Mårbacka/Part 2, Chapter 5
Fru Raklitz had been hard enough on Lisa Maja while the father was alive; but when he died, in the year 1801, and she was in full control, she became even more harsh and exacting. The stepdaughter was now wholly at her mercy, without support or protection from any quarter. The girl was but seventeen—too young and inexperienced to hold her own with a canny old woman. She had a brother, to be sure, but he was at Upsala University studying, so that she could not look to him for any help.
The stepmother and she were soon at daggers' points. Fru Raklitz wanted her to marry the clergyman who had succeeded her father, but Lisa Maja would not agree to that. She opposed all the arguments of the stepmother and the parish folk, who thought the old order such an excellent thing. The clergyman's daughter had her own ideas about marriage. She would not marry a man merely because he happened to be the priest at Ämtervik; he must also be the sort she could love.
The new pastor was anxious to put the matter through. He had got into the good graces of the stepmother, who tried to help him by any and every means. As the girl continued to say No, Fru Raklitz one day drove down to Öjervik to see Judge Sandelin, who was Lisa Maja's guardian, and have a talk with him.
It was clear that she would have the support of both the Judge and his wife. They knew Fru Raklitz well; she had been housekeeper at Öjervik for many years and they had always known her to be a wise and prudent woman. Without doubt she was right, they said; the Mårbacka clergyman's daughter should marry the curate. Anything else was out of the question.
Fru Raklitz was invited to stay for supper, and after the meal she and the Judge's wife sat talking till late in the evening. It was eleven o'clock before she finally set off for home. But the sky was clear and there was a moon, so that it looked as if she would have no difficulty.
And now as the chaise moved rapidly along the shore road toward Sunne, Fru Raklitz sat thinking how she would worry and torment the poor stepdaughter in order to break her will. Of course it was only for the girl's own good, she flattered herself so that she need have no conscience in the matter.
Then, all at once, Svarten, the horse, shied with a jerk that nearly upset the chaise. He acted as if he had the staggers; he dashed off the road, across the ditch, and was down in a field before Long-Bengt, the driver, could check him. When the horse was finally under control he was all a-tremble. Without moving from the spot where he stood he lifted his feet, one at a time, then suddenly gave a shriek such as is seldom heard from a horse—and leaped into the air. Back on to the road he would not go. When Long-Bengt tried to urge him on, he reared and came near kicking the chaise to pieces.
"What is it, Bengt, what is it?" gasped Fru Raklitz, clutching the man's arm in her fright. "Has the horse gone mad?"
"That horse has more sense than Frua and me both," answered Long-Bengt. "He's not mad, he sees something we ain't got eyes for to see."
Svarten nosed the ground, snorted, and backed, regardless of the chaise and those in it. Luckily, they were in a field where the summer's rye had been cut, so that the ground was quite smooth and even. They noticed that they were backing toward a broad, deep ditch; but when the vehicle was at the very edge, the horse stopped; he probably thought he had got past the worst danger. Though still nosing the ground and snorting, he made no more leaps.
"You'd better get out, Frua," said Long-Bengt, "while I try to urge him past whatever 'tis he sees."
Fru Raklitz unbuttoned the carriage apron and was about to set foot to the ground, when she drew back with a cry.
"I can't step down, Bengt," she said.… "It's moving!"
"I believe Frua's as daft as the horse," laughed Long-Bengt. "What's moving?"
"The ground under us is moving, the whole field is moving." Her voice shook and she felt a lump in her throat.
"Asch!" said Long-Bengt, and jumped out. He thought it was a ghost that had frightened the horse. But ghosts were supposed to come out of the air; he had never heard of their creeping along the ground.
And now he wasn't long getting back into the chaise himself, nor did he venture out of it again. What the mistress had said was true—the ground certainly appeared to be moving. It did not tremble as in an earthquake, nor glide away as in a landslide; but it was as if every clod of earth in the field had taken feet and was running toward the lake.
The two in the chaise sat gazing at the ground—and at last they saw what it was that moved: the field was over-run by hordes of little animals; but they were none the less frightened, the two of them. It couldn't be anything real or natural, they thought. Where had they come from—all those creatures? Every spot in the field was alive with them!
The animals—or whatever they were—scurried across the ditch up on to the road and then went rushing down an incline into the lake. Now what sort of creatures could they be, to behave in that way? Had they been of God's creation there would surely have been some end to them; but these kept coming in limitless numbers.
The horse had now become fairly calm. Only when the little animals ran between his feet he would snort and draw back. Fru Raklitz, meanwhile, was far from calm. Her teeth chattered from fright, and she mumbled and talked to herself. However, she sat still as long as they were in the field. But the horse was not going to stand out there the whole night. He began to move on his own accord; he walked slowly, lifting his feet and putting them down very carefully; but at least he went forward and not backward.
The strange little animals got into the way of the horse and wagon, and there was a grinding, crunching noise as the wheels passed over the tiny bodies.
When Fru Raklitz heard that grinding she jumped to her feet, and began to shriek wildly. Long-Bengt quickly caught her round the waist, to prevent her throwing herself out of the chaise.
"They're after me! They're after me!" she cried. "They're on the wheels—they're on the step—they're in the wagon!"
The horse increased his speed. The chaise moved jokingly as the wheels went over the little animals.
"They're in the chaise, they're in the chaise!" screamed Fru Raklitz, springing up on to the seat. "They're pulling at my skirt—they mean to drag me to the lake!"
Now Long-Bengt had to stand up to hold her back. "By rights, I ought to let you tumble into the road for your meanness," he muttered. All the same he kept his arm round her.
They were at last back on the road and had driven over great swarms of the roving animals, when Svarten suddenly stopped and neighed contentedly.
"It's all over now," said Long-Bengt. "Sit down, Frua."
But Fru Raklitz went on shrieking, "They're in the chaise; they're pulling at my skirt; they'll drag me to the lake." Long-Bengt had to pull her down by main force and set her on the seat. She struggled so hard he dared not let go of her.
"Go on, Svarten!" he said. "You'll have to find the way without me holding the reins.
The horse set off at a trot, while Fru Raklitz, shaking and blubbering, rambled on about their climbing the wheels and trying to get into the chaise.
"You'll have to run, Svarten," said Long-Bengt, "or she'll go clean off her head before we get her home."
Svarten perhaps understood. Anyhow, he must have wanted to get home to his crib, for he took the hills up and down at top speed.
Long-Bengt sat there with beads of cold sweat standing on his forehead; he tried to assure Fru Raklitz that the trouble was over, but she would not believe him.
"You are very kind, Bengt," she whimpered; "but don't tell me we are safe; I hear them, I see them, they are after us, and mean to drive me into the lake."
When they finally stopped before the front porch at Mårbacka and a maid came out to receive her mistress, she was afraid to step down.
"No, no, not you!" she cried. "You have no power, you can't save me from them."
The maid drew back in alarm. She had never heard her mistress speak like that before.
"Go fetch the priest's daughter," said Fru Raklitz—"go fetch Lisa Maja! She is the only one here who has power over the evil ones."
"Mamselle Lisa Maja has gone to bed," said the girl.
"Go ask her to come down as quick as she can," Long-Bengt put in. "Tell her Frua got a fright on the way."
Fru Raklitz sat shaking and gibbering until her stepdaughter appeared.
"Ah, God bless you!" cried the woman, holding out her arms to the girl. "Come help me! Don't be angry with me! I'll never be mean to you again."
"What's the matter, Mother dear?" said the girl as she stood by the carriage.
"Come, give me your hand," begged the stepmother. "Dear heart, hold them back while I get down. Don't let them take me! They can't harm you who have power over them."
When she was out of the chaise she fell on the stepdaughter's neck, and sobbed: "Don't ever leave me! Don't be angry with me! You shall marry whomever you will, and I'll not say a word."
"She saw something coming home," Long-Bengt explained. "She saw all the little imps of hell let loose, and she thinks they're after her and will drag her into the Fryken."
The priest's daughter put her arm round the stepmother, and said: "Come in, Mother dear! You are at Mårbacka now. Here none of the evil ones can touch you, darling Mother."
Fru Raklitz was so shaken from fright that Lisa Maja had to talk to her as to a little child, to get her to her room and to bed. She would not let her go; so the girl had to sit there holding her hand, and listen to her ravings until daybreak.
From that time forth Fru Raklitz never dared be cruel to her stepdaughter; nor was she ever again her old ruthless self. She kept to her room mostly, and let Lisa Maja run the house. She would lend a hand when there was extra cleaning and furbishing to be done—as before a great holiday or a party—but only in the house, never outside it. Thus she lived until 1835. Whether she had ever any real affection for the stepdaughter is doubtful. But when Lisa Maja was married, and the little ones came, she grew very fond of them. Every day the children would go in to see Granny. She was also very fond of her coffee, and always had a fire going in the tile-stove of her room, so that she could make coffee for herself. She would often treat the children. But their mother thought coffee was not good for little folk, and told them one day they must never drink any of Granny's coffee.
The next day, when the two youngest, Nana and Lovisa, came out of the grandmother's room, there was a strong odour of coffee about them.
"What did you have at Granny's to-day?" their mother asked them.
"Gruel, Mummie dear," said the two of them as with one mouth.
"What was that gruel made in?" questioned the mother.
"In the coffeepot, Mummie dear," they answered as if they were speaking a piece.
They said it so nicely and they were so little and naïve, that the mother had to laugh in spite of herself.