The Emperor of Portugallia
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Jan Anderson of Ruffluck was not invited to the funeral of Björn
Hindrickson of Loby.
But he understood, of course, that the family of the departed had not been quite certain that he would care to claim kinship with them now that he had risen to such glory and honour; possibly they feared it might upset their arrangements if so exalted a personage as Johannes of Portugallia were to attend the funeral.
The immediate relatives of the late Björn Hindrickson naturally wished to ride in the first carriage, where by rights place should have been made for him who was an emperor. They knew, to be sure, that he was not over particular about the things which seem to count for so much with most folks. It would never have occurred to him to stand in the way of those who like to sit in the place of honour at special functions. Therefore, rather than cause any ill feeling, he remained away from the house of mourning during the early forenoon, before the funeral procession had started, and went direct to the church. Not until the bells had begun tolling and the long procession had broken up on church ground did he take his place among his relatives.
When they saw Jan there they all looked a little astonished; but now he was so accustomed to seeing folks surprised at his condescension that he took it as a matter of course. No doubt they would have liked to place him at the head of the line, but then it was too late to do so, as they were already moving toward the churchyard.
After the burial service, when he accompanied the funeral party to the church and seated himself on the mourners' bench, they appeared to be slightly embarrassed. However, there was no time to comment upon his having placed himself among them instead of occupying his usual high seat, in the gentry's gallery – as the opening hymn had just begun.
At the close of the service, when the conveyances belonging to the funeral party drove up onto the knoll, Jan went out and climbed into the hearse, where he sat down upon the dais on which the coffin rested on the drive to the churchyard. As the big wagon would now be going back empty, he knew that here he would not be taking up some other person's place. The daughter and son-in-law of the late Björn Hindrickson walked back and forth at the side of the hearse and looked at him. They regretted no doubt that they could not ask him to ride in one of the first carriages. Nor did he wish to incommode any one. He was what he was in any case.
During the drive to Loby he could not help thinking of the time when he and Glory Goldie had called upon their rich relatives. This time, however, it was all so different! Who was great and respected now? and who was conferring an honour upon his kinsfolk by seeking them out?
As the carriages drew up in turn before the house of mourning, the occupants stepped out and were conducted into the large waiting-room on the ground floor where they removed their wraps. Two neighbours of the Hindricksons, who acted as host and hostess, then invited the more prominent persons among the guests to step upstairs, where dinner was served.
It was a difficult task having to single out those who were to sit at the first table. For at so large a funeral gathering it was impossible to make room for all the guests at one sitting. The table had to be cleared and set three or four times.
Some people would have regarded it as an inexcusable oversight had they not been asked to sit at the first table. As for him who had risen to the exalted station of Emperor, he could be exceedingly obliging in many ways, but to be allowed to sit at the first table was a right which he must not forgo; otherwise folks might think he did not know it was his prerogative to come before all others. It did not matter so much his not being among the very first to be requested to step upstairs. It was self-evident that he should dine with the pastor and the gentry; so he felt no uneasiness on that score.
He sat all by himself on a corner bench, quite silent. Here nobody came up to chat with him about the Empress, and he seemed a bit dejected. When he left home Katrina had begged him not to come to this funeral, because the folks at this farm were of too good stock to cringe to either kings or emperors. It looked now as if she were right about it. For old peasants who have lived on the same farm from time immemorial consider themselves the superiors of the titled aristocracy.
It was a slow proceeding bringing together those who were to be at the first table. The host and hostess moved about a long while seeking the highest worthies, but somehow they failed to come up to him.
Not far from the Emperor sat a couple of old spinsters, chatting, who had not the least expectation of being called up then. They were speaking of Linnart, son of the late Björn Hindrickson, saying it was well that he had come home in time for a reconciliation with his father.
Not that there had been any actual enmity between father and son, but it happened that some thirty years earlier, when the son was two and twenty and wanted to marry, he had asked the old man to let him take over the management of the farm, so that he could be his own master. This Björn had flatly refused to do. He wanted the son to stay at home and go on working under him and then to take over the property when the old man was no more. "No," was the son's answer. "I'll not stay at home and be your servant even though you are my father. I prefer to go out in the world and make a home for myself, for I must be as good a man as you are, or the feeling of comradeship between us will soon end." "That can end at any time, if you choose to go your own ways," Björn Hindrickson told him. Then the son had gone up into the wilderness northeast of Dove Lake, and had settled in the wildest and least populated region, where he broke ground for a farm of his own. His land lay in Bro parish, and he was never again seen in Svartsjö. Not in thirty years had his parents laid eyes on him. But a week ago, when old Björn was nearing the end, he had come home.
This was good news to Jan of Ruffluck. The Sunday before, when Katrina got back from church and told him that Björn was dying, he immediately asked whether the son had been sent for. But it seems he had not. Katrina had heard that Björn's wife had begged and implored the old man to let her send for their son and that he would not hear of it. He wanted to die in peace, he said.
But Jan was not satisfied to let the matter rest there. The thought of Linnart away out in the wilds, knowing nothing of his father's grave condition had caused him to disregard old Björn's wishes and go tell the son himself. He had heard nothing as to the outcome until now, and he was so interested in what the two old spinsters were saying, that he quite forgot to think about either the first or the second table.
When the son returned he and the father were as nice as could be to each other. The old man laughed at the son's attire. "So you've come in your working clothes," he said. "I suppose I should have dressed up, since it's Sunday," Linnart replied. "But we've had so much rain up our way this summer and I had thought of hauling in some oats to-day." "Did you manage to get in any?" the old man asked him. "I got one wagon loaded, but that I left standing in the field when word came that you were sick. I hurried away at once, without stopping to change my clothes." "Who told you about it?" the father inquired. "Some man I've never seen before," replied the son. "It didn't occur to me to ask him who he was. He looked like a little old beggarman." "You must find that man and thank him from me," old Björn then said. "Him you must honour wherever you meet him. He has meant well by us." The father and son were so happy over their reconciliation that it was as if death had brought them joy instead of grief.
Jan winced when he heard that Linnart Hindrickson had called him a beggar. But he understood of course that it was simply because he had not worn his imperial cap or carried his stick when he went up to the forest. This brought him back to his present dilemma. Surely he had waited long enough! He should have been called by this time. This would never do!
He rose at once, resolutely crossed the room into the hallway, climbed the stairs, and opened the door to the big dining-hall. He saw at a glance that the dinner was already on; every place at the large horseshoe table was occupied and the first course had been served. Then it was not meant that he should be among the elect, for there sat the pastor, the sexton, the lieutenant from Lövdala and his lady – there sat every one who should be there, except himself.
One of the young girls who passed around the food rushed over to Jan the instant he appeared in the doorway. "What are you doing here, Jan?" she said in a low voice. "Go down with you!"
"But my good hostess!" Jan protested, "Emperor Johannes of
Portugallia should be present at the first sitting."
"Oh, shut up, Jan!" said the girl. "This is not the proper time to come with your nonsense. Go down, and you'll get something to eat when your turn comes."
It so happened that Jan entertained a greater regard for this particular household than for any other in the parish; therefore it would have been very gratifying to him to be received here in a manner befitting his station. A strange feeling of despondency came over him as he stood down by the door, cap in hand; he felt that all his imperial grandeur was falling from him. Then, in the middle of this sore predicament, he heard Linnart Hindrickson exclaim:
"Why, there stands the fellow who came to me last Sunday and told me that father was sick!"
"What are you saying?" questioned the mother. "But are you certain as to that?"
"Of course I am. It can't be any one but he. I've seen him before to-day, but I didn't recognize him in that queer get-up. However I see now that he's the man."
"If he is our man, he mustn't be allowed to stand down by the door, like a beggar," said the old housewife. "In that case, we must make room for him at the table. Him we owe both honour and thanks, for it was he who sent comfort to Björn in his last hours, while to me he has brought the only consolation that can lighten my sorrow in the loss of a husband like mine."
And room was made, too, though the table seemed to be crowded enough already.
Jan was placed at the centre of the horseshoe, directly opposite the pastor. He could not have wished for anything better. At first he seemed a little dazed. He could not comprehend why they should make such fuss over him just because he had run a few miles into the woods with a message for Linnart Hindrickson. Suddenly he understood, and all became clear to him: it was the Emperor they wished to honour; they had gone about it in this way so that no one should feel slighted or put out. It couldn't be explained in any other way. For he had always been kind and good-natured and helpful, yet never before had he been honoured or fêted in the least degree for that.
THE DYING HEART
Engineer Boraeus on his daily stroll to the pier could not fail to notice the crowds that always gathered nowadays around the little old man from Ruffluck Croft. Jan did not have to sit all by himself any more and while away the long, dreary hours in silent musings, as he had done during the summer. Instead, all who waited for the boat went up to him to hear him tell what would happen on the homecoming of the Empress, more especially when she stepped ashore here, at the Borg landing. Every time Engineer Boraeus went by he heard about the crown of gold the Empress would wear on her hair and the gold flowers that would spring into bloom on tree and bush the instant she set foot on land.
One day, late in October, about three months after Jan of Ruffluck had first proclaimed the tidings of Glory Goldie's rise to royal honours, the engineer saw an uncommonly large gathering of people around the little old man. He intended to pass by with a curt greeting, as usual, but changed his mind and stopped to see what was going on.
At first glance he found nothing out of the ordinary, Jan was seated upon one of the waiting stones, as usual, looking very solemn and important. Beside him sat a tall, thin woman, who was talking so fast and excitedly that the words fairly spurted out of her mouth; she shook her head and snapped her eyes, her body bending forward all the while so that by the time she had finished speaking her face was on a level with the ground.
Engineer Boraeus immediately recognized the woman as Mad Ingeborg. At first he could not make out what she was saying, so he turned to a man in the crowd and asked him what all this was about.
"She's begging him to arrange for her to accompany the Empress to Portgallia, when Her Royal Highness returns thither," the man explained. "She has been talking to him about this for a good while now, but he won't make her any promises."
Then the engineer had no difficulty in following the colloquy. But what he heard did not please him, and, as he listened, the wrinkle between his eyebrows deepened and reddened.
Here sat the only person in the world, save Jan himself, who believed in the wonders of Portugallia, yet she was denied the pleasure of a trip there. The poor old soul knew that in that kingdom there was no poverty and no hunger, neither were there any rude people who made fun of unfortunates, nor any children who pursued lone, helpless wanderers and cast stones at them. In that land reigned only peace, and all years were good years. So thither she longed to be taken – away from the anguish and misery of her wretched existence. She wept and pleaded, employing every argument she could think of, but "No," and again "No" was the only answer she got.
And he who turned a deaf ear to her prayers was one who had sorrowed and yearned for a whole year. A few months ago, when his heart was still athrob with life, perhaps he would not have said no to her pleadings; but now at a time when everything seemed to be prospering with him, his heart had become hardened. Even the outward appearance of the man showed that a great change had taken place within. He had acquired plump cheeks, a double chin, and a heavy black moustache. His eyes bulged from their sockets, and there was a cold fixed stare about them. His nose, too, looked more prominent than of yore and had taken on a more patrician mold. His hair seemed to be entirely gone; not one hair stuck out from under the leather cap.
The engineer had kept an eye on the man from the day of their first talk in the summer. It was no longer an intense yearning that made Jan haunt the pier. Now he hardly glanced toward the boat. He came only to meet people who humoured his mania, who called him "Emperor" just for the sport of hearing him sing and narrate his wild fancies.
But why be annoyed at that? thought the engineer. The man was a lunatic of course. But perhaps the madness need never have become so firmly fixed as it was then. If some one had ruthlessly yanked Jan of Ruffluck down off his imperial throne in the beginning possibly he could have been saved.
The engineer flashed the man a challenging glance. Jan looked condescendingly regretful, but remained adamant as before.
In that fine land of Portugallia there were only princes and generals, to be sure – only richly dressed people. Mad Ingeborg in her old cotton headshawl and her knit jacket would naturally be out of place there. But Heavenly Father! the engineer actually thought —
Engineer Boraeus looked just then as if he would have liked to give Jan a needed lesson, but he only shrugged his shoulders. He knew he was not the right person for that, and would simply make bad worse. Quietly withdrawing from the crowd, he walked down to the end of the pier just as the boat hove into view from behind the nearest point.
DEPOSED
Long before his marriage to Anna Ericsdotter of Falla, Lars
Gunnarson happened one day to be present at an auction sale.
The parties who held the auction were poor folk who probably had no tempting wares to offer the bargain seekers, for the bidding had been slow, and the sales poor. They had a right to expect better results, with Jöns of Kisterud as auctioneer. Jöns was such a capital funmaker that people used to attend all auctions at which he officiated just for the pleasure of listening to him. Although he got off all his usual quips and jokes, he could not seem to infuse any life into the bidders on this occasion. At last, not knowing what else he could do, he put down his hammer saying he was too hoarse to do any more crying.
"The senator will have to get some one else to offer the wares," he told Carl Carlson of Stovik, who stood sponsor for the auction. "I've shouted myself hoarse at these stone images standing around me, and will have to go home and keep my mouth shut for a few weeks, till I can get back my voice."
It was a serious matter for the senator to be left without a crier, when most of the lots were still unsold; so he tried to persuade Jöns to continue. But it was plain that Jöns could not afford to hurt his professional standing by holding a poor auction, and therefore he became so hoarse all at once that he could not even speak in a whisper. He only wheezed.
"Perhaps there is some one here who will cry out the wares for a moment, while Jöns is resting?" said the senator, looking out over the crowd without much hope of finding a helper.
Then Lars Gunnarson pushed his way forward and said he was willing to try. Carl Carslon only laughed at Lars, who at that time looked like a mere stripling, and told him he did not want a small boy who had not even been confirmed. Whereupon Lars promptly informed Carl Carlson that he had not only been confirmed but had also performed military service. He begged so eagerly to be allowed to wield the hammer that the senator finally gave way to him.
"We may as well let you try your hand at it for a while," he said.
"I dare say it can't go any worse than it has gone so far."
Lars promptly stepped into Jöns's place. He took up an old butter tub to offer it – hesitated and just stood there looking at it, turning the tub up and down, tapping on its bottom and sides. Apparently surprised not to find any flaws in it, he presently offered the lot in a reluctant tone of voice, as if distressed at having to sell so valuable an article. For his part, he would rather that no bids be made, he said. It would be lucky for the owner if no one discovered what a precious butter tub this was, for then he could keep it.
And now, when bid followed bid, everybody noticed how disappointed Lars looked. It was all very well so long as the bids were so low as to be beneath his notice; but when they began to mount higher and higher, his face became distorted from chagrin. He seemed to be making a great sacrifice when he finally decided to knock down the sour old butter tub.
After that he turned his attention to the water buckets, the cowls, and washtubs. Lars Gunnarson seemed somewhat less reluctant when it came to disposing of the older ones, which he sold without indulging in overmuch sighing; but the newer lots he did not want to offer at all. "They are far too good to give away," he remarked to the owner. "They've been used so little that you could easily sell them for new at the fair."
The auction hunters had no notion as to why they kept shouting more and more eagerly. Lars Gunnarson showed much distress for every fresh bid; it could never have been to please him they were bidding. Somehow they had come to regard the things he offered as of real worth. It suddenly occurred to them that one thing or another was needed at home and here were veritable bargains, which they were not buying now just for the fun of it, as had been the case when Jöns of Kisterud did the auctioning.
After this master stroke Lars Gunnarson was in great demand at all auctions. There was never any merriment at the sales after he had begun to wield the hammer; but he had the faculty of making folks long to get possession of a lot of old junk and inducing a couple of bigwigs to bid against each other on things they had no earthly use for, simply to show that money was no object to them. And he managed to dispose of everything at all auctions at which he served.
Once only did it seem to go badly for Lars, and that was at Sven Österby's, at Bergvik. There was a fine big house, with all its furnishings up for sale. Many people had assembled, and though late in the autumn the weather was so mild that the auction could be held out of doors; yet the sales were almost negligible. Lars could not make the people take any interest in the wares, or get them to bid. It looked as though it would go no better for him than it had gone for Jöns of Kisterud the day Lars had to take up the hammer to help him out.
Lars Gunnarson, however, had no desire to turn his work over to another. He tried instead to find out what it was that seemed to be distracting the attention of the people and keeping them from making purchases. Nor was he long getting at the cause of it.
Lars had mounted a table, that every one might see what he had to offer, and from this point of vantage he soon discovered that the newly created emperor, who lived in the little hut close to Falla and had been a day labourer all his life, moved about in the crowd. Lars saw him bowing and smiling to right and left, and letting people examine his stars and his stick, and, at every turn, he had a long line of youngsters at his heels. Nor were older folks above bandying words with him. No wonder the auction went badly, with a grand monarch like him there to draw every one's attention to himself!
At first Lars went right on with his auctioneering, but he kept an eye on Jan of Ruffluck until the later had made his way to the front. There was no fear of Johannes of Portugallia remaining in the background! He shook hands with everybody and spoke a few pleasant words to each and all, at the same time pushing ahead until he had reached the very centre of the ring.
But the moment Jan was there Lars Gunnarsom jumped down from the table, rushed up to him, snatched his imperial cap and stick and was back in his place before Jan had time to think of offering resistance.
Then Jan cried out and tried to climb up onto the table to get back the stolen heirlooms, but immediately Lars raised the stick to him and forced him back. At that there was a murmur of disapproval from the crowd, which, however, had no effect upon Lars.
"I see that you are surprised at my action," he shouted in his loud auctioneering voice, which could be heard all over the yard. "But this cap and this stick belong to us Falla folk. They were bequeathed to my father-in-law, Eric Ersa, by the old master of Falla, he who ran the farm before Eric took it over. These things have always been treasured in the family, and I can't tolerate having a lunatic parade around in them."
Jan had suddenly recovered his composure and while Lars was speaking, he stood with his arms crossed on his chest a look in his face of sublime indifference to Lars's talk. As soon as Lars subsided, Jan, with a gesture of command, turned to the crowd, and said very quietly:
"Now, my good Courtiers, you must see that I get back my property."
Not a solitary person made a move to help him, but there were some who laughed. Now they had all gone over to Lars's side. There was just one individual who seemed to feel sorry for Jan. A woman cried out to the auctioneer:
"Ah, Lars, let him keep his royal trumpery! The cap and stick are of no use to you."
"I'll give him one of my own caps, when I get home," returned Lars. "But I'll be hanged if I let him go about any longer with these heirlooms, making of them a target for jests!"
This was followed by loud laughs from the crowd, Jan was so dumfounded that all he could do was to stand still and look at the people. He glanced from one to another, unable to get over his amazement. Dear, dear! Was there no one among all those who had honoured and applauded him who would help him now, in his hour of need? The people stood there, unmoved. He saw then that he meant nothing to them and that they would not lift a finger for him. He became so frightened that all his imperial greatness fell from him, and he was like a little child that is ready to cry because its playthings have been taken away.
Lars Gunnarson turned to the huge pile of wares stacked beside him, prepared to go on with the auction. Then Jan attempted to do something himself. Wailing and protesting, he went up to the table where Lars stood, quickly bent down and tried to overturn it. But Lars was too alert for him; with a swing of the imperial stick, he dealt Jan a blow across his back that sent him reeling.