Section 1 of the Story of Jösta Bärling This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Lars Rolander The Story of Jösta Bärling by Selma Lagerlöf, translated from the Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Flack. Introduction, Part 1, The Priest At last the minister stood in the pulpit, the heads of the congregation were lifted. Well, there he finally was. There would be no default this Sunday, as on the last and on many other Sundays before. The minister was young, tall, slender, and strikingly handsome. With a helmet on his head and a gert with sword and shirt of mail, he could have been cut in marble and taken for an idol of Grecian beauty. He had a poet's deep eyes and a general's firm grounded chin.  The people in the church felt themselves strangely subdued to see him so. They were more used to see him come reeling out of the public house with his good friends, Birrenkreuz, the Colonel, with his thick white moustaches, and the stalwart Captain Krisham Berge. He had drunk so deeply that he had not been able to attend to his duties for many weeks, and the congregation had been obliged to complain. First to the dean, and then to the bishop and the chapters. Now the bishop had come to the parish to make a strict inquiry. He sat in the choir with the gold cross on his breast. The clergymen of the neighboring parishes sat round about him. There was no doubt that the minister's conduct had gone beyond the permissible limit. At that time, in the twenties, much in the matter of drinking was overlooked. But this man had asserted his post for the sake of drink, and now must lose it. He stood in the pulpit and waited while the last verse of the psalm was sung. A feeling came over him as he stood there, that he had only enemies in the church, enemies in all the seats. Among the gentry in the pews, among the peasants in the father's seats, among the little boys in the choir, he had enemies, none but enemies. It was an enemy who worked the organ bellows, an enemy who played. In the church warden's pews he had enemies. All hated him every one, from the children in arms who were carried into the church to the sexton, a formal and stiff old soldier who had been at Leipzig. He longed to throw himself on his knees and to beg for mercy. But a moment after, a dull rage came over him. He remembered well what he had been when a year ago he first stood in this pulpit. He was then a blameless man, and now he stood there and looked down on the man with a gold cross on his breast, who had come to pass sentence on him. While he read the introduction, wave after wave of blood surged up in his face, it was rage. It was true enough that he had drunk, but who had a right to blame him for that? Had they seen the vicarage where he had to live? Pine forests grew dark and gloomy, close up to his windows. The dampness dripped from the black roofs and ran down the moldy walls. It was not brandy needed to keep the spirits up when rain and driving snows streamed in through the broken paints, when the neglected earth would not give bread enough to keep hunger away. He thought that he was just such a minister as they deserved, for they all drank. Why should he alone control himself? The man who had buried his wife got drunk at the funeral feast. The father who had baptized his child had a carouse afterwards. The congregation drank on the way back from church, so that most of them were drunk when they reached home. A drunken priest was good enough for them. It was on his pastoral visits when he drove in this thin cloak of a miles of frozen seas, where all the icy winds met. It was when his boat was tossed about on these same seas in storm of pouring rain. It was when he must climb out of his sledge in blinding snow to clear the way for his horse through drifts high as houses. Or when he waded through the forest swamps, it was then that he learned to love Brandy. The year had dragged itself out in heavy gloom. Peasant and master had passed their days with their thoughts on the soil. But at evening their spirits cast off their jokes, freed by Brandy. Inspiration came, the heart grew warm, life became glowing, the song rang out, roses shed their perfume, the public house bar room seemed to him a tropical garden. Grapes and olives hung down over his head, marbles statues shown among dark leaves, songsters and poets wandered under the palms and plain trees. No, he the priest up there in the pulpit knew that without Brandy life could not be born in this end of the world. All his congregation knew that, and yet they wished to judge him. They wished to tear his vestments from him because he had come drunken into God's house. Oh, all these people, had they believed, did they want to believe that they had any other God than Brandy? He had finished the exorgum, and he kneeled to say the Lord's prayer. There was a breathless silence in the church during the prayer. But suddenly the minister with both hands caught hold of the ribbons which held his supplies. It seemed to him as if the whole congregation with the bishop at the head were stealing up the pulpit steps to take his bands from him. He was kneeling, and his head was turned away, but he could feel how they were dragging, and he saw them so plainly. The bishop and the deans, the clergymen, the church wardens, the sexton, and the whole assemblage in a long line, tearing and straining to get his supplies off. And he could picture to himself how all these people who were dragging so eagerly would fall over one another down the steps when the bands came away, and the whole row of them below, who had not got up as far as escaped, but only to the skirts of his coat, would also fall. He saw it all so plainly that he had to smile as he knelt, but at the same time a cold sweet broke out on his forehead. The whole thing was too horrible, that he should now become a dishonoured man for the sake of Brandy, a clergyman dismissed. Was there anything on God's earth more wretched? He should be one of the beggars at the roadside, lie drunk at the edge of a ditch, go dressed in rags with vagrants for companions. The prayer was ended. He should read his sermon. Then a thought came to him and checked the words on his lips. He thought that it was the last time he should stand in the pulpit and proclaim the glory of God. For the last time that took hold of him. He forgot the Brandy and the bishop. He thought that he must use the chance and testify to the glory of God. He thought that the floor of the church with all his hairers sank deep, deep down, and the roof was lifted off so that he saw far into the sky. He stood alone, quite alone in his pulpit. His spirit took its flight to the heavens, opened above him. His voice became strong and powerful and he proclaimed the glory of God. He was inspired. He left what he had written. Thoughts came to him like a flock of tame doves. He felt as if it were not he who spoke, but he felt too that it was the best earth had to give and that no one could reach a greater height of brilliancy and splendor than he who stood there and proclaimed the glory of God. As long as the flame of inspiration burned in him, he continued to speak. But when it died out and the roof sank down over the church and the floor came up again from far, far below, he bowed his head and wept. For he thought that the best of life for him was now over. After the service came the inspection and the vestry meeting. The bishop asked if the congregation had any complaints to make against their clergymen. The minister was no longer angry and defiant as before the sermon. Now he was ashamed and hung his head. Oh, all the miserable brandy stories which were coming now. But none came. There was a deep silence about the long table in the parish hall. The minister looked first at the sexton. No, he was silent. Then at the church wardens. Then at the powerful pestons and mine owners. They were all silent. They sat with their lips pressed close together and looked embarrassed down on the table. They are waiting for somebody to begin, thought the minister. One of the church wardens cleared his throat. I think we've got a fine minister, he said. Your reverences heard how he preaches interrupted the sexton. The bishop spoke of repeated absences. The minister has the right to be ill as well as another was the peasant's opinion. The bishop hinted at the dissatisfaction with the minister's mode of life. They defended him with one voice. He was so young, their minister, there was nothing wrong with him. No, if he would only always preach as he had done today, they would not exchange him for the bishop himself. There were no accusers. There could be no judge. The minister felt how his heart swelled and how swiftly the blood flew through his veins. Could it be that he was no longer among enemies, that he had won them over when he had least thought of it, that he should still be their priest? After the inspection, the bishop and the clergyman of the neighborhood and the deans and the chief men of the parish dined at the vicarage. The wife of one of the neighbors had taken charge of the dinner, for the minister was not married. She had arranged it all so well that it made him open his eyes, for the vicarage was not so dreadful. The long dining table was spread out under the pines and shone with its white cloth, with its blue and white china, its glittering glass and folded napkins. Two birches bent over the door. The floor of the entry was strewn with rushes. A wreath of flowers hung from the rafters. There were flowers in all rooms. The moldy smell was gone. And the green window paints shone bravely in the sunshine. He was glad to the bottom of his heart, the minister. He thought that he would never drink again. There was not one who was not glad at that dinner table. Those who had been generous and had forgiven were glad, and the priests in authority were glad because they had escaped a scandal. The good bishop raised his glass and said that he had started on this journey with a heavy heart, for he had heard many evil rumors. He had gone forth to meet Saul, but lo! Saul was already changed to a Paul who should accomplish more than any of them. And the worthy man spoke of the rich gifts which their young brother possessed and praised them. Not that he should be proud, but that he should strain every nerve and keep a close watch over himself, as he must do who bears an exceedingly heavy and costly burden on his shoulders. The minister was not drunk at that dinner, but he was intoxicated. All this great unlooked-for happiness went to his head. Heaven had let the flame of inspiration burn in him, and these people had given him their love. His blood was at fever-heat, and a raging speed rushed through his veins still when the evening came and his guests departed. Far into the night he sat awake in his room and at the night air streaming through the open window to cool this fever of happiness, this pleasant restlessness which would not let him sleep. He heard a voice, ''Are you awake?'' A man came over the lawn up to the window. The minister looked out and recognized Captain Christian Berg, one of his trusty boon companions. He was a wayfarer without house or land, this Captain Barry, and a giant in stature and strength.  ''Of course I'm up, Captain Christian,'' answered the minister. ''Do you think I could sleep tonight?'' And hear now what this Captain Barry says to him. The giant had guessed he had understood that the minister would now be afraid to drink. He would never have any peace, thought Captain Christian. For those priests from Karlstad who had been here once could come again and take his supplies from him if he drank. But now Captain Christian had put his heavy hand to the good word. Now he had arranged that those priests never should come again, neither they nor the bishop. Henceforth the minister and his friends could drink as much as they liked at the vicarage.  When the bishop and the two deans had climbed into their closed carriage and the doors had been shut tight on them, then he had mounted on the box and driven them ten miles or so in the light summer night. And then had Christian Barry taught the Reverend Gentleman how loose life sits in the human body. He had let the horses run at the maddest pace. That was because they would not let an honorable man get drunk in peace. Do you suppose he followed the road with them? Do you believe he saved them from jolts? He drove over ditches and plowed fields. He drove in a dizzy gallop down the hills. He drove along the water's edge till the waves covered the wheels. He almost stuck in a bog. He drove down over bare rocks where the horses slid with legs held stiff. And all the time the bishop and the priests sat with blanched faces behind the leather curtains and murmured prayers. It was the worst journey they had ever made. And think how they must have looked when they came to resetters in, living but shaken like shot in a leather pouch. What does this mean, Captain Christian, says the bishop, as he opens the door for them? It means that you shall think twice, Bishop, before you make a new journey of inspection to just a burling, says Captain Christian. And he had thought that sentence well out beforehand, so as not to get it wrong. Tell just a burling, says the bishop, that to him neither I nor any other bishop will ever come again. This exploit the mighty Captain Christian stands and relates at the open window in the summer night, for Captain Christian has only just left the horses at the inn and has come directly to the minister with his news. Now you can be at rest, comrade, he says. Ah, Captain Christian! The clergyman sat with pale faces behind the leather curtains, but the priest at the window looks in the bright summer night far, far paler. Ah, Captain Christian!  He shut the window with a bang and stood in the middle of the room, shaking his clenched fist on high. He in whom the fire of inspiration had flamed, he who had been able to proclaim the glory of God, stood there and thought that God had made a fool of him. Would not the bishop believe that Captain Christian had been sent by the minister? Would he not believe that he had dissembled and lied the whole day? Now he would investigate everything about him in earnest. Now he would suspend him and dismiss him. When the dawn broke, the minister was far from his home. He did not care to stay and defend himself. God had mocked at him. God would not help him. He knew that he would be dismissed. God would have it. He might as well go at once. All this happened in the beginning of the 20s, in a far away parish in western Bermland. It was the first misfortune which befell Yostabaaling. It was not the last. For cults who cannot bear spur or weeps find life hard. For every pain which comes to them, they bolt down wild ways to joining chasms.  End of section one of the story of Yostabaaling by Selmalagelo. Red by Lars Rolander. Section two of the story of Yostabaaling. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org reading by Lars Rolander. The story of Yostabaaling by Selmalagelo, translated from the Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Fluck. Introduction part two, The beggar. One cold December day, a beggar came wandering up the slopes of Ruby. He was dressed in the most miserable rags and his shoes were so worn that the cold snow wet his feet. Löven is a long narrow lake in Wärmland, intersected in several places by long narrow sounds. In the north it stretches up to the Finn forests, in the south down to the lake Vienna. There are many parishes along its shores, but the parish of Bru is the largest and richest. It takes up a large part of the lake's shores, both on the east and west sides, but on the west side are the largest estates, such as Ekeby and Björne, known far and wide for wealth and beauty, and Ruby with its large village and inn, courthouse, sheriff quarters, vicarage, and marketplace. Ruby lies on a steep slope. The beggar had come past the inn, which lies at the foot of the hill and was struggling up towards the parsonage, which lies at the top.   The beggar caught up with the child and began to talk to her. A little horse for such a heavy load, he said. The child turned and looked at him. She was a little creature, about twelve years old, with sharp suspicious eyes and lips pressed together. Would to God the horse was smaller and the load larger, it might last longer, answered the girl. Is it then your own food you are dragging home? By God's grace it is. I have to get my own food, although I am so little. The beggar seized the sledge rope to drag it up. The girl turned and looked at him. You needn't think that you will get anything for this, she said. The beggar laughed. You must be the daughter of the Brubic Lurgeman. Yes, yes, I am indeed. Many have poorer fathers, but none have worse. That's the Lord's truth, although it's a shame that his own child should have to say it. I hear his mean and ill-natured your father. Mean he is and ill-natured he is. But they say his daughter will be worse if she lives so long. That's what people say. I fancy people are right. What I would like to know is where you found this meal bag. It makes no different if I tell you. I took the grain out of Father's storehouse this morning, and now I have been to the mill. May he not see you when you come dragging it behind you? You have left school too early. Father is away on his parish visits. Can't you see? Somebody is driving up the hill behind us. I hear the creaking of the runners. Think if it were, he was coming. The girl listened and peered down. Then she burst into tears. It is Father, she sobbed.  Yes, good advice is now precious, and prompt advice better than silver and gold, said the beggar. Look here, said the child. You can help me. Take the rope and drag the sledge. Then Father will believe it's yours. What shall I do with it afterwards? Ask the beggar, and put the rope round his shoulders. Take it where you like for the moment, but come up to the parsonage with it when it is dark. I shall be looking out for you.  I shall try. God help you if you don't come, while she ran hurrying to get home before her father. The beggar turned the sledge with a heavy heart and dragged it down to the inn. The poor fellow had his dream as he went in the snow with half-naked feet. He had thought of the great woods north of Lake Leuven, of the great fin forests, here in the parish of Breaux, where he was now wandering along the sound which connects the upper and lower Leuven in this rich and smiling country where one estate joins another. Factory lies near factory. Here all the roads seem to him too heavy, the rooms too small, the beds too hard. Here he longed for the peace of the great eternal forests. Here he heard the blows echoing in all the barns as they threshed out the grain. Loads of timber and charcoal vans kept coming down from the inexhaustible forests. Endless loads of metal followed the deep bruts which the hundreds gone before had cut. His sauce-lays filled with travellers speed from house to house, and it seemed to him as if pleasure held the reins, and beauty and love stood on the runners. Oh, how he longed for the peace of the forest! There the trees rise straight and pillow-like from the even ground. There the snow rests in heavy layers on the motionless pines. There the wind is powerless and only plays softly in the topmost leaves. There he would wander deeper and still farther in, until at last his strength would fail him, and he would drop under the great trees, dying of hunger and cold. He longed for the great murmuring grave above the loven, where he would be overcome by the powers of annihilation, where at last hunger, cold, fatigu, and brandy should succeed in destroying his poor body which had endured everything. He came down to the inn to awake the evening. He went into the bar room and threw himself down on the bench by the door, dreaming of the eternal forests. The innkeeper's wife felt sorry for him and gave him a glass of brandy. She even gave him another. He implored her so eagerly. But more she would not give him, and the beggar was in despair. He must have more of the strong, sweet brandy. He must once again feel his heart dance in his body and his thoughts flame up in his intoxication. Oh, that sweet spirit of the corn! The summer sun, the song of the birds, perfume and beauty floated in its white wave. Once more before he disappears into the night and the darkness, let him drink sunshine and happiness. So he embarked first the meal, sack, and last the sledge for brandy. On it he got thoroughly drunk and slept the greater part of the afternoon on a bench in the bar room. When he awoke, he understood that there was left for him only one thing to do. Since his miserable body had taken possession of his soul, since he had been capable of drinking up what a child had confided to him, since he was a disgrace to the earth, he must free it of the burden of such wretchedness. He must give his soul its liberty, let it go to its god. He lay on the bench in the bar room and passed sentence on himself. Just a burling, dismissed priest accused of having drunk up the food of a hungry child is condemned to death. What death? Death in the snowdrifts. He seized his cup and reeled out. He was neither quite awake nor quite sober. He wept in pity for himself for his poor soiled soul which he must set free. He did not go far and did not turn from the road. At the very roadside lay a deep drift and there he threw himself down to die. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. No one knows how long he lay there, but there was still life in him when the daughter of the minister of Bruby came running along the road with a lantern in her hand and found him in the drift by the roadside. She had stood for hours and waited for him. Now she had run down Bruby Hill to look for him. She recognized him instantly and she began to shake him and to scream with all her might to get him awake. She must know what he had done with her meal bag. She must call him back to life at least for so long a time that he could tell her what had become of her sledge and her meal bag. Her father would kill her if she had lost his sledge. She bit the beggar's finger and scratched his face and at the same time she screamed madly. Then someone came driving along the road. Who the devil is screaming so? asked a harsh voice.   The traveller was a large and coarse woman. She got out of the sleigh and came over to the drift. She took the child by the back of the neck and threw her on one side. Then she leaned over, thrust her arms under the beggar's body and lifted him up. Then she carried him to the sleigh and laid him in it. Come with me to the in-wildcat she called to the child that we may hear what you know of all this. An hour later the beggar sat on a chair by the door in the best room of the inn and in front of him stood the powerful woman who rescued him from the drift. Just as just a bearling now saw her on her way home from the charcoal kilns with sooty hands and a clay pipe in her mouth dressed in a short unlined sheepskin jacket and striped home-spun skirt with tarred shoes on her feet and a sheath-knife in her bosom. As he saw her with grey hair combed back from an old, beautiful face so had he heard her described a thousand times and he knew that he had come across the far-famed, major's wife of Ihegebü. She was the most influential woman in all Varmland mistress of seven ironworks, accustomed to command and to be obeyed and he was only a poor, condemned man stripped of everything knowing that every road was too heavy for him and every room too crowded. His body shook with terror while her glance rested on him. She stood silent and looked at the human wretchedness before her, the red swollen hands, the amassiated form and the splendid head which even in its ruin and neglect shone in wild beauty. You are just a bearling, the mad priest! she said, peering at him. The beggar sat motionless. I am the mistress of Ihegebü. A shudder passed over the beggar's body. He clasped his hands and raised his eyes with a longing glance. What would she do with him? Would she force him to live? He shook before her strength and yet he had so nearly reached the peace of the eternal forests. She began the struggle by telling him the minister's daughter had got her sledge and her meal sack again and that she, the major's wife, had a shelter for him as for so many other homeless wretches in the bachelor's wing at Ihegebü.  Then she struck the table with her clenched fist and let him hear what she thought of him.  That's what you want. That would not surprise me if you were alive. Look, such a wasted body in such powerless limbs and such dull eyes and you think that there is something left of you to die?   I see that you have a skull for a head and it seems to me as if the worms were creeping out of the sockets of your eyes.  Do you not hear how your bones rattle when you move? You have drowned yourself in brandy, just a bailing, and you are dead.  It is just as if you grudge the dead and dance over the graves in the starlight.  It would have been more to your honor had you made use of your gifts and been of some use on God's green earth, I tell you. Why did you not come directly to me? I should have arranged everything for you. Yes, now you expect much glory from being wrapped in a winding sheet and laid on so dust and called a beautiful corpse. The beggar sat calm, almost smiling, while she thundered out her angry words. There was no danger. He rejoiced, no danger. Eternal forests wait, and she has no power to turn thy soul from them. But the major's wife was silent and walked a couple of times up and down the room. Then she took a seat before the fire, put her feet on the fender, and leaned her elbows on her knees. Thousand devils, she said and laughed softly to herself. It is truer what I am saying than I myself thought.  Do you think that I am alive? No, no, indeed. Yes, look at me. I am the mistress of Ekbü and I am the most powerful in Wärmland. If I wave one finger, the governor comes. If I wave with two, the bishop comes. And if I wave with three, all the chapter and the alderman and my owners in Wärmland dance to my music in Karlstad's marketplace. Thousand devils, boy, I tell you that I am only a dressed-up corpse. God knows how little life there is in me. The beggar leaned forward on his chair and listened with strained attention. The old woman sat and rocked before the fire. She did not look at him while she talked. Don't you know, she continued, that if I were a living being and saw you sitting there wretched and deplorable with suicidal thoughts, don't you believe that I should take them out of you in a second? I should have tears for you and prayers which would turn you upside down, and I should save your soul. But now I am dead. Have you heard that I once was the beautiful Margarita Selsing? That was not yesterday, but I can still sit and weep my old eyes red for her. Why shall Margarita Selsing be dead and Margarita Samcilius live? Why shall the major's wife at Ekeby live? Tell me that, Justavailing. Do you know what Margarita Selsing was like? She was slender and delicate and modest and innocent, Justavailing. She was one over whose grave angels weep. She knew nothing of evil no one had ever given her pain. She was good to all and she was beautiful, really beautiful. There was a man, his name was Ultringer. God knows how he happened to be travelling up there in Elvdahl Wilderness where her parents had their ironworks. Margarita Selsing saw him. He was a handsome man and she loved him. But he was poor and they agreed to wait for one another five years as it is in the legend. When three years had passed another suitor came. He was ugly and bad but her parents believed that he was rich. And they forced Margarita Selsing by fair means and foul by blows and hard words to take him for her husband. And that day you see Margarita Selsing died. After that there was no Margarita Selsing only made her some serious wife and she was not good nor modest. She believed in much evil and never thought of the good. You know well enough what happened afterwards. We lived at Shoe by the Lake Lervon, the major and I but he was not rich as people had said. I often had hard days. Then Ultringer came again and now he was rich. He became master of Ikebu which lies next to Shoe. He made himself master of six other estates by Lake Lervon. He was able, thrifty, he was a man of mark. He helped us in our poverty. We drew in his carriages. He sent food to our kitchen, wine to our cellar. He filled my life with feasting and pleasure. The major went off to the wars but what did we care for that? One day I was guest at Ikebu the next he came to Shoe. Oh, it was like a long dance of delight on Lervon's shores. But there was evil talk of Ultringer and me. If Margarita Selsing had been living it would have given her much pain but it made no difference to me. But as yet I did not understand that it was because I was dead that I had no feeling. At last the tales of us reached my father and mother as they went among the charcoal kilns up in Elvdahl's forest. My mother did not stop to think. She travelled hither to talk to me. One day when the major was away and I set dining with Ultringer and several others she arrived. I saw her come into the room but I could not feel that she was my mother just abiding. I greeted her as a stranger and invited her to sit down at my table and take part in the meal. She wished to talk with me as if I had been her daughter but I said to her that she was mistaken. That my parents were dead they had both died on my wedding day. Then she agreed to the comedy. She was 60 years old 120 miles had she driven in three days. Now she sat without ceremony at the dinner table and ate her food. She was a strong and capable woman. She said that it was very sad that I had had such a loss just on that day. The saddest thing was I said that my parents did not die a day sooner. Then the wedding would never have taken place. Is not the gracious lady pleased with her marriage? She then asked, Oh yes, said I. I am pleased. I shall always be pleased to obey my dear parents' wish. She asked if it had been my parents' wish that I should heave shame upon myself and them and deceive my husband. I did my parents little honour by making myself a byword in every man's mouth. They must lie as they have made their bed, I answered her. And moreover, I wished her to understand that I did not intend to allow anyone to culminate my parents' daughter. We ate we too, the men about us had silent and could not lift knife nor fork. She stayed a day to rest, then she went. But all the time I saw her, I could not understand that she was my mother. She knew that my mother was dead. When she was ready to leave Yasta Valley and I stood beside her on the steps and the carriage was before the door she said to me, Twenty-four hours have I been here without your greeting me as your mother. By lonely roads I came here. A hundred and twenty miles in three days. And for shame for you my body's trembling as if it had been beaten with rods. May you be disowned as I have been disowned, repudiated as I have been repudiated. May the highway be your home, the haystack your bed, the charcoal kiln your stove. May shame and dishonour be your reward. May others strike you as I strike you. And she gave me a heavy blow on the cheek. But I lifted her up, carried her down the steps and put her in her carriage. Who are you that you curse me, I asked? Who are you that you strike me? That I will suffer from no one. And I gave her the blow again. The carriage drove away, but then at that moment Yasta Bailing I knew that Margarita Selsing was dead. She was good and innocent. She knew no evil. Angels had wept at her grave. If she had lived she would not have struck her mother. The beggar by the door had listened and the words for a moment had drowned the sound of the eternal forests alluring murmur. For see this great lady, she made herself his equal in sin, his sister in perdition, to give him courage to live. For he should learn that sorrow and wrongdoing weighed down other heads than his. He rose and went over to the major's wife. Will you live now, Yasta Bailing? She asked with a voice which broke with tears.  You could have been such a good priest, but it was never Yasta Bailing whom you drowned in brandy. He as gleamingly innocent white as that Margarita Selsing I suffocated in hate. Will you live? Yasta fell on his knees before her. Forgive me, he said. I cannot. I am an old woman hardened by much sorrow. Answered the major's wife. And I sit here and give myself as a prize to a beggar whom I have found half frozen in a snowdrift by the roadside. It serves me right.  Then at least he won't be able to tell of my folly. I am no suicide. I am condemned to die. Do not make the struggle too hard for me. I may not live. My body is taken possession of my soul. Therefore I must let it escape and go to God. And so you believe you will get there. Farewell and thank you. Farewell, Yasta Bailing. The beggar rose and walked with hanging head and dragging step to the door. This woman made the way up to the great forests heavy for him. When he came to the door he had to look back. Then he met her glance as she sat still and looked after him. He had never seen such a change in any face and he stood and stared at her. She who had just been angry and threatening sat transfigured and her eyes shown with a pitting, compassionate love. There was something in him in his own wild heart which burst before that glance. He leaned his forehead against the doorpost, stretched his arms up over his head and wept as if his heart would break. The major's wife tossed her clay pipe into the fire and came over to Yasta. Her movements were as tender as her mother's. There, there my boy. And she got him down beside her on the bench by the door so that he wept with his head on her knees. Will you still die? Then he wished to rush away. She had to hold him back by force. Now I tell you that you may do as you please. But I promise you that if you will live I will take to me the daughter of the brooby minister and make a human being of her so that she can thank her god that you stole her meal. Now will you? He raised his head and looked her right in the eyes. Do you mean it? I do, Yasta Barling. Then he wrung his hands in anguish. He saw before him the peering eyes, the compressed lips, the wasted little hands. This young creature would get protection and care and the marks of degradation be faced from her body, anger from her soul. Now the way up to the eternal forest was close to him. I shall not kill myself as long as she is under your care, he said. I knew well enough that you would force me to live. I felt that you were stronger than I. Yasta Barling, she said solemnly, I have fought for you as for myself. I said to God, if there is anything of Margarita Selsing living in me, let her come forward and show herself so that this man may not go and kill himself. And he granted it, and you saw her, and therefore you could not go. And she whispered to me that for that poor child's sake you would give up your plan of dying. Ah, you fly, you wild birds, but our Lord knows the net which will catch you. He is a great and wonderful God, said Yasta Barling.  May his will be done. From that day Yasta Barling became a guest at Ikeby. Twice he tried to leave and make himself a way to live by his own work. The first time the major's wife gave him a cottage near Ikeby. He moved thither and meant to live as a labourer. This succeeded for a while, but he soon wearied of the loneliness and the daily labour, and again returned as a guest. There was another time when he became tutor at Bory for Count Henry Dona. During this time he fell in love with the young Eva Dona, the Count's sister. But when she died, just as he thought he had nearly won her, he gave up every thought of being anything but guest at Ikeby. It seemed to him that for a dismissed priest all ways to make amends were closed. End of section 2 of the story of Yasta Barling, read by Lars Rolander. Section 3 of the story of Yasta Barling. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, reading by Lars Rolander. The story of Yasta Barling by Selma Lagerlöf, translated from the Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Flak. Part 1, chapter 1, The Landscape. I must now describe the Long Lake, the rich plains and the blue mountains, since they were the scene where Yasta Barling and the other knights of Ikeby passed their joyous existence. The lake has its sources far up in the north, and it is a perfect country for a lake. The forest and the mountains never cease to collect water for it. Privilege and brook stream into it the whole year round. It has fine white sand to stretch itself over, headlands and islands to mirror and to look at. River sprites and sea nymphs have free playroom there, and it quickly grows large and beautiful. There in the north it is smiling and friendly.  It plays first for a while, creeps softly, softly out of its light covering, so magically beautiful that one can hardly recognize it. But then it casts from it suddenly the whole covering and lies there bare and uncovered and rosy, shining in the morning light. But the lake is not content with this life of play. It draws itself together to a narrow strait, breaks its way out through the sand hills to the south and seeks out a new kingdom for itself. And such a one it also finds. It gets larger and more powerful, has bottomless depths to fill, and a busy landscape to adorn. And now its water is darker. Its shore's less varying. Its wine's sharper. Its whole character more severe. It has become a stately and magnificent lake. Many other ships and the rafts of timber which pass there. Late in the year it finds time to take its winter rest rarely before Christmas. Often is it in pivish mood when it grows white with breath and drags down sailing boats. But it can also lie in a dreamy calm and reflect the heavens. But still farther out into the world with the lake go, although the mountains become bolder and space narrower. Still farther down it comes so that it once again must creep as a narrow strait between sandbound shores. Then it broadens out for the third time but no longer with the same beauty and might. The shore sink down and become tame. Gently winds blow. The lake takes its winter rest early. It is still beautiful but it has lost youth's diddiness and manhood's strength. It is now a lake like any other. With two arms it gropes after a way to Lake Vernon and when that is found it throws itself with the feebleness of old age over the slopes and goes with the last thundering leap to rest. The plain is as long as the lake but it has no easy time to find a place between sea and mountain. All the way from the valley of the basin at the lake's northern end where it first dares to spread itself out till it lays itself to easy rest by the Vernon's shore. There is no doubt that the plain would rather follow the shore of the lake long as it is but the mountains give it no peace. The mountains are mighty granite walls covered with woods full of cliffs difficult to cross rich in moss and diction. In those old days the home of many wild things. On the far-stretching ridges one often comes upon a wet swamp or a pool with dark water. Here and there is a charcoal kiln or an open patch where timber and wood have been cut or a burnt clearing and these all bear witness that there is work going on on the mountains but as a rule they lie in careless peace and amuse themselves with watching the lights and shadows play over their slopes and with these mountains the plain which is peaceful and rich and loves work wages a perpetual war in a friendly spirit however. It is quite enough says the plain to the mountains if you set up your walls about me that is safety enough for me but the mountains will not listen. They send out long rows of hills and barren table-lands way down to the lake. They raise great lookout towers on every promontory and leave the shores of the lake so seldom that the plain can but rarely stretch itself out by the soft broad sands but it does not help to complain. You ought to be glad that we stand here the mountains say. Think of that time before Christmas when the icy fogs day after day rolled up from the looven we do your good service.  You are so stupid! answer the mountains if you could only feel how it is blowing down here by the lake one needs at least a granite bag and a fir tree jacket to withstand it and besides you can be glad to have us to look at. Yes, looking at the mountains that is just what the plain is doing. It knows so well all the wonderful shiftings of light and shade which pass over them. It knows how they sink down in the noonday heat towards the horizon low and a dim light blue and in the morning or evening light raise their venerable heights clear blue as the sky at noon. Sometimes the light falls so sharply over them that they look green or dark blue and every separate fir tree each path and cliff is visible miles away. There are places where the mountains throw back and allow the plain to come forward and gaze at the lake but when it sees the lake in its anger hissing and spitting like a wildcat or sees it covered with that cold mist which happens when the sea sprite is busy with brewing or washing then it agrees that the mountains were right and draws back to its narrow prison again. Men have cultivated the beautiful plain time out of mind and have built much there. Wherever a stream in white foaming falls throw itself down the slope rose up factories and mills. On the bright open places where the plain came down to the lake churches and vicarages were built but on the edges of the valley halfway up the slope on stormy grounds where grain would not grow like farmhouses and officers' quarters and here and there a manor. Still in the 20s this district was not nearly so much cultivated as now. Many were the woods and lakes and swamps which now can be tilled. There were not so many people either and they earned their living partly partying and day labour at the many factories partly by working at neighbouring places. Agriculture could not feed them. At that time they went dressed in homespun ate oat cakes and were satisfied with a wage of ten cents a day. Many were in great want but life was often made easier for them by a light and glad temper and inborn handiness and capability. And all those three the long lake, the rich plain and the blue mountains made the most beautiful scenery and still do just as the people are still to this day strong, brave and intelligent. Great progress has been made however in prosperity and culture. May everything go well with those who live far away by the long lake and the blue mountains. I shall now recall some of their memories. End of section three of the story of Jösta Bärling, read by Lars Rolander. Section four of the story of Jösta Bärling. This is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org reading by Lars Rolander. The story of Jösta Bärling by Selma Lagerlö translated from the Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Flack. Part one, chapter two, Christmas Eve.  Syntrum it is who takes only vagrants and bullies for workmen and has only quarrelsome lying maids in his service. He who excites dogs to madness by sticking pins in their noses and lives happiest among evil people and fierce beasts. It is Syntrum whose greatest pleasure is to dress himself up in the foul fiend's likeness with horns and tail and cloven hoof and hairy body and suddenly appearing from dark corners from behind the stove or the wood pile the frightened timid children and superstitious women. It is Syntrum who delights to change old friendship to new hate and to poison the heart with lies. Syntrum is his name and one day he came to Ekeby. Drag the great wood sledge into the smithy put it in the middle of the floor and lay a cart-button on the frame. There we have a table. Hooray for the table. The table is ready. Come now with chairs with everything which will serve for a seat. Come with three-legged stools and empty boxes. Come with ragged old arm-chairs without any backs and push up the runnerless sleigh and the old coach. Ha ha ha ha! Up with the old coach it shall be the speaker's chair. Just look, one wheel gone and the whole bottom out. Only the coach-box is left. The cushion is thin and worn. It's mustuffing coming through. The leather is red with age. High as a house is the old wreck. Prop it up, prop it up or down it will come. Hooray hooray! It is Christmas Eve at Ekeby. Behind the broad-bed silk and curtains sleep the major and the major's wife. Sleep and believe that the bachelor's wing sleeps. The men's servants and maids can sleep. Heavy with feasting and the bitter Christmas ale. But not their masters in the bachelor's wing. How can anyone think that the bachelor's wing sleeps? Sleeps, sleeps. Oh, child o' man, sleeps when the pensioners are awake. The long tongs stand upright on the floor with tallow candles in their claws. From the mammoth kettle of shining copper flames the blue fire of the burning brandy. High up to the dark roof, Berenkreuz horn lantern hangs on the forge hammer. The yellow punch glows in the bowl like a bright sun. The pensioners are celebrating Christmas Eve in the smithy. There is mirth and bustle. Fancy if the major's wife should see them. What then? Probably she would sit down with them and empty a bumper. She's a doubty woman. She's not afraid of a thundering drinking song or to take a hand at Kille, a Swedish game of cards. The richest woman in Wärmland, as bold as a man, proud as a queen. Songs she loves and sounding fiddles and the hunting horn. She likes wine and games of cards and tables surrounded by merry guests are her delight. She likes to see the larder emptied to have dancing and merry making in chamber and hall and the bachelor's wing full of pensioners. See them round about the bowl. Twelve are they, twelve men, not butterflies nor dandies but men whose fame will not soon die out in Wärmland. Brave men and strong, not dried up parchment nor close-fisted money bags, poor men without a care, gentlemen the whole day long, no mother starlings, no sleepy masters on their own estates, wafering men, cheerful men, knights of a hundred adventures. Now, for many years the bachelor's wing has stood empty, Ikebius no longer the chosen refuge of homeless gentlemen, pensioned officers and impoverished noblemen no longer drive about Wärmland in shaky one-horse vehicles. But let the dead live, let them rise up in their glad, careless, eternal youth. All these notorious men would play on one or several instruments. All were as full of wit and humour and conceits and songs, as an aunt till is full of aunts. But each one had his particular great quality, his much esteemed merit which distinguished him from the others. First of all who sit about the bowl, I will name Berenkreuz, the colonel with the great white mustaches, player of cards, singer of songs, and next to him his friend and brother-in-arms, the silent major, the great bear hunter Anders Fuchs, and as the third in order little ruster, the drummer who had been for many years the colonel's servant, but had won the rank of pensioner through his skill in brewing punch and his knowledge of thoroughbass. Then may be mentioned the old ensign, Rutger von Erneklu, lady-killer, dressed in stock and wig and ruffles, and painted like a woman. He was one of the most important pensioners. Also Krishanberry, the mighty captain, who was a stalwart hero, but as easy to outwit as a giant in the fairy story. In these two men's company one often saw the little round master Julius, witty, merry, and gifted, speaker, painter, songster, and storyteller. He often had his joke with the goat-crippled ensign and the dull giant. There was also the big German Kevinhüller, inventor of the automatic carriage and the flying machine, he whose name still echoes in the murmuring forests, a nobleman by birth, and in appearance with great curled mustaches, a pointed beard, aquiline nose, and narrow squinting eyes in a net of intersecting wrinkles. There sat the great warrior Kassin Christoffer, who never went outside the walls of the bachelor's wing, unless there was to be a bear-hunt or some foolhardy adventure. And beside him uncle Eberhardt, the philosopher who had not come to Ickeby for pleasure and play, but in order to be able, undisturbed by concern for daily bread, to complete his great work in the science of sciences. Last of all, and the best, the gentle Löwenborg, who sought the good in the world and understood little of its ways, and Lilje Krona, the great musician, who had a good home and was always longing to be there, but still remained at Ickeby, for his soul needed riches and variety to be able to bear life. These eleven men had all left youth behind them, and several were in old age, but in the midst of them was one who was not more than thirty years old and still possessed the full, undiminished strength of his mind and body. It was just a barreling, the night of knights who alone in himself was a better speaker, singer, musician, hunter, drinking companion and card player than all of the others together. He possessed all gifts what a man the mages wife had made of him. Look at him now in the speaker's chair. The darkness sinks from the black roof in great festoons over him. His blond head shines through it like a young god's, slender, beautiful, eager for adventure, he stands there. But he is speaking very seriously. Gentlemen and brothers, the time passes, the feast is far advanced, it is time to drink a toast to the thirteenth at the table. Little brother Yasta, Christmaster Julius, there is no thirteenth, we are only twelve. At Ekeby a man dies every year, continues Yasta with a more and more gloomy voice. One of the guests of the bachelor's wing dies. One of the glad, the careless, the eternal youth dies. What of that? Gentlemen should never be old. Could our trembling hands not lift a glass? Could our quenched eyes not distinguish the cards? What has life for us? And what are we for life? One must die of the thirteenth who celebrate Christmas Eve in the smithy at Ekeby. But every year a new one comes to complete our number. A man experienced in pleasure, one who can handle violin and card, must come and make our company complete. Old butterflies should know how to die while the summer sun is shining. A toast to the thirteenth. But Yasta, we are only twelve, remonstrate the pensioners and do not touch their glasses. Yasta bailing whom they call the poet, although he never wrote verses, continues with unaltered calmness.  You are they who hold pleasure by force in Wärmland. You are they who set the fiddle-bows going. Keep up the dance, make song and music resound through the land. You know how to keep your hearts from the love of gold, your hands from work. If you did not exist, the dance would die, summer die, the roses die, card-playing die, song die, and in this whole blessed land there would be nothing but iron and owners of ironworks. Pleasure lives while you live. For six years have I celebrated Christmas Eve in the Ekeby smithy, and never before has anyone refused to drink to the thirteenth. But Yasta, cry they all, when we are only twelve, how can we drink to the thirteenth? Are we only twelve? he says. Why must we die out from the earth? Shall we be but eleven next year, but ten the year after? Shall our name become a legend, our company destroyed? I call upon him the thirteenth, for I have stood up to drink his toast, from the ocean's depth, from the bowels of the earth, from heaven, from hell, I call him who shall complete our number. Then it rattled in the chimney, then the furnace door opened, then the thirteenth came. He was hairy with tail and cloven hoof, with horns and pointed beard, and at the sight of him the pensioners start up with a cry. But in uncontrollable joy just a bowling cries, the thirteenth has come, a toast to the thirteenth. Yes, he has come. The old enemy of mankind come to these foolhardy men, who trouble the peace of the holy night, the friend of witches on their way to hell, who signs his bargains in blood on coal-black paper, he who dance with the countess at Ivar's nests for seven days, and cannot be exercised by seven priests. He has come. In stormy haste thoughts fly through the heads of the old adventurers at the sight of him. They wonder for whose sake he's out this night. Many of them were ready to hurry away in terror, but they soon saw that the horned one had not come to carry them down to his dark kingdom, but that the ring of the cups and their songs had attracted him. He wished to enjoy a little human pleasure in this holy night as he had his burden during this glad time. Oh, pensioners, pensioners, who of you now remembers it is the night before Christmas, that even now angels are singing for their shepherds in the fields. Children are lying anxious lest they sleep too soundly, that they may not wake in time for the beautiful morning worship. Soon it will be time to light the Christmas candles in the church at Brough, and far away in the forest homes, the young man in the evening has prepared a risen torch to light his girl to church. In all the houses the mistress has placed deep lights in the windows, ready to light as the people go by to church. The sexton takes up the Christmas song in his sleep and the old minister lies and tries if he has enough voice left to sing. Glory be to God on high, on earth peace, goodwill towards men. Oh, pensioners, better had it been for you if you had spent this peaceful night quietly in your beds than to trouble the company with a prince of darkness. But they greet him with cries of welcome as justa had done.   Beerenkreuz invites him to a game of cards. Master Julius sings his best and Beerenkreuz talks to him of lovely women, those beautiful creatures who make life sweet. He enjoys everything, the devil, as with princely bearing he leans back on the old coachbox, and with clawed hands lift the brimming goblet to his smiling mouth. But just a baling, of course, must make a speech in his honor.  Here one can live without toiling or spinning, as your grace perhaps knows. Here roasted orpholans fly into one's mouth, and the bitter ale and the sweet brandy flow in brooks and rivulets. This is a good place, your grace. We pensioners have waited for you, for we have never been complete before. See, we are something finer than we seem. We are the mighty twelve of the poet, who are of all time. We were twelve when we stared the world up there on Olympus cloud Veltop, and twelve when we lived like birds in Yggdrasil's green crown. Wherever there has been poetry, there have we followed. Did we not sit twelve when strong about King Arthur's round table, and were there not twelve paladins at Shalaman's court? One of us has been a Thor, a Jupiter, anyone can see that in us now. They can perceive the divine splendor under our rags, the lion's mane under the ass's head. Times are bad with us, but if we are there, a smitty becomes Olympus, and the bachelor swing Valhalla. But your grace, our number has not been complete. Everyone knows that in the poets twelve there must always be a Loki, a Prometheus, him have we been without. Your grace, I wish you welcome. Hear, hear, hear says the evil one, such a fine speech, a fine speech indeed, and I who have no time to answer, business boys, business, I must be off, otherwise I should so gladly be at your service in any role you like. Thanks for a pleasant evening, old gossips, we shall meet again. Then the pensioner's demand where he's going, and he answers that the noble major's wife, mistress of Ekeby, is waiting for him to get her contract renewed. Great wonder ceases upon the pensioners. A harsh and capable woman is she, the major's wife at Ekeby. She can lift a barrel of floor on her broad shoulders. She follows the loads of ore from berries, lagen mines on the long road to Ekeby.  In the winter she will watch by a charcoal kiln. In the summer follow a timber raft down to the loven.   She rules her own parish and all the neighbouring parishes. Yes, the whole of lovely Warmlang, but for the homeless gentleman she had been like a mother, and therefore they had closed their ears when slander had whispered to them that she was in league with a devil. So they ask him with wonder what kind of a contract she has made with him. And he answers them like one, that he had given the major's wife her seven estates on the condition that she should send him every year a human soul. Oh, the horror which compresses the pensioner's hearts. Of course they knew it, but they had not understood before. At Ekeby every year a man dies, one of the guests in the bachelor's eyes, one of the glad, the careless, the ever young dies. What of that? Gentle men may not be old. If their trembling fingers cannot lift the glass, if their dulled eyes cannot see the cards, what is life for them? And what are they to life? Butterflies should know how to die while the sun is shining. But now, for the first time, they grasp its real meaning. Woe to that woman, that is why she had given them so many good meals, why she had let them drink her bitter ale and her sweet brandy, that they might reel from the drinking halls and the card tables at Ekeby, down to the king of hell. One a year, and for each passing year Woe to the woman, the witch. Strong men had come to this Ekeby, had come hither to perish, for she had destroyed them here. Their brains were sponges, dry ashes their lungs, and darkness their spirit, as they sank back on their deathbeds and were ready for their long journey, hopeless, virtuous. Woe to the woman, so had those died who had been better men than they, and so should they die. But not long are they paralyzed by weight of terror. You king of perdition, they cry, never again shall you make a blood-sine contract with that witch.  Krishanbari, the mighty captain, has thrown over his shoulder the heaviest sledgehammer in the smithy. He will bury it to the handle in the hag's head. No more souls shall sheath sacrifice to you. And you, you horn thing, we shall lay you on the anvil and let the forge hammer loose. We shall hold you quiet with tongs under the hammer's blows and teach to go a hunting for gentlemen's souls. He is a coward, the devil, as everyone now savowed, and all this talk of the forge hammer does not please him at all. He calls Krishanbari back and begins to bargain with the pensioners. Take the seven estates, take them yourselves, gentlemen, and give me the major's wife. Do you think we are a space as she, Christmaster Julius? We will have Iqbi and all the rest, but you must look after the major's wife yourself. What does Yasta say? What does Yasta say? Ask the gentle loven boy. Yasta Bailing must speak. We must hear what he thinks of this important matter. It is madness, says Yasta Bailing. Gentlemen, don't let him make fools of you. What are you all against the major's wife? It may fares it will with our souls, but with my consent we will not be such ungrateful wretches as to act like rascals and traitors. I have eaten her food for too many years to deceive her now.  We would rather rule at Iqbi.  Do you believe it is true? Do you believe that that thing is the devil? Don't you see that it's all a confounded lie? Tu-tu-tu, says the black one. He does not see that he will soon be ready, and yet he has been seven years at Iqbi. He does not see how far advanced he is. Be gone, man. I myself have helped to show you into the oven there. As if that made any difference, as if I were not as good a devil as another. Yes, yes, justa Barling, you are in for it. You have improved indeed under her treatment. It was she who saved me, says justa. What had I been without her? As if she did not know what she was about when she kept you here at Iqbi. You can lure others to the trap. You have great gifts.  You wish to earn your bread. Every day she passed your cottage and she had lovely young girls with her. Once it was Marianne Sinclair. Then you threw aside your spade and apron, Barling, and came back as pensioner.  Yes, yes, of course, it lay on the highway. Then you came to Borg, worked you to there to Henrik Dona, and might have been Countess Marta's son-in-law. Who was it who managed that the young Eba Dona should hear that you were only a dismissed priest, so that she refused you? It was the major's wife, Justa Barling. She wanted you back again. Great matter, says Justa. Eba Dona died soon afterwards. I would never have got her anyway. Then the devil came close up to him and hissed right in his face. Died? Yes, of course, she died. Killed herself for your sake, did she? But they never told you that. You are not such a bad devil, says Justa.  She wanted to have you back in the bachelor's wing. Justa burst out laughing. You are not such a bad devil, he cried wildly. Why should we not make a contract with you? I'm sure you can get us seven estates, if you like. It is well that you do not longer withstand your fate. The pensioners drew a sigh of relief. It had gone so far with them that they could do nothing without Justa. If he had not agreed to the arrangement, it could never have come to anything. And it was no small matter for destitute gentlemen to get seven estates for their own. It was justa that we take the seven estates in order to save our souls, but not to be iron work owners who count their money and weigh their iron. No dried up parchment, no purse-prud money bags will be become, but gentlemen will we be and remain. The very words of wisdom murmurs the black one. If you therefore ask the seven estates for one year, we will accept them. But remember that if we do anything during that time which is not worthy of a gentleman, if we do anything which is sensible or useful or effeminate, then you may take the whole twelve of us when the year is out, and give the estates to whom you will. The devil rubbed his hands with delight. But if we always behave like and continue justa, then you may never again make any contract about ekibi, and no pay do you get for this year either from us or from the major's wife. That is hard, says the devil.  Couldn't I have the major's wife? Why should you spare the major's wife? I do not drive any bargains with such wares, roars justa, but if you must have someone, you can take old Sintrum at Foch. He is ready, I can answer for that. Well, well, that will do, says the devil without blinking. The pensioners or Sintrum, they can balance one another. This will be a good year. And so the contract was written with blood from ectocillital finger, on the devil's black paper and with his quill pen. And when it was done, the pensioners rejoiced. Now the world should belong to them for a whole year, and afterwards there would always be some way. They push aside the chairs, make a ring about the kettle, which stands in the middle of the black floor, and whirl in a wild dance. Innermost in the circle dances the devil with wild bounce, and at last he falls flat beside the kettle, rolls it over, and drinks. Then Berenkreuz throws himself down beside him, and also justa barreling, and after them all the others lay themselves in a circle around the kettle, which is rolled from mouth to mouth.  When they rise up swearing, the devil is gone, but his golden promises float like shining crowns over the pensioners' heads. End of section 4 of the story of justa barreling read by Lars Rolander.