom . . . away with people and the works of people! They have sooted us with coal, they have dusted us with flour, they have put yokes on us like oxen, driven us in a ring, closed us in, impeded us with locks, forced us to pull the heavy wheels, carry the ungainly logs. But now we will win our freedom.
“The day of freedom has come! Hear that, waves up in Björk Lake, hear that, brothers and sisters in bog and marsh, in mountain brook and forest stream! Come, come! Rush down to the Björksjö River, come with fresh forces, booming, hissing, ready to break the centuries-old oppression, come! The bulwark of tyranny must fall. Death to Ekeby!”
And they come—wave after wave rushes down the falls to drive its head against the dam wall, to lend its help to the great work. Intoxicated by spring’s newfound freedom, numerous, united they come and loosen stone upon stone, tuft upon tuft from the tottering breakwater.
But why then do the people let the wild waves rage without putting up any resistance? Is Ekeby deserted?
No, there are people there, a confused, perplexed, helpless group of people. Dark is the night, they do not see one another, do not see their own way. High up the falls roar, the boom of breaking ice and crashing logs is dreadful, they do not hear their own voices. The wild dizziness that ensouls the roaring waves fills the brains of the people as well; they do not have a thought left, no reason.
The ironworks bell is clanging. “May anyone who has ears, hear! We down here at Ekeby smithy are about to disappear. The river is upon us. The dam is quaking, the smithy is in danger, the mill is in danger, and our own poor houses, beloved in their insignificance.”
The waves may believe that the bell ringing is calling their friends, for no person appears. But off in forests and marshes there is urgency. “Send helpers, send helpers!” rings the bell. “After centuries-long slavery we have finally set ourselves free. Come, come!” roar the waves. The booming water mass and the clanging ironworks bell sing a death song over all the glory and luster of Ekeby.
And in time message after message goes up to the estate for the cavaliers.
Are they in a mood to think about smithy and mill? The hundred guests are gathered in the expansive halls of Ekeby. The broom girl is waiting out in the kitchen. The exciting moment of surprise has come. The champagne sparkles in the glasses, Julius rises to give the banquet speech. All the old adventurers at Ekeby are pleased by the petrifying astonishment that will settle over the assembly.
Out on the ice of Löven the young Countess Dohna walks a dreadful, dangerous path to whisper a word of warning to Gösta Berling. Down at the waterfall the waves are making an assault against all the glory and power of Ekeby, but in the expansive halls only joy and eager expectation prevail; the wax candles radiate and the wine is flowing. No one there is thinking about what is moving about in the dark, stormy spring night.
Just now the moment has arrived. Gösta gets up and goes out to bring in the fiancée. He has to go through the vestibule, and its great doors stand wide open. He stops, he looks out into the coal-black night . . . and he hears, he hears.
He hears the bell clang, the rapids roar. He hears the boom of breaking ice, the din of crashing logs, the roaring, mocking, victory-rejoicing freedom song of the rebellious waves.
Then he rushes out into the night, forgetting everything. Let them stand in there with raised glasses and wait until the world’s final day; he no longer cares about them. The fiancée can wait, Squire Julius’s speech can die on his lips. The rings will not be exchanged this night, the petrifying astonishment will not settle over the brilliant assembly.
Now woe to you, rebellious waves, now in truth this will be a fight for your freedom! Now Gösta Berling has come down to the falls, now the people have a commander, now courage is lit in terrified hearts, now the defenders climb up onto the walls, now a mighty battle begins.
Hear how he calls to the people! He gives orders, he puts everyone into action.
“We must have light, light above all, the miller’s horn lantern won’t suffice here. Look at those piles of twigs; carry them up on the slope and light them! That’s a job for women and children. Just do it quickly, make a big, flaming bonfire and light it! It will light up our labor, it will be seen far and wide and summon helpers here. And never let it go out! Bring straw, bring twigs, let bright flames flare against the sky!
“Look, look, you grown-up men, here is work for you! Here is lumber, here are planks, put together an emergency dam that we can lower down in front of the failing wall. Hurry, hurry to work, do it solid and steady! Arrange stones and sandbags to lower down too! Quick, swing your axes, let the hammer strokes thunder, let the drill bite into the wood, the saw screech in the dry planks!
“And where are the boys? Onward, onward, you wild good-for-nothings! Get poles, get boat hooks and come here into the thick of battle! Out onto the dam with you, lads, in the midst of the waves that are foaming, hissing, and spraying over us with white foam! Fend off, weaken, repel these attacks that are cracking the walls! Push aside logs and chunks of ice, throw yourselves down, if nothing else helps, and hold tight to the loosening stones with your hands! Bite into them, hold on to them with claws of iron! Fight, boys, good-for-nothings, wild brains! Out onto the wall with you! We will fight for every inch of ground!”
Gösta himself takes his place at the farthest end of the dam and stands there sprayed with foam, the ground quaking beneath him, the waves thundering and raging, but his wild heart delights in the danger, the commotion, the battle. He laughs, he has merry quips for the boys on the dam around him; he was never part of a more amusing night.
The rescue work goes quickly ahead, the fires flare, the lum bermen’s axes boom, and the dam stands.
The other cavaliers and the hundred guests have also come down to the waterfall. People come running from near and far, all are working: at the fires, at the emergency dam, with the sandbags, out on the failing, shaking stone dam.
So, now the carpenters have the emergency dam ready, now it will be lowered in front of the tottering breakwater. Keep stones and sandbags ready and boat hooks and rope, so that it isn’t pulled away, so that the victory may be the people’s and the suppressed waves go back to slave service!
Then it happens, right before the decisive moment, that Gösta catches sight of a woman sitting on a stone by the river shore. The flames from the bonfire illuminate her where she sits staring out into the waves. Of course he can not see her clearly through the smoke and foam, but his eyes are unceasingly drawn to her. He feels as if this woman had some business with him in particular.
Among all of these hundreds who are working and busy on the river’s edge, she is the only one who is sitti
ng still, and his glances turn to her incessantly, he sees no one other than her.
She is sitting so far out that the waves strike against her feet, the foam sprays over her. She must be dripping wet. She is dark-clothed, with a black shawl over her head; she is sitting hunched up, supporting her chin with her hands, and staring unceasingly at him out on the breakwater. He feels how these staring eyes draw and entice, although he cannot even make out her face; he thinks of nothing other than the woman who is sitting at the edge of the white waves.
“It is the sea witch from Löven, who has come up into the river to lure me to destruction,” he thinks. “She is sitting there and luring and luring; I have to chase her away.”
All these waves with their white heads appear to him like the armies of the black woman. She was the one who incited them, she who led them forth against him in attack.
“I truly must chase her away,” he says.
He grasps a boat hook, leaps ashore, and hurries over to the woman.
He leaves his place on the breakwater’s outermost tip in order to chase away the sea witch. In this moment of agitation, to him it is as if the evil forces of the deep are fighting with him. He does not know what he thinks, what he believes, but he must chase away the black woman from the stone at the river’s edge.
Oh, Gösta, why does your place stand empty at the decisive moment? They are coming now with the emergency dam, a long row of fellows are lining up on the breakwater. They have rope and stones and sandbags ready to weigh it down and keep it in place, they stand ready, they wait, they listen. Where is the commander? Is the voice that will order and organize not heard?
No, Gösta Berling is chasing away the sea witch, his voice is not heard, his commands lead no one.
Then the emergency dam must be lowered without him. The waves step aside, it plunges down into the depths and after it stones and sandbags. But how is the work carried out without the leader? No caution, no orderliness. The waves rush forth anew, they break with renewed fury against these new obstacles, they start rolling aside the sandbags, tearing the ropes, loosening the stones. And they succeed, they succeed! Mocking, rejoicing, they lift the whole wall on strong shoulders, pull and tear at it, and then they have it in their power. Away with this miserable bulwark, down into Löven with it! And then onward again against the tottering, helpless stone dam.
But Gösta Berling is chasing after the sea witch. She sees him as he is coming toward her, swinging the boat hook. She becomes afraid. It appears as if she intends to rush out into the water, but she changes her mind and runs toward land.
“Sea witch!” calls Gösta, swinging the boat hook over her. She hurries in among the alder shrubs, gets entangled in the dense branches, and remains standing.
Then Gösta throws away the boat hook, goes over, and places his hand on her shoulder.
“You are out late tonight, Countess Elisabet,” he says.
“Let me be, Mr. Berling, let me go home!”
He obeys at once and turns away from her.
But because she is not only a noble lady, but actually a kind little woman who cannot bear the thought that she has brought someone to despair, because she is a little flower gatherer, who always has roses enough in her basket to adorn the most desolate pathway, she regrets it at once, goes after him, and takes his hand.
“I came,” she says, stammering, “I came because . . . Oh, Mr. Berling, you haven’t done it, have you? Say that you haven’t done it! . . . I was so afraid when you came running after me, but it was just you I wanted to see. I wanted to ask you, that you shouldn’t think about what I last said, and that you could come home as usual.”
“How did you get here, countess?”
She is laughing nervously. “I guess I knew that I would come too late, but I did not want to tell anyone that I had gone. And besides, you understand, you can’t drive across the lake any longer.”
“Have you walked across the lake, countess?”
“Yes, of course, but Mr. Berling, tell me now! Are you engaged? You understand: I wanted so badly that you weren’t. It is so wrong, you see, and it felt as if I were guilty of the whole thing. You should not have paid so much attention to a word from me. I am a stranger who does not know the customs of this land. It is so empty at Borg since you don’t come there anymore, Mr. Berling.”
It seems to Gösta Berling, as he stands among the wet alder bushes on the marshy ground, as if someone is throwing an entire armful of roses over him. He is wading in roses all the way up to his knees, they shine before his eyes out of the darkness, he greedily drinks in their fragrance.
“Have you done it?” she repeats.
He has to resolve to answer her and put an end to her anxiety, although he feels such a great delight over it. No, he gets so warm inside, and so light, as he thinks about what a pathway she has wandered, how wet she is, how chilled, how anxious she must be, how cried-out her voice sounds!
“No,” he says, “I am not engaged.”
Then she once again seizes his hand and caresses it. “I am so happy, I am so happy,” she says, and her breast, which has been constricted by anxiety, is shaking with sobs.
Then there are flowers enough on the poet’s path. All that is dark, evil, and hateful melts away from his heart.
“How good you are, how good you are!” he says.
Immediately above them the waves are on the assault against all the glory and luster of Ekeby. Now the people no longer have a leader, no one infuses courage and hope into their hearts, now the breakwater collapses, the waves close up over it, and then they rush, certain of victory, toward the point, where mill and smithy stand. No longer is anyone working to stand against the waves, no longer is anyone thinking about anything other than saving life and possessions.
It is so natural for both of these young people that Gösta should follow the countess home. Of course he cannot leave her alone in the dark night, nor let her wander alone once again across the melting ice. They do not even think about the fact that he is needed up at the smithy, they are so happy about being friends again.
It is so easy to believe that these young people harbor a warm love for one another, but who can know that for sure? The shining adventures of their lives have come down to me in broken and scattered shards. I of course know nothing, as good as nothing, about what dwelled deep in their souls. What can I say about the motives for their actions? I simply know that that night a young, lovely woman risked her life, her honor, her reputation, her health to put a poor wretch back on the right pathway. I simply know that that night Gösta Berling let the beloved estate’s power and luster fall in order to follow her, who for his sake had overcome the fear of death, the fear of shame, the fear of punishment.
I have often followed them in my thoughts across the ice that dreadful night, which for them, however, had such a good ending. I do not believe that in their souls there was anything concealed and forbidden that had to be suppressed and held down just then as they wander across the ice, merrily talking about everything that has happened during this time of discord.
He is once again her slave, her page, who lies at her feet, and she is his lady.
They are only happy, only fortunate. Neither of them speaks a word that could mean love.
Laughing they splash along through the shore water. They laugh when they find the way, when they lose it, when they slip, when they fall, when they get up again, always they laugh.
It is again an amusing game, this blessed life, and they are children who have been naughty and quarreled. Oh, how good it is to be reconciled and start the game again!
Rumors came and rumors went. In time the story of the countess’s wandering made its way to Anna Stjärnhök.
“So I see,” she said, “that God does not have only one string on his bow. I will put my heart at ease and stay where I am needed. He can make a man of Gösta Berling without me.”
CHAPTER 16
PENANCE
Dear friends, if you should happen
to meet a pitiful wretch on your way, a dear, distressed being who lets his hat hang on his back and holds his shoes in his hand so as not to have any protection against the fire of the sun and the stones of the road, a defenseless person who of his own free will summons all misfortune upon his head, well, then go past him with a silent shudder! It is the penitent, you see, the penitent, en route to the sacred graves.
The penitent must wear the rough cowl and live on plain water and dry bread, even if he were a king. He must walk, not ride. He must beg, not own. He must sleep among the thistles. He must wear down the hard grave slabs with genuflection. He must swing the thorny scourge across his back. He can experience no sweetness except in suffering, no delight except in sorrow.
At one time the young Countess Elisabet was one who wore the rough cowl and traversed the thorny paths. Her heart accused her of sin. It yearned for pain as if it were aching for a warm bath. She brought cruel misfortune upon herself, as rejoicing she descended into the night of suffering.
Her husband, the young count with the old man’s head, came home to Borg the morning after the night when Ekeby mill and smithy were destroyed by the spring flood. He had scarcely arrived before Countess Märta summoned him and related strange things to him.
“Your wife was out last night, Henrik. She was away for many hours. She came home in the company of a man. I heard how he said good night to her. I know who he is too. I heard her when she left and when she came back, although that was probably not the idea. She is deceiving you, Henrik. She is deceiving you, that sanctimonious creature, hanging up scalloped curtains on all the windows just to make things unpleasant for me. She has never loved you, my poor boy. Her father only wanted her to marry well. She took you to be taken care of.”