Mårbacka/Part 5, Chapter 7
It was Lars of London, and Sven of Paris, and Magnus of Vienna, and Johan of Prague, and Per of Berlin, and Olle of Maggebysäter, the stableman and the farmboy!
Now Lars of London, Sven of Paris, Magnus of Vienna, Johan of Prague, and Per of Berlin, they were not foreigners, but farm-labourers at Mårbacka. Lieutenant Lagerlöf, in a facetious moment, had named his workmen's cottages after the principal cities of Europe.
Lars of London and Magnus of Vienna had been plowing all day in the field below the barn; Sven of Paris had fed the cows and, between times, helped on the potato land. Johan of Prague had been digging potatoes, while Per of Berlin, who had been at home all day nursing a lame back, had come over to the manor for a little diversion. The stableman had been grooming the horses, and in spare moments chopping firewood, and the farmboy had worked in the potato field. Olle of Maggebysäter was not employed at the farm; he had just come down to Mårbacka to buy a bushel of rye.
It was a drizzly day in autumn, and the men had gone into the servants' hall for the usual afternoon rest—from half after four to five. Their shoes were covered with mud, their clothing was damp, and they themselves were sour and disgruntled. They had kindled a fire on the hearth, and dropped down round it. Lars of London, who had the largest croft and was the best workman, sat on the chopping-block directly in front of the fire. Magnus of Vienna, who was almost as good a worker as Lars, was sitting next to him, on one of the cobbler's stools. Sven of Paris, who thought himself quite as good as any of them, though he did tend cattle, had planted himself on the edge of the hearth, not caring whether he shut off the blaze from the others. Johan of Prague had taken the other stool and the old man of Berlin had seated himself on a saw-buck just back of the rest. The stableman sat on the edge of the cubby-bed swinging his legs, the farmboy perched on the carpenter's bench, while Olle of Maggebysäter sat down by the door on a barrel of red ochre, resting his feet on his sack of rye.
Lars of London, Magnus of Vienna, Johan of Prague, and Sven of Paris now opened their food-bundles. They each took out a hunk of rye bread with a dab of butter on top. Drawing their sheath-knives from the belts under their leather aprons and wiping them on their trousers, they proceeded to spread their bread and cut it up, bit by bit, eating it in all comfort. The farmboy was sent over to the kitchen to fetch the fare for himself and the stableman, and came back with two halves of a rye-cake, two pats of butter, and two dishes of cottage cheese. Per of Berlin, not having worked that day, had brought no lunch, and Olle of Maggebysäter had none, either; they just sat and glowered at the others.
When they had finished eating, Lars of London, Magnus of Vienna, Sven of Paris, Johan of Prague, the stableman, and the farmboy simultaneously drew from their trousers' pockets a plug of tobacco. Per of Berlin was not left out on this, for he, too, had his plug; but Olle of Maggebysäter had not even a bit of tobacco in his pocket.
The sheath-knives were again drawn. Now each man cut off a piece of his plug, laid it on his leather apron, chopped it fine, then filled his cutty-pipe.
Lars of London picked up a thin stick of wood and lighted it at the fire. After he had lit his own pipe he gave the light to Magnus of Vienna, who passed it on to Sven of Paris; Sven of Paris handed it to Johan of Prague, who reached back and offered it to Per of Berlin: Per of Berlin leaned over so as to pass it to the stableman, who, after lighting his pipe, held the burning stick in his hand till the farmboy came across the room and took it. Olle of Maggebysäter, to be sure, had no need of a light—having neither pipe nor tobacco. The other men now being warm and well-fed, the world began to look better to them.
But Olle of Maggebysäter was three-score-and-ten, and so crippled with rheumatism that his fingers were stiff and crooked like claws; his head was drawn to one side, one leg was shorter than the other, his sight was poor, his wits were nothing to brag about, and he was toothless and ugly. Washed and combed he had certainly not been in half a year. The fringe of whiskers under his chin was full of sticks and straws. He owned a little croft up in the woods; but being nothing of a worker, he had not been able to keep poverty out of his house. Always grumpy and discontented, he had no friends. And now as the clouds of tobacco smoke rose from the other men's pipes, he muttered, as if to himself:
"I've had nothin' but trouble and misery all my life; but now I've heard about a land they call America, and there I want to go."
The other men sat tranquilly musing over their pipes and made no response.
Olle of Maggebysäter continued:
"You see, 'tis like this in America—you've only to hit a rock with your stick and the rum'll come spurtin' out. That land I want to see afore I die."
The others gazed straight before them and smiled, but said nothing.
Olle of Maggebysäter talked on:
"No one can make me stick at home in this dull, miserable place, when I know there's a land where the hills are full o' rum."
The others remained persistently silent, but not a word of what Olle of Maggebysäter said was lost on them.
"The leaves of the trees in that land, they're nothin' but gold," said the poor old man. "There you don't have to do day's work at a manor, you've only to go to the woods and pull off an armful of leaves, and then you can buy yourself whatever you want. Blow me, if I don't move over there, old as I be!"
They were now in a mellow mood, all the men in the servants' hall. They saw, as it were before their eyes, that land where you tap rum from the rocks and pick gold off the trees.
The farm-bell rang. Rest-time was up. They must again go out into the wet and cold.
Lars of London returned to his plow, Magnus of Vienna to his; Sven of Paris, Johan of Prague, and the farmboy went back to digging potatoes. Per of Berlin betook himself home to his cottage, the stableman had to go and chop the evening's firewood, and Olle of Maggebysäter, shouldering his sack of rye, limped off to the woods.
None of them looked as glum as they did half an hour ago. There was a little glint of light in their eyes. They all felt it was good to know of a land where rum flowed from the hills and the forests were of gold—even though it lay so far away they could never reach it.