Mårbacka/Part 3, Chapter 1
When Lieutenant Lagerlöf took over Mårbacka the buildings were mostly very old. Oldest, however, were the manservants' hall and the sheep-cot, though the storehouse on stilts, which served as larder, the stable with the loft balcony, the bath-house, where they used to smoke bacon, and the kiln, where they malted grain, were no newcomers into the world.
The servants' hall and sheepfold were built of stones which had been picked up on the ground—large and small, round and flat. The walls were two ells in thickness, as if meant to withstand a siege. That style of building was not of last year or the year before, so that in the matter of age those two structures would certainly take precedence.
The first permanent residents of Mårbacka must have come from some village where there were too many occupants in every cottage and not enough land under cultivation to yield bread-food for all. They were no doubt a young couple who wanted to set up a home, and saw no other way than to fare forth into the wilds as settlers. With an eye to the good pasturage below Åsberget, they took possession of the little huts formerly tenanted by the säter lasses. But after a time they perhaps felt unsafe, for they had no neighbours within miles of them. Sometimes the bear paid a visit to the cattle-shed and they themselves received calls from rough gangs of charcoal-burners.
Under such circumstances, naturally they would have put up a couple of stone huts—one for themselves and one for their animals. The building for the animals was the larger; it had no windows, only narrow openings with home-forged iron gratings, through which neither lynx nor bear could squeeze. The floor was just hard, trampled earth, but a partition of rough-hewn beams divided the hut into two rooms. Thus, the animals which do not thrive together could be kept apart. Horses and sheep, which are always friends, were on one side; cows and goats on the other.
The stone hut they built for themselves had only one room, but it had a floor of hand-split boards, two windows, a fireplace, and a chimney. Along the wall opposite the windows, the settler had put up a large bed-cupboard to hold four wide beds—two lower and two upper—in each of which three persons could easily lie side by side. Under the windows was a bench, and before it a large deal table. At the far end of the room, opposite the entrance, was the fireplace.
In Lieutenant Lagerlöf's time, this which had once been the main building and was now the manservants' hall, was but little changed. The cubby-beds, the circular open fireplace, and the low, small-paned windows with the iron gratings, were still there; but the long board-bench and table had been replaced by a planing-bench and a chest of tools. There were two small, round, three-legged stools which might well have come down from the time of the first settler, likewise a worn chopping-block that stood on the hearth.
Here lived the stableman and farmboy; here the farm labourers gathered at rest hours to eat and lounge; hither poor belated wayfarers were shown when they came asking for night harbour. Here Bengt, who had been stableman in the time of the Paymaster of the Regiment, stayed on in his old age. He had worked so long on the place that Lieutenant Lagerlöf had recommended him as one worthy the medal for faithful service.
There was another who was to receive this mark of honour—the old housekeeper. She was not nearly so old as Bengt, and was still in active service. She, who was hale and spry, could drive to church in the family carriage and receive her medal at the chancel; while Bengt was confined to his bed that day with the lumbago and pain in the joints. His medal he would get in any case, but it was a grand celebration he would be missing. It had been reported that the Dean of Sunne would come to Ämtervik that Sunday to address the faithful servants, and would himself place the bright silver medal round their necks.
One can understand it was not very pleasant for Bengt to be lying there in pain and torment while the greatest moment life could have held for him passed him by.
Lieutenant Lagerlöf, on arriving at the church, told the Dean why Bengt had not come. Now there was no one the Dean so loved to honour as a faithful servant, one who had been in the same place all his life, and had shared weal and woe with his master and mistress. So, on hearing that Bengt was ill, he said he would drive down to Mårbacka immediately after the service and personally present the medal to Bengt.
The Lieutenant, though pleased, felt a trifle uneasy. He slipped out of the church as soon as he could do so with propriety, and drove home like lightning, so as to be there a little ahead of the Dean.
Bengt was quickly washed and combed and hustled into his Sunday shirt, his bed was spread with clean sheets, and a fancy quilt was substituted for the old sheepskin rug. The floor was swept, the shavings under the planing-bench were carried out, the sooty cobwebs were torn from the ceiling, fresh juniper twigs were strewn over the floor, chopped spruce-fir spread before the door, and a huge bundle of birch and lilac branches was stuck in the fireplace.
The Dean of Sunne at that time was no less a personage than the venerable Anders Fryxell, the distinguished historian and Member of Parliament. Directly he arrived he went in to see Bengt, accompanied by Lieutenant and Fru Lagerlöf, Mamselle Lovisa, the old housekeeper, and all the servants. They quietly and reverently lined themselves along the walls of the servants' room, expecting, of course, that the Dean would make a little speech in Bengt's honour.
At first all went as it should go. The Dean read some passages from the Scriptures, and Bengt listened—very still and solemn. Then the Dean said:
"You, Bengt, have been one of those good and faithful servants of whom our Lord speaks."
"Ay," says Bengt from his bed, "that's what I've been."
"You have never considered your own welfare before that of your employer. You have always been mindful of the duties entrusted to you."
"Ay, 'tis all so true," says Bengt. "Many thanks to you. Dean, for those words."
It looked as if these constant interruptions would prove annoying to the Dean, who was a great man, accustomed to the society of grand folk. His was such an impressive personality that one easily became embarrassed in his presence. He was always supreme and always had the last word.
There had been no time for the Dean to prepare a speech, and the address he delivered at the church was hardly suitable for the servants' hall. He cleared his throat once or twice, and began again.
"Bengt, you have been a good and faithful servant."
"Indeed I have," said Bengt.
The blood mounted to the brow of the great and brilliant Dean Fryxell.
"You must be silent, Bengt, when I am speaking," he said.
"Ay, ay," the old man replied. "Sure, I'm not contradicting you. Dean. 'Tis all so true what you're saying."
The Dean got redder and redder. Again he cleared his throat and made a fresh attempt.
"You, Bengt, have been a good and faithful servant, but you have also had good masters."
The old man was so elated at this he simply could not keep still.
"You're right, dear Dean, you're right! They've been grand men, all o' them—Wennervik and the Paymaster of the Regiment and this here Eric Gustaf." He reached over and put his hand on the Lieutenant's shoulder, then stroked him down the arm, his old face ashine with happiness.
Once more the Dean lifted up his voice.
"You must be silent, Bengt, when I'm speaking!"
"Why, of course," said the old man. "But 'tis so right and true every blessed word you've spoken, Dean."
Now the Dean had to smile. "You're irrepressible, Bengt. You will not have to listen to any speech. Here is your medal. May you wear it with health and honour for many years to come."
So saying, the Dean went up to the bedside and laid the medal on the bosom of the old man's Sunday shirt.
Later, at dinner, the Dean seemed a bit abstracted. "This is the first time in my life I have ever lost myself," he confessed, "but in this world one must have all sorts of experiences."