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The Trial of Sören Qvist

Swallow Press books by Janet Lewis

The Wife of Martin Guerre

The Trial of Sören Qvist

The Ghost of Monsieur Scarron

Good-Bye, Son, and Other Stories

Poems Old and New, 1918–1978

Selected Poems of Janet Lewis

The Trial of Sören Qvist

Janet Lewis

Introduction by Kevin Haworth

Swallow Press — Ohio University Press

Athens, Ohio

Swallow Press

An imprint of Ohio University Press, Athens, Ohio 45701

www.ohioswallow.com

© 1947, 1974 by Janet Lewis Winters

Introduction © 2013 by Swallow Press / Ohio University Press

All rights reserved

To obtain permission to quote, reprint, or otherwise reproduce or distribute material from Swallow Press / Ohio University Press publications, please contact our rights and permissions department at (740) 593-1154 or (740) 593-4536 (fax).

First Swallow Press / Ohio University Press edition published 1983

Printed in the United States of America

Swallow Press/Ohio University Press books are printed on acid-free paper Ī

23 22 21 20 19 18 17 13 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Lewis, Janet, 1899–1998.

The trial of Sören Qvist / Janet Lewis ; introduction by Kevin Haworth.

pages ; cm

Includes bibliographical references.

ISBN 978-0-8040-1144-0 (pbk. : acid-free paper) — ISBN 978-0-8040-4054-9 (electronic)

1. Qvist, Sören Jensen, –1626—Fiction. 2. Denmark—History—Christian IV, 1588–1648—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3523.E866T7 2013

813'π iv.52—dc23

2013016753

To Maclin Guérard

Contents

introduction vii

Foreword for the First Swallow Press Edition xv

The Trial of Sören Qvist xvii

One 1

Two 10

Three 28

Four 33

Five 47

Six 62

Seven 76

Eight 82

Nine 92

Ten 103

Eleven 115

Twelve 124

Thirteen 137

Fourteen 144

Fifteen 153

Sixteen 168

Seventeen 172

Eighteen 181

Nineteen 190

Twenty 198

Twenty-One 203

Twenty-Two 209

Introduction

The Trial of Sören Qvist is the second novel in Janet Lewis’s Cases of Circumstantial Evidence, following The Wife of Martin Guerre. Though not as well known as Martin Guerre, for some critics Sören Qvist is their favorite of Lewis’s novels. Fred Inglis, who wrote often about Lewis, declares of the book, “Probably it is the most perfect of Janet Lewis’ novels, and among the most perfect of any novels.”1

As in Martin Guerre, the plot of Sören Qvist derives from Samuel March Phillips’s Famous Cases of Circumstantial Evidence, a legal casebook given to Lewis by her husband, the poet Yvor Winters. The original case of Sören Qvist, as described by legal historian Phillips, is the “most striking case of circumstantial evidence, in which the testimony against the accused was altogether fabricated by the accuser.”2 A local landowner, Morten Bruus, conspires with his brother to accuse a local pastor of murder. A history of ill will is well known; a body is discovered; the evidence, though far from conclusive, points to one man, with consequences for all those around him.

What drew Lewis to the story, however, was not so much the final outcome of the case but the situation that made it possible, the fascinating and self-contradictory character of Sören Qvist, pastor of the quiet village of Vejlby in a rural section of Jutland, Denmark, not far from the German border. Phillips writes:

He was a man of excellent moral character, generous, hospitable, and diligent in the performance of his sacred duties; but he was also a man of constitutionally violent temper, which he lacked the ability to restrain, and consequently subject at times to fierce outbreaks of wrath, which were a scourge to his household when they occurred, and a humiliation to himself.3 In Phillips’s briefly sketched story of Sören Qvist, Lewis found the conditions that recur in all of the Cases of Circumstantial Evidence, from Martin Guerre to Sören Qvist to, later, The Ghost of Monsieur Scarron: a vivid historical setting at a time of political transition; the weight of moral authority (invested, in this case, in the pastor himself, a man of good works and dedication to the poor); and, most importantly, a fascinating individual around whom the legal machinations revolve. As Lewis told the Southern Review in an interview, “I start with a person and then work out the implications. I’m concerned with seeing why a person acts in certain ways.”4

There is much in Sören Qvist that feels strikingly contemporary, despite being written more than fifty years ago and set hundreds of years before the present day. As in so many of today’s television crime procedurals, forensic evidence is arrayed against the suspect, who cannot explain why the evidence points to him. Under pressure from the authorities he confesses, but unlike the common television version, here we cannot comfort ourselves that justice has been served. Something more complex has occurred, both in the way that the good pastor Sören Qvist must confront his own flaws, and in how the legal system proves itself inadequate to judge him. To this forceful narrative Lewis adds her knack for the authenticating detail: the peeling paint of an old tavern, the heel missing from the boot of a long-time traveler, a dusting of snow on the green kale—grown to feed the hungry—in the fields around a rural church. The seventeenth-century Denmark that Lewis recreates in Sören Qvist is no stuffy museum piece. Rather it is a living, breathing series of moments, rooted in strong characters and animated, scene by scene, by what the critic Inglis calls Lewis’s “cool distribution of attention,” leading the reader through the story.5

Sören Qvist carries the power of classic tragedy: a good person, prominent in the community, is pulled down by a central flaw. He is, as Lewis notes in her foreword to the book, “one of a great company of men and women who have preferred to lose their lives rather than accept a universe without plan or without meaning.” Sören Qvist is guilty of something, to be sure, even if it is just the self-knowledge that he could murder another man. The pastor knows that he has that terrible capacity within himself, feels it just under the surface of his role as the kind clergyman. What, then, is the proper punishment for being an imperfect man? To what do we really answer?—the evidence as marshaled by other flawed humans? or a higher sense of what kind of people we should be? These are the great and moving questions that The Trial of Sören Qvist puts before a reader visiting a small village in Denmark in the autumn of 1625.

The Life and Legacy of Janet Lewis

Janet Lewis was born in Chicago in 1898 and attended high school in Oak Park, where she and schoolmate Ernest Hemingway both contributed to the school literary magazine. Like Hemingway, she spent many youthful summers “up in Michigan,” a place that figures prominently in her short stories, much as it does in his. But whereas her more famous classmate is associated with hard living, literary stardom, and an early, self-inflicted death, Janet Lewis embodies a very different path.

She attended the University of Chicago, where she majored in French, and after her graduation left for Paris (“without waiting to pick up her diploma,” one biographer notes), residing there for six months, not quite long enough to become enmeshed in the expatriate literary scene with which the city is so strongly associated.6 Shortly after returning home she contracted tuberculosis, the disease that felled so many artists and nearly killed her as well. (Many years later, she told an interviewer, “There was a moment, be cheerful or die. You take your choice.”)7

Despite the life-threatening illness in her youth, she went on to live an impressive ninety-nine years, most of those years in the same house in the hills of Northern California where she and her husband, the poet Yvor Winters, raised their two children. Her ability to balance her domestic life—by all accounts, she enjoyed a remarkably happy marriage—with decades of literary output gives her an image that is simultaneously traditional and feminist. In her book Silences, Tillie Olsen cites Lewis as a clear example of a talented woman writer whose literary production was inhibited by her obligations to family and to a more famous husband. Lewis acknowledged the challenges of balancing her familial responsibilities with her writing. “I do think those women who have turned out an enormous amount of work were generally not women who had children,” she allowed in an early interview.8 But at the same time she publicly and explicitly rejected Olsen’s characterization of her, perhaps unwilling to see her family and her writing in conflict. “Being a writer has meant nearly everything to me beyond my marriage and children,” she told an interviewer in 1983.9 The remark is Lewis distilled. She foregrounds her marriage and her family. Beyond that, everything is about her writing.

As a poet, she met early success, publishing a four-poem sequence called “Cold Hills” in Poetry in 1920, before she had even finished college. A couple of years later, she moved into prose as well, publishing her first story in another influential magazine, The Bookman. Her first book of poems, The Indian in the Woods, was published in 1922 by the short-lived imprint Manikin, whose entire publishing history consists of three books: one by Lewis, one by William Carlos Williams, and one by Marianne Moore. It was just the beginning of a lifetime of close association with literary greatness, both personally and professionally.

A decade after her first book of poems, a period during which she got married and she and Winters both recovered from tuberculosis, she published her first novel, The Invasion, her first foray into historical fiction. Subtitled A Narrative of Events Concerning the Johnston Family of St. Mary’s, it is set in the Great Lakes region and tells the story of an Irish immigrant who marries an Ojibway woman.

Almost ten years after that, she published her acknowledged masterpiece, The Wife of Martin Guerre, marrying her eye for history with the peculiarities of the legal system that would give her the platform from which to explore powerful questions of morality and personal responsibility that fuel the three Cases of Circumstantial Evidence.

To European critics, Lewis seems quintessentially American. To American critics, her fondness for European settings leads to comparisons as expected as Flaubert and as unusual as the Provençal writer Jean Giono. The New York Times compared her to Melville and to Stendhal. Another critic sees her, based on The Invasion and some of her short stories, as a definitive voice in Western regional writing. In some ways, Lewis’s writing remains elastic, allowing other writers to see in her a powerful reflection of their own interests. Novelists claim her novels as her best work. Poets are drawn again and again to her diverse body of poetry, which attracts new requests for reprinting in anthologies every year. In short, as with all the best writers, her work and her decades-long career defy simple categorization or comparisons.

Despite Lewis’s resistance to easy definitions, her many literary admirers, including Theodore Roethke, Wallace Stegner, and so many more, agree on two things: that her writing, particularly the poems and the historical novels, is first-class; and that she deserves a much wider readership. It is for exactly this reason that Swallow Press has created the present edition.

But if Lewis herself felt neglected as an author, there is no evidence of it. In person and in published comments, she championed graciousness. She sent thank-you notes to our publishing offices here in Ohio upon receiving her yearly royalty check. Late into her nineties, she charmed literary pilgrims who found their way to her house in Los Altos, serving them tea and apologizing for the self-described “laziness” that led her to sleep until the late hour of 8:30 in the morning, and for the periods of quiet introspection that meant she would sometimes go for many years without publishing new work, only to pick up again in startling new directions, be it in writing opera libretti (she wrote six, including adaptations of her own Wife of Martin Guerre and James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans), or in poems quite different from the Imagist work with which she began her career.

Her disarming modesty, about her own character as well as her writing, is the most constant theme in interviews and profiles. This exchange, in the Southern Review, is characteristic:

Interviewers: Many writers and critics—Evan Connell and Donald Davie, to name a couple—admire your work greatly. Yet, you are not widely known. What is your reaction to this?

Lewis: I think I’ve had as much recognition as I need and probably as much as I deserve.10

She stated that her goal in writing her Cases of Circumstantial Evidence was equally modest: to stay as close to the history as possible and to let the characters and the facts speak for themselves. She demonstrated a similar sense of duty to her husband, the man who gave her the book that made these novels possible. For the thirty years that she outlived him, she kept their home in Los Altos much the way that it had been when he was alive, with his name on the mailbox and his writing shed maintained as if he might return, any moment, to use it.

It would have been impossible to predict the success of this modest professor’s daughter, born at the very end of the nineteenth century. But her first poem in Poetry, which appeared at the height of modernism and when she was only twenty years old, seems to anticipate both her long life and the way her work stands on its own, just outside the literary canon. She writes,

I have lived so long

On the cold hills alone . . .

I loved the rock

And the lean pine trees,

Hated the life in the turfy meadow,

Hated the heavy, sensuous bees.

I have lived so long

Under the high monotony of starry skies,

I am so cased about

With the clean wind and the cold nights,

People will not let me in

To their warm gardens

Full of bees.

Swallow Press is honored to be the bearer of Lewis’s literary legacy, not just the three great novels but her collection of short stories and her books of poems—a lifetime of close witness to the public and the private, and a deep appreciation for the human condition.

Kevin Haworth

Executive Editor

Swallow Press

Foreword for the First Swallow Press Edition

The story of the Parson of Vejlby is famous in Denmark. Steen Steesen Blicher (1782–1848), himself a Jutlander and a Parson, tells it in his Knitting Room Stories.

I first came across it myself in a volume by Phillips called Famous Cases of Circumstantial Evidence. The only date I have been able to find for Phillips is the year 1814, when “Chief Baron Gilbert was superseded as an authority on the English laws of evidence by the books of Phillips.” He may have found his account in the story by Blicher, although I think, from certain differences of detail, that he had another source, possibly the same one Blicher had. At all events, I am sure that the story of Sören Jensen Qvist is, in its main facts and in many of its details, and even in some of the speeches of important characters, history rather than fiction. It would be impossible as well as foolish to attempt an archeologically correct version of the legend. However, I believe that there is nothing in my account of the Parson of Vejlby which might not have happened as I tell it. He is one of a great company of men and women who have preferred to lose their lives rather than accept a universe without plan or without meaning.

There was said to be, before the presence of the Germans in Denmark, the cross in Aalsö churchyard which the Parson of Aalsö raised to the memory of his friend. I trust that it is still there.

J.L.

April 11, 1946

The Trial of Sören Qvist

One

The inn lay in a hollow, the low hill, wooded with leafless beech trees, rising behind it in a gentle round just high enough to break the good draft from the inn chimneys, so that on this chill day the smoke rose a little and then fell downward. The air was clouded with dampness. It was late November, late in the afternoon, but no sunlight came from the west, and to the east the sky was walled with cloud where the cold fog thickened above the shores of Jutland. There was a smell of sea in the air even these few miles inland, but the foot traveler who had come upon sight of the inn had been so close to the sea for so many days now that he was unaware of the salty fragrance.

The inn was familiar to him, and he thought he remembered what lay beyond the turn of the road as it circled the wooded hill and disappeared in shadow. Something in the aspect of the inn was also unfamiliar to him as he stood looking down at it from his side of the hollow where it lay shrouded in its own exhalations. The sign of the Golden Lion still hung above the door, although much of the fine bright yellow paint was gone from the wood. The last pale flakes were in tone now like the beech leaves which clung to the saplings at the edge of the denuded forest. When he had last seen it, the paint had been as fresh as buttercups. That was in the heyday of the king’s loves, when the inn had been named in honor of the king’s bastard children, all Golden Lions, the illegitimate children of the king being still more noble than the legitimate children of most people. Now that the king was old, and Denmark shrunken and impoverished by his reign, some of the Golden Lions had indeed shown themselves most noble. Others were quarreling among themselves. But here even in Jutland, which had suffered most from the King’s wars, the reign of Christian the Fourth was still considered glorious. Even the wayfarer looking down upon the Golden Lion, when he thought of the King, thought of him as splendid. Failing in health, blind in one eye ever since the great naval battle of the Kolberger Heide, and now turned sixty-nine, Christian was, in this year of 1646, even more the hero of his people than in his lusty and extravagant youth.

But there was more than loss of paint from the sign to change the appearance of the inn. The traveler had remembered it with an open door, light streaming out generously upon the road before it, and with people coming and going. This evening the door was closed and all the windows were shuttered. There was no one in sight. Something about the shape of the inn seemed changed, as well, but after slow searching in his memory the traveler concluded that it was not the inn itself, but its background and setting, that had suffered loss. Surely he could remember a small wooden dwelling just beyond the innyard, and another across the road from it, but these were gone now. The inn was no longer one of a group, but solitary.

This matter of closed doors and shuttered windows was not new to him since he had first entered the outlying districts of Jutland. He had come through inhospitable and half-deserted country. He had passed farms but poorly under cultivation, and farmhouses still unroofed in which the thick grass of Jutland grew above charred timbers fallen into the dwelling rooms. But he had somehow taken it for granted, in his slow mind, that when he reached his own county and his own parish, things would be as they had been, the doors open and the people kindly.

He went down the slight hill, limping, because the heel was gone from one boot, and the sole of the other had loosened, letting enter the sand and fine gravel. He approached the inn, and knocked. The Golden Lion hung above his head without creaking, so still and heavy was the air. A fawn-colored hound with a tail as long as a whip crept round the corner of the building and stared at him suspiciously with pale yellow eyes, then, hearing the door start open, turned and ran, the long tail curled under its belly. A young woman with a good tall figure, a firm bosom and straight shoulders, came out of the inn and closed the door behind her, holding one hand still upon the latch.

With her came the aroma of the inn. It clung to the heavy serge of her garments, and she stood before the stranger in a sensuous aureole of warm air. The smell of beer, of wood smoke, of roasting meat and fish, of wool and leather impregnated with grease and sweat, all the fine compounded flavor of conviviality and food assailed the nostrils of the stranger with such a promise of good things behind the closed door that the walls of his stomach drew together painfully. She waited for him to speak, hugging her arms against the cold. The stranger took off his wide-brimmed felt hat and held it under his right arm as he inquired humbly if she were the new mistress of the Golden Lion. Her eyes went briefly to the sign above their heads and then down to his coat, his shabby feet, as she answered yes, that she was the mistress.

“Then could you give me,” said he, “food and lodging for the night?”

Her eyes continued to appraise him, and although her presence was surrounded with warmth and the scent of hospitality, the eyes were reserved and unfriendly. The corner of her mouth lifted slightly as she answered:

“As a guest, or as a beggar?”

“Well, tonight,” he said, looking down also at his broken boots, and then, with embarrassment, at her cold, bright eyes, “tonight I am out of funds. But it might not always be that way,” he hastened to add. “And I am as near starved as ever I was.”

“But tonight,” said she, “I have guests—a wedding party—and the house is very crowded. I have no room for beggars.”

“I have been a soldier,” he said.

“We have no love for soldiers in these parts,” she answered.

“You should feed the hungry and lay yourself up treasure in heaven,” he said then, but not as if he believed very greatly in such treasure. “There will be plenty of scrapings if there is a party,” he added with more conviction.

She continued to appraise him with her eyes, as if she might find something to make her alter her refusal. That he was very tired was evident in the gray look of the skin and the drawn features. He had not been shaved in a long time. The lower part of his face was black with stubble, and the lank black hair, streaked slightly with gray, fell down in straggling ends upon the collar of his doublet. He wore no linen, but his doublet had once been exceeding fine, of a heavy padded crimson satin quilted in a diamond pattern with gold thread, and having skirts in the French style. It was filthy now, and splitting at the elbow. He might well have been a soldier. He wore above this fine French garment a heavy leather jerkin, and across this, diagonally over one shoulder and down to his belt, such a leather band as might have carried a pistol and knife. The left sleeve of the doublet was folded and tucked within the leather jerkin. It was empty from just above the elbow. His ragged serge breeches consorted ill with the crimson doublet. The hat which he held under his right arm was green with age and lacked both feather and buckle. The little green eyes in the fatigued countenance were fastened to those of the mistress of the inn with a look from which all expression had been drained save that of hunger. Neither the servility nor the fear remained. The appeal was too intense; she wished him away from the inn.

“We have no love for soldiers or for beggars,” she repeated. “You had best be going along.”

She had turned away and would have pressed down the latch save for his bitter exclamation.

“Going along! As if I hadn’t been going along for weeks now, and maybe months. So when I come back to my own parish, where I may be rich again someday—yes, rich and honorable—they tell me to be going along.” Then, as if the changes in the landscape might have indeed deceived him, he inquired, “This is truly Aalsö parish, isn’t it?”

“Truly enough,” she said, “and Aalsö village a few miles down the road if you keep going.”

“Then could you tell me one thing,” he said, “before you shut the door on me—just one thing?”

“And that’s what?” she asked.

“You know of one Morten Bruus?”

“Indeed, why not?” she answered shortly.

“Well, then, is he living or dead?”

“Dead,” she answered. “Dead since before St. John’s Day.”

The beggar, still holding his battered hat in his right hand, lifted his hand and rubbed the back of it slowly across his mouth, backward and forward several times, whether, as it seemed, to partly hide the smile on his lips or simply to express his satisfaction at the news. The satisfaction was most plain, and horrible. It shone in the small green eyes, grown strangely bright in that dulled countenance. At last he said:

“Dead almost half a year, you promise me?”

“Surely dead, dead as a stone,” she answered.

“Bear with me,” said the beggar. “It is a comfort to me to hear it said.”

“And to many another,” she replied. “Well, give you good night.”

This time she pressed her finger on the latch, and, in the silence, he heard it sprung.

“Wait one minute,” he cried. “If you will not take me in tonight, where will I bide? You would not, mistress, be so unkind as to shut a poor soldier out in the wet and the cold. You see for yourself how cold it is going to be. Is there no charity left in Jutland?”

The mistress of the Golden Lion shrugged her shoulders. “You might ask of the pastor,” she said.

“The pastor?” said the beggar. Then, as if the name were dredged from a deep, muddy memory, “That would be Pastor Peder Korf.”

“No,” she said briskly. “Peder Korf is dead, God rest him. The pastor now is Juste Pedersen, and a very good man he is, too.”

“Pastor Juste,” repeated the beggar. “Is he a kind man, and hospitable?”

“Kind as Sören Qvist,” she answered, pushing the door open a crack.

“So!” cried the beggar suddenly. “And did you know Pastor Sören?”

“How would I have known him?” said the woman. “I was not weaned in his day. It is only a way of speaking they have in these parts. Kind as Sören Qvist, generous as Sören Qvist—so the phrase goes. That is just the way they talk.”

“And do they never say angry as Sören Qvist?” said the beggar with a faint, evil grin.

The woman looked at him in some surprise, but made no answer, as if the question deserved none. The beggar, for a moment, seemed disposed to inquire further into this way of speaking. Then he settled his old hat on his head and, peering at her slyly from under the brim, said, in a beggar’s manner:

“I am a stranger in these parts—at least, I’ve been gone so long I’m as good as a stranger. But does the parsonage still stand where it used to?”

“Why would it be changed?” she said.

He did not reply, but looked at her oddly again from under the brim of his hat before he resumed his journey. In spite of the cold, the inn wife remained to watch him, her hand still on the latch, until his limping figure had rounded the bend in the road and quite disappeared from view. As she stood so, the door was pulled open behind her, and a man, coming to stand beside her, dropped his arm about her shoulders.

“What keeps you so long, lass?” he said. He was a well-favored fellow in his middle forties, his face ruddy and toughened, marked by few lines, and his thick blond hair fell evenly on a clean white linen collar. The inn wife turned toward him and smiled, and continued to look at him as if she were rinsing her vision of an unpleasant image.

“Only a beggar,” she said at last, “but a filthy animal, a son of the Bad One. He was asking about Morten Bruus. And now it seems to me that he looked oddly like Morten. Had Morten yet a brother?”

He shook his head. “Only the one you’ve heard of. And that was two too many whelps of the same breeding,” he said.

“He seemed pleased to hear of his death.”

“Even the beggars of the roads,” said the man.

In the room behind them someone began to sing, a good rich voice in a rolling stave that was taken up by the other merrymakers. The inn wife and her companion still stood without, the light from the open door pouring out around them and blurring upon the heavy air. The man presently said, without raising his voice, but his voice, close to the woman’s ear, distinct in every word:

“Morten Bruus, may God send him, though dead, a lasting and a feeling body to suffer all the torments of the flesh forever and ever. May his skin be torn from him in little pieces, each one no bigger than a fingernail. May worms devour his bowels, and his stomach be filled with broken glass, and the roof of his mouth scorched, his eyelids cut off, and his eyes open upon the fire that surrounds him, world without end. May God never permit him to repent of his life in order that he may never be forgiven for any deed of it. Amen.”

This unangered expression of a quiet, impersonal, and well-considered hatred came forth phrase by phrase in leisurely fashion to the accompaniment of the merry trolling within doors. “Amen,” said the inn wife, and the music continued.

Two

The one-armed beggar went on toward the village of Aalsö. After the nearness of warmth and nourishment withheld, the evening seemed increasingly lonely and the cold more penetrating. The twilight faded so slowly that the lessening of the light seemed rather a thickening of the air, as those night vapors considered full of harm and contagion gathered in the hollows of the road, in the low bushes, and in the shadows of the beechwoods. The fawn and umber tones of the dried weeds, the sandy road, in the gentle landscape were gradually obscured, and the faint pale gold of the stubble fields had no counterpart of pale gold in the sky. The beggar, in his soiled crimson doublet like a dying coal, moved on laboriously between the fields and hedges and came at last to Aalsö village. It was like the other villages of Jutland, diminished, closed, and dark, although so early in the night. It was inhabited, however, he could tell. Smoke issued from its chimneys. He turned from the highroad to a lane through a plowed and planted field and, feeling the landscape ever more familiar in its small details, crossed a plank bridge above a brook and found himself before a small whitewashed half-timbered dwelling.

It was surely the Aalsö parsonage; it was smaller than he remembered it. He had not come here as often as he had been sent, when he was a boy, but he remembered it. He stepped close to the door and knocked, and, as he waited for a sound from within, he put up his right hand and touched the blackened straw of the thatch which came down shawl-like about the doorway.

There should have been a jog in the wall to the right of him, and the higher roof of the unit which he remembered as the New Room. This was gone, and had been gone for some time; the older part of the house had been rethatched, and that portion of the wall of the New Room which remained had been leveled off at shoulder height and made to be the wall of a courtyard. He looked over the wall and saw that grass had grown between the bricks of the old floor. On the farther side of the courtyard was a small byre with a half-open doorway. As he looked, an old woman came through the doorway, carrying a ruffled brown hen under each arm. She did not see him at once, for she was picking her steps upon the uneven bricks; when she did glance up and observe him, she was frightened. She stopped short, then stepped back against the wall of the byre, holding her two brown hens in a closer embrace. For her, the outline of the broad and rakish hat, the long black hair, the gleam of crimson of the French doublet, meant the presence of a soldier, and, like the inn wife, she had no love for soldiers. However, after her first fright, she came forward staunchly, passed through the swinging wooden gate in the side wall, and so around to the spot where the stranger waited.

The stranger had never been skilled at begging, but whereas he had presented himself to the inn wife as one who had been a soldier, he now had wit enough to present himself as a beggar. He took off his battered hat and asked for food and shelter. There was a certain honesty in his servility; he was half starved, and shaken with fatigue.

The old woman had a kind face, a face full of wrinkles in a soft, fresh-colored skin. Her blue eyes were round and gentle, her head bound in a cap of dull blue camlet. The line of white which framed her face was not linen, but the smooth margin of white hair. She said:

“Do you come from far?”

“As far as from Hamburg within the last month. Before that, from Bohemia. But I was a boy in Aalsö parish. I did my catechism here,” he expatiated, “with Pastor Peder Korf.”

“Did you so?” she said, taking a step forward. “But did you look to find Pastor Peder?”

“They tell me that he is dead.”

She nodded.

“And that Pastor Juste is kind as Sören Qvist.”

She did not smile at this, but nodded again, seriously. “Yes,” she said, “he is kind. If you will wait now, I will go tell him that you are here.”

She edged by him and pushed the door open with her elbow, being careful not to joggle her hens, and pushed it shut again from within. She returned after a little time and let him into the kitchen of Aalsö parsonage.

The room was so dark that at first he saw nothing but the light of the fire on the raised hearth, but it was warm, warm and snug. He felt with pleasure the closeness of the walls, the nearness of the heavy beams in the low ceiling. He had been too long out of doors under a sky crowded either with wind or with massing fog. It was fine to feel a roof close over his head. He made his way across the brick floor to a stool near the hearth and sat down, holding out his hands to the fire. The old woman busied herself in the darker corner of the kitchen. He heard her wooden shoes clapping on the bricks, the swish and swing of her heavy skirts, and, behind him, the rustling of feathers, a few sleepy clucks. In a short time the old woman came bearing a wooden plate on which was a loaf of bread, uncut. She dragged a small bench near the hearth, set the plate upon it, and stood back, winding her hands in her dark blue apron. The beggar looked from the loaf to the old woman, standing there solidly with the light from the fire on her face, on her white smock and yellow bodice and her blue apron, watching him. The light was golden upon the glazed side of the loaf. He eyed it, then, since she did not move, reached out his hand toward it.

“Stop!” cried the old woman, dropping her apron and reaching toward the loaf herself. “You would not take my good loaf in your dirty hand, like that! Where is your knife? Cannot you cut yourself a piece, like a Christian man?”

“I have no knife,” said the beggar, taken aback. “If I had had a knife I would have traded it for a can of beer at the inn. So help me, I have no knife, and I could not use it with great skill if I had it.”

The old woman considered him. “Turn toward the fire,” she commanded him. Obediently he slewed around on his seat. “Very well,” she said, “you carry no knife on your back at least, and”—she hesitated a little, as if in slight apology—“I did not at first notice that your sleeve was empty. I saw a Spanish soldier,” she continued, “came with Wallenstein’s men, had a belt like yours over his shoulder and carried a long dagger in it, on his back. I will cut the bread. Were you ever a soldier?”

“Until I lost my arm,” he said. “But what can a man do with only one arm? Since then I am a beggar.”

When she had cut the bread, she gave him a slice of cheese as well, and she noted how the hand that reached for it shook with eagerness, and how, as the man ate, he seemed to forget where he was, and everything except the taste of food in his mouth. Watching him, as she had watched so many others here in the pastor’s kitchen, she felt her fear give way to pity, and having filled a pewter mug with beer, she set it close to the coals to warm. Starving men, starving animals, for over forty years this had been one of her duties, to feed them and to give them shelter. The bounty was less great now than in the old days because there was less to give. Still, what the pastor could bestow was for the homeless, and she had the bestowing of it.

“You can sleep in the byre,” she said. “It is clean enough, and the beasts make it warm.”

He consumed the bread and cheese to the last crumb, drank the warm beer, and sat, with his hand about the mug, staring into the fire for a few minutes before he spoke again.

Then he said, half to himself, “I have nothing, you see, not even a knife. Nothing at all but the rags I wear. But it may not always be so.” The warm beer in an empty stomach made him feel sorry for himself. It was pleasant to be sorry for himself beside a warm fire. Slowly his mind began to work again, and he remembered why he had come back to Aalsö. Surely it was not to study Luther’s Catechism in the New Room, which was now gone. But he had needed to see Pastor Peder. He said to the old woman cautiously, yet as if it did not concern him greatly, “Do you know one Morten Bruus?”

“Aye,” she answered without enthusiasm. “He was at one time of this parish.”

“Then he is dead? As I hear?”

“Yes, dead, and no one the sadder.”

“Surely not myself,” said the beggar. “Well, we cannot all be mourned.”

“We need not be hated,” said she.

“So he was hated, eh?” said the beggar.

“If you know his name, you know that he was hated,” she replied.

She rose to put away the remnant of the loaf in a wooden chest on the farther side of the fire, and he watched her regretfully but did not venture to protest. Beyond the chest was a door, the door to the parson’s bedroom, as he remembered, and in the wall beyond it, at right angles, was the alcove where the housekeeper’s pillows and quilts were piled. In all the years that he had been away he had not paused once to try to remember this room, but now that he was here again everything returned to his memory as being just as it had been, except that the door to the New Room was now walled up. As for the old woman, he seemed somehow to remember her, and yet the more he thought, the more it came to him that the pastor’s housekeeper had been a smaller woman, with sharp black eyes and a quick hand. She had not had the patience of Peder Korf.

“So the old pastor is dead,” he said at length. “Was it long since?”

The old woman seated herself on the bench in which she had bestowed the bread.

“Long since indeed,” she said. “I was young then. Well, at least I was but in my forties, and today that’s young.” She sighed, and the beggar inquired:

“It was not old age then that did away with the pastor. Like enough it was the plague.”

“A plague of Catholic bandits,” said the old woman. “A gang of Wallenstein’s men. May God never forgive them.”

The beggar considered. “Yes, that was long since I had not been long out of Jutland then.”

“Torstenson’s men were thieves and vandals also,” said the old woman, “but at least they were not Catholics but merely Swedes. Ah, but Jutland has suffered, suffered for all of Denmark. I wonder why God was willing to have us suffer so. But Wallenstein’s men were the worst.”

The beggar said nothing, and the old woman, speaking out of an old and deep sadness, continued:

“Everyone fled to the islands that had strength to move, or nearly everyone. Pastor wouldn’t go, and I stayed with Pastor. But when they came, and we saw the flames about Aalsö village and the nearby farms, I ran into the woods. Pastor stayed by the place. He was a brave man, Pastor Peder Korf. He said that his people might be running to him for help, and he meant to stay and protect them.” She paused, and the beggar kept silent, his head tipped forward, watching her from under his black brows with his little greenish eyes. She drew a deep breath and said, “When I came back to the place, Pastor was hanging from the beech tree, close by the door there, hanging by his beard—you remember his thick brown beard—and cut in many places; and he was dead. The house was burning. The cattle gone. Each last little hen was gone. There was a fire set in the barley field, that was ripe for mowing. I came back and stood here in front of this house and looked at him, and saw the turf all bloody under where he was hanging. They did that because they thought to mock him, to mock a priest for wearing a beard. You remember how thick and strong a beard he had, and how he used to tug at it with his fingers when he was thinking? The fire burned almost all night. Then, before morning, it began to rain. And so, year before last, when Torstenson came, we all hid. Pastor Juste went through the village and gathered all his people together, and we hid in the beechwood, and so we are still alive. The Swedes burned much and stole everything. Still, it was not quite so bad as when the Catholics came.” She stopped speaking. Then she said, “That God should make such men.”

“I was with Wallenstein’s men,” the beggar muttered, as if to himself. “I was with them in Bohemia. But,” he added piously, “when they took the road to Jutland, I left them. Not for anything would I have come back to soldier in Jutland.”

“God may take that into consideration when your time comes,” said the housekeeper, “that you burned houses only in another country. Well, it is late. Come. I will show you where you can sleep.”

The beggar picked up his hat from the floor beside him and stood up, unwillingly. He looked at the embers on the hearth, red-golden, translucent, showing, some of them, the exact shape of the twig or branch, transmuted but intact, and all veiled in a blue flickering.

“A pity to leave so good a fire,” he said.

The housekeeper stood with her hand on the door, waiting for him.

“I never thought to give food or drink to one of Wallenstein’s men,” was all she said.

“Well, thanks for the food,” said the soldier, “all the same.”

He moved limping toward the door, his hat in his hand, but turned once more to look back at the glowing hearth.

“I can surely see Pastor in the morning?” he asked.

The old woman answered by a nod.

“This Morten Bruus,” he said again, delaying his departure. “If all the farms in Jutland have been twice robbed, I suppose he can no longer be very rich. Were his buildings fired, like the others?”

“Oh no,” the old woman answered, “he had the devil’s protection on him, if you ask me. His buildings were never fired, nor his fields trampled, and he died the richest man in Vejlby parish, or in this one, too.”

“Do you say so? Well then.” The beggar considered this information and then inquired with an air of great caution, “Did he leave a rich widow, this fellow Bruus?”

“Never a wife, never a widow, nor any kith or kin,” said the old woman.

“Nor any friend? Did he leave his goods in gift to a friend?”

“Living or dead, he never gave anything to anyone, that I ever heard of,” she answered him. “You are very curious about Morten Bruus. Did you know him ever?”

The beggar stretched out his one arm in a gesture of exultation.

“That is what I shall tell the pastor in the morning,” he said. “I shall be rich. I have been the poorest and now I’ll be the richest. I am Morten’s brother Niels.” He gave a short laugh, the sound of which rung against the copper pans hanging upon the farther wall and echoed sharply back, with neither mirth nor friendship. The old woman lifted her head and drew back a step, exactly as if she had been struck in the face.

“So then,” she said with scorn. “Perhaps you were never with Wallenstein’s men, either. Perhaps I may forgive you that. A pig bit off your arm, doubtless, and you have come all the way from Aalborg, perhaps, but you have never been out of Jutland in all your life. This is a fine story about the brother of Morten Bruus, but you have come to the wrong house with it.” She pushed the door wide open and stood waiting for him to leave. The cold air poured in upon them from the blackness without. “You should be sent away for such lying,” she said, “but the pastor has said you might sleep with the beasts. Well, good night,” she added impatiently.

But the beggar stood his ground.

“I am not lying,” he said. “I am really the brother of Morten Bruus. I can prove it, since it’s true.”

“You are Niels Bruus?” said the old woman.

“Niels, the brother of Morten.”

“Oh, what a scurvy liar,” said the old woman with deeper scorn. “What a poor and pitiful liar. Listen to me. With my own eyes I saw the body of Niels Bruus dug out of the ground many, many years ago, and he was so long dead he stank. Yet you come and tell me that you are Niels Bruus.”

The effect of these words upon the beggar was strange. He stared at the old woman with eyes gone blank with astonishment, and his jaw sagged. Then he began to grin, a stupid evil grin, and then he broke into laughter. He struck his hat against his thigh to emphasize his enjoyment of her statement, and his laughter, filling the small room, seemed to her the most stupid, the most evil sound she had ever heard.

“Stop,” she cried. “Be quiet,” and stamped upon the brick floor with her wooden shoes, opposing one noise to another, in a kind of panic. “Are you gone crazy?”

The beggar paused in his laughter to ask, “And was my face all battered, mistress?” Then, as he saw her blench from him, “And did you see a fine lead earring in this ear?” and he pointed, with his hat, to his left ear.

The old woman’s face filled with horror. She lifted a hand and crossed herself, slowly.

“Tell me,” said the beggar, “did Parson Sören see me too? And smell me, ha? Tell me, who dug me up and where was I buried?”

The old woman, having retreated from him a few steps, stopped and, composing herself, her face full of loathing, placed both hands firmly on her hips and replied in a steady voice, as if she were exorcising a demon:

“I saw in Pastor Sören’s garden Morten Bruus himself strike the spade into the ground and uncover the body of Niels, his brother; I, and many others. It would take more than a beggar from Aalborg to make me think other than that Niels is dead and buried in Vejlby churchyard. Do you think to be rich with Morten’s money? Oh, what a fool!”

“But I know that the face was battered, and that the body wore my clothes, and that my lead earring was in the left ear, yes, just as I used to wear it. How do you think I know all that?”

The woman gave a shrug of the shoulders.

“Anyone can know all that,” she answered.

“Well, but I know more,” said the beggar. His voice became quiet and sly. “I know that Morten buried the body. That is why he could find it. It was,” he said, ever more sly and confidential, “a little joke that Morten played on Pastor Sören. Morten did not love the pastor, if you remember.”

His eyes were fixed upon the round blue eyes of the old woman, and he thought he saw a horrified belief grow slowly in those honest blue eyes.

“Yes,” he cried triumphantly, “a little joke that Morten played upon the pastor, and I can tell you all about it.”

The old woman turned her back upon him abruptly and crossed the kitchen to the pastor’s door. She knocked, her back still turned upon the beggar, then entered the pastor’s room and closed the door behind her.

The beggar could not stand still for excitement. He limped to the hearth and stood staring briefly at the golden embers under their veil of blue. Then he limped across the room to the wall in which once had been the door to the New Room. With that door gone, the kitchen seemed very small; aye, and with the door to the parson’s study closed. He looked at all the cupboards with shut doors and tried to remember in which one the old woman had locked the cheese; then, growing aware that his feet hurt him, he returned to the stool by the hearth and drew off his boots. The bricks were cold to his feet, but the air of the room was warmer than the wet and broken leather. He began to rub his feet with his hand, and was sitting so, stooped by the fire, when the door to the study swung open, and the old woman came back into the kitchen.

She was followed by an old man in a loose black gown that was furred at the neck but shabby. A fringe of white hair showed about the rim of his black skullcap. His face was lean and his figure slight and somewhat stooped. He moved forward silently, after the clacking footsteps of the housekeeper, because he was in his stockinged feet, and the quietness of his advance, together with his appearance of great age and gentleness, produced a certain awe within the beggar. The hilarity that had possessed him died away, although the excitement remained. He stood up and bobbed his head respectfully to the old man.

“Pastor Juste Pedersen,” said the old woman, “here is the man who claims to be the brother of Morten Bruus.”

“Sit down, my friend,” said the old man. “Sit down, Vibeke.”

He motioned toward the bench by the fire, and the housekeeper seated herself as she had been formerly. The pastor drew up a stool and seated himself so that he could face both the housekeeper and the beggar. The light from the hearth shone full upon him, gilding the shabby robe, the bosses of the high, bony forehead, the lean hands with heavy knuckles which lay quietly upon his knees.

“Now then,” said Pastor Juste sensibly, “let us get at the truth of this matter.” He looked the beggar over, unhurriedly, with the eye of a man who has had much experience at reading countenances, and the intense excitement held in check by the advance of authority did not escape him. “Vibeke Andersdaughter,” he said, “tells me that you claim to have been formerly of my parish, and that you now are come to demand the fortune of Morten Bruus. Tell me, how did it happen that you left this country in the first place?”

“Morten sent me away,” said the beggar.

“Ah! And when was it you left?”

The beggar considered.

“It was after harvest, and before snow. And the year, it was before Lutter-am-Barenberge. It was the autumn before the summer when the King was defeated at Lutter. Yes, that was it.”

“Were you perhaps at Lutter?” asked the pastor.

“I was at Lutter, yes.”

“Was it there that you lost your arm?”

“No, that was much later. I was at Lutter, with Wallenstein.”

“You mean to say that you fought against your King?” said the pastor.

“Well, Morten told me to get clear out of Jutland. So I went into Germany. And what could I do? It was winter; no one wanted a farm hand. But there was always fighting. Besides, Wallenstein paid much better than the King.”

“It has nothing to do with the case,” said the pastor, “still, I should be interested to know where you did lose your arm.”

“That was at Lützen,” said the beggar. “That was in ’thirty-two, I mind. We had a bad time at Lützen. And since then I beg.”

“It was a sorrowful thing for Jutland,” said the pastor, “the defeat of the King. Now, that was 1626, in August. So that I reckon that you left Jutland in the fall of 1625. You have been gone then full one and twenty years, and more than half that time you have been a beggar. Knowing that Morten was rich, and could have given you a home, why did you not return to Jutland, after Lützen?”

“I was afraid of Morten,” said the beggar without hesitation.

The pastor considered this.

“Did you then wrong your brother?”

“Oh no, Pastor, I never wronged him. I only did whatever he told me, and I was afraid of him. And he told me to stay out of Jutland.”

“Then,” inquired the pastor, “how did you come to hear of his death? Is the name of Morten Bruus known as far away as Lützen?”

“Well,” said the beggar, “as you say, twenty-one years is a long time, and I speak like a Jutlander still. People are much kinder to a man who doesn’t talk like a stranger. So in the end I came back to Slesvig, just a bit over the border, to hear a bit of natural talk. I was in Slesvig on a farm in the Black parish, and there was a man there who had once traded a horse from Morten. He had heard that Morten was dead, and he was telling his wife. So I heard it. So I came north. In Aebeltoft I heard it too. So it seemed safe to come home.”

“It is true that you speak like a Jutlander,” said the pastor. “Still, that alone is hardly enough to prove you Morten’s brother. Did anyone tell you that you resembled Morten?”

The beggar grinned and showed his blackened teeth.

“I was never so handsome as Morten,” he said.

“You were baptized in this parish?”

“But surely.”

“How old were you when you left Jutland?”

“I was eighteen years, I think.”

“And how old was Morten at that time?”

The beggar counted on his fingers.

“Morten was twenty-six years then. We were living at Ingvorstrup then, in Vejlby parish.”

“Since Peder Korf is gone, could you name anyone in this parish, or in Vejlby, who knew you when you were a boy?”

The beggar had to think a little while, and the first name that he brought forth caused the pastor to glance at Vibeke.

“It is a pity,” said the pastor, “that Erland Neilsen of Ingvorstrup was dead before my day. Think again.”

The beggar then, without great hesitation, tried half a dozen names, but at each of them the pastor shook his head.

“All these are either dead, or gone away, years since. Consider now, it is not enough that you know these names, and the ages of Niels and Morten. You could have learned any of this over a can of beer at the last inn. If you are to prove yourself Morten’s brother you must think of someone who can stand before us and swear to recognizing you.”

“Well, then,” said the beggar slowly, very slowly, “there could be Sören Qvist, who was pastor at Vejlby.”

At this the pastor and Vibeke again exchanged glances. Then the pastor rose.

“That about settles it,” he said.

“Settles what?” said the beggar.

“That you are not Niels Bruus. Look here, my friend. I am sorry for you. Since you are crippled and homeless, it is a great temptation to seek for wealth that does not belong to you. Still, you should know better than to set yourself up as being a man long since dead. There are those who would bring punishment upon you for pretending to be other than you are. Take my advice, and say no more about it.”

The beggar also rose to his feet.

“That is all very well to say talk no more about it, but I am telling the truth. I think I know who I am. And I have as much right to Morten’s money as any man alive. Perhaps you will be telling me Pastor Sören is gone too. Well, I forgot that he would be an old man, a very old man, even, but he was strong and hale when last I saw him, and he would remember me. Anna Sörensdaughter would remember me too, and she will not be old.”

He spoke vehemently, so much so that the pastor was constrained to lift his hand to quiet him. But Vibeke, the old Vibeke, now came forward and said:

“Pastor, I have been thinking. He has, as you have noticed, a strong look of Morten Bruus. There was always something we never understood about the whole affair. God help us all, I was sure there was witchcraft in it. God protect us, but indeed I think he is Niels. Make him stay and tell us what Morten buried, was it a dead cat or a wax baby like the wax babies of Kalmar. Tryg Thorwaldsen would know him, and Tryg is still alive.”

The pastor turned to the beggar. “Do you know a man by the name of Tryg Thorwaldsen?” he asked.

“The magistrate from Rosmos?” said the beggar. “Yes, I know him. Yes, he would know me. He was not one of my friends, but he is an honest man.”

“Are you willing to be questioned by him?” said the pastor.

“Yes, yes,” said the beggar. “Yes, I am willing. He is an honest man, and he will see that I come by my money. After all, I have a right to my money.”

“Then, in the morning,” said the pastor, “I will ride over and fetch him.”

“Oh, fetch him tonight!” cried the old woman.

“What need?” said Pastor Juste. “The man can sleep here, no matter who he is, and in the morning I can fetch Thorwaldsen. Or we can go together, all of us, to Rosmos.”

“Tonight, tonight!” cried the old Vibeke, catching at his arm with both her hands. The hands dug into his arm as if to steady themselves, but the pastor could feel how they trembled, and turning to look into her face, he saw that the blue eyes were almost black, the pupils distended in a great fear. He smiled to reassure her, laying his hand over hers.

“He will not vanish like an apparition,” he said.

“Ah, but he might,” she whispered. “You do not understand, you were not here when it happened.”

“But he has much to gain by staying,” said the pastor.

“Do you think I will run away, mistress?” said the beggar. “Oh no, oh no. Who would run away from a fortune like that of my brother Morten?”

“God might strike you dead before morning,” retorted the old woman. “Or the devil might put out a hand for you. Then we should never know.” But to the pastor she said, pleading, her heart in her voice, “Those of us who loved him have a right to know how it happened. Tryg has a right to know.”

The beggar interrupted harshly, “I have already told you how it happened. God’s wounds, the trouble is you don’t believe me.”

“That is true,” said the old woman. “With one breath I believe you are Niels. With the next, you are only a beggar of the roads has picked up part of an old story. How can I sleep in peace until someone else tells me, ‘Yes, it is Niels,’ or ‘No, it is not Niels; Niels is in Vejlby churchyard’?”

“It is indeed an old story,” said Pastor Juste.

“For you it is,” said Vibeke. “For me it is as if it had happened yesterday, and my heart aches, as it did then, and I am afraid, as I was then. I beg of you, go for Tryg tonight. Or, faith, I will go myself.”

The parson gave a half groan.

“It shall never be said of me I sent you on an errand at this hour of the night. I will go myself,” he said.

Three

Judge Tryg Thorwaldsen was entertaining guests, but he left his place at the table to greet the pastor from Aalsö. From the door at the head of the stairs, for the dining room was on the first floor, the pastor surveyed the company seated about the long oak table. The room was narrow, paneled with oak. On the one side a row of narrow casement windows overlooked the street. This night their leaded panes shone like black water, or, where the glass was set unevenly, caught the candlelight like small mirrors. The center of the table was a blaze of candles, the faces of the company bright in the glow, all the backs in silhouette. The light shone upon the silver tankards and crystal glasses, the ruddy cheeks, the well-combed hair, the fine white linen collars, upon a few starched and fluted ruffs, on good broadcloth and velvet, and, where there was velvet, upon some broad gold chains.

Thorwaldsen himself was in velvet, with a single gold chain; he wore a collar of white linen with the new square lappets. A man in his late forties, his hair was more gray than flaxen, and he wore it cut very short for the times. He had an extraordinarily long and bony face, with a wide, pleasant mouth and a long, bony chin; his eyes were honest and intelligent, and of a blue so steady and bright that they redeemed the general homeliness of his other features.

“I have guests of some importance,” he said courteously, “but if the matter is urgent, I can come with you.”

“It is not that I place great credence in the story of this beggar,” explained the pastor, “but that my housekeeper is distressed beyond reason.”

“I have an old regard for Vibeke Andersdaughter,” said Thorwaldsen. “I will come at once. Unless we can persuade you to stop for a glass of burgundy.”

“I thank you,” said the pastor, “but I am truly uneasy at leaving her. I should like to return at once.”

He waited for Thorwaldsen in the close darkness at the foot of the stairs, and when the magistrate had joined him they stepped together out of doors, still waiting for their horses to be brought. The outer darkness was less intense than that within doors. A pallor overhung the housetops, and from this pallor a few stars emerged, like snow that did not fall. The night was very cold. The pastor protested at the delay.

“You need not be so uneasy about Vibeke,” said Thorwaldsen. “She is still hale, and I warrant her a match for any one-armed man.”

“It is not that,” the pastor answered. “She is afraid of something unnatural. I too have the feeling that something evil is encamped by my hearth. It is hard to explain.

“I am not sure this beggar is malevolent. Rather, he seems to me stupid, only. I am reminded of what I was once taught concerning the nature of demons, that they are demons by virtue of their very incompleteness. The evil of this man lies in what he lacks.

“Do you think he could actually be Niels Bruus?”

“I have been convinced for twenty-one years,” said Thorwaldsen, “that I saw Niels buried in Vejlby churchyard.”

“He has a very strong look of Morten Bruus,” said the old pastor.

“That might well be,” said the other. “Bruus was not an outlander. Although he had no close living kindred, he had any number of forty-second cousins.”

The horses were brought then, and they mounted. For a time they rode together. Thorwaldsen said:

“Twenty-one years is a long time, and yet tonight it looks not half so long to me as it seemed when I was twenty-one and looked forward into it.”

“It is a great pity,” said the pastor, jogging by his side, “to have to dig up and bring to light, as it were, this tragedy so long buried and, in some part, forgotten. It must be painful to you, and I am sorry that I have to recall it to you.”

Thorwaldsen said, simply, “It is the one real sorrow of my life.”

The pastor sighed and said, “You must have loved your wife very much.”

“She was not my wife,” answered Thorwaldsen. “We were betrothed.”

“It is all the same thing,” said the pastor, in the innocence of his heart.

“It is not the same at all,” answered the other, “because if she had been my wife, she would not have left me. At least, I think that she would not have done so.”

“You must pardon me,” said the pastor, “if I am not well informed. I was not in Jutland at the time. As you may remember, I came only in ’twenty-nine.”

“I am not very good at remembering dates,” said Tryg Thorwaldsen, “but I do remember that you came after the peace. Well, you must have heard plenty of it, even then.”

“Very much,” said the pastor, “and sometimes things contradictory. It was even then taking on the shape of a legend. As was most natural. But it was so much spoken of that when I heard this beggar call for Sören Qvist as a witness, I concluded that he must know nothing whatever about the true story. In short, I took him to be a fraud.”

“Could he not,” said the magistrate, “have pretended to know nothing of the fate of Sören Qvist in order to assume an innocence? He would hardly care to put his neck into a noose even for Morten’s fortune.”

“You think it hazardous, then, to be Niels Bruus?” asked the pastor.

“There is that possibility,” said Tryg.

“I think he has no sense of such a hazard,” said the pastor. “Nor are his wits nimble enough for such a calculation. But consider, that if Morten sent his brother out of Jutland before the corpse was dug from the ground, then his brother would not be likely to know anything of what befell thereafter. It seems to me this beggar may be Niels.”

“I was acquainted with Niels, living,” said Thorwaldsen. “I never doubted but that I saw him buried in Vejlby churchyard.”

The pastor did not reply. The finality in the magistrate’s words was matched with doubt in his own mind, but, after all, he had taken Thorwaldsen from his warm room and his companions not so much for the sake of a beggar who might or might not come into a fortune as to quiet the fear of old Vibeke.

When the road grew narrow, the magistrate took the lead. Overhead more stars appeared, blurred and bright, although on earth the mist remained thick; it lay clouded among the trees and over the fields; the breath from the nostrils of the horses showed mist within mist. The air stung and clung to the face. Perhaps it was clearing overhead in preparation for a more intense cold. The pastor, still thinking of Vibeke, wished they might travel faster.

As for Tryg Thorwaldsen, he pushed forward through the darkness and mist as if he were pushing through time, but backward, year by year, slowly back to his young manhood and the vehemence and vigor of his youth. Through the darkness faces appeared to him, touched with spring sunlight, touched with tears, and an old sorrow and longing that he thought he had put aside resumed its old power. He thought, “The past is never dead. Within ourselves it becomes a part of ourselves, and lives as we do, and beyond us it becomes a part of the popular speech. When the story is forgotten, the phrase survives. ‘As kind as Sören Qvist.’ I heard the saying only this morning in Vejlby market.” It was usual. He had heard it so often that he had not paused to remark it, or to consider it as a herald of any return of the past. Then, might the past return? he asked himself.

He drew rein suddenly and, turning in his saddle, waited for the pastor to overtake him.

“I was abrupt, Pastor Juste,” he said. “Pardon me. It is incredible to me that your beggar should be Niels, yet, if it is so, I shall have a search to make through every village and farm, yes, and every city in Skaane, though it should take me the rest of my life.”

“And for whom would you search?” inquired the old pastor hesitantly, hearing the passion in the quiet voice.

“Why, for Anna Sörensdaughter.” Thorwaldsen spoke very low. The name drifted to the old man, through the darkness, through the chill air, like some petal loosened from a flowering bough remote in spring.

“Through every village, every farm,” said Thorwaldsen again.

Four

After Vibeke had seen the pastor cloaked and mounted and upon his way to Vejlby, she brought fresh wood to the fire and then, latching the door against a slight wind that seemed to be rising from the west, returned to her seat behind the fire. The beggar had not stirred from his place on the other side of the hearth.

Vibeke was learning afresh that doubt is a dreadful torment. And twenty-one years is a long time over which to recall a face of which you never took especial note. The excitement which had possessed the beggar a short time before had died away, and a greater fatigue had taken its place. He stared into the fire with eyes grown dull. Vibeke, watching him, thought again that the narrow forehead and the long nose with the remarkably long and narrow nostrils were very like the features of Niels Bruus. But the lines of the face were all cut much deeper than in the face she remembered, and the black stubble of the unshaved beard darkened them about the mouth and chin in an unremembered way. The lank black hair was like that of Niels. But, on the other hand, now that so much depended upon it, the likeness seemed not so great. And he had been one of Wallenstein’s men, Wallenstein who had been for two years and a half the scourge and terror of Jutland. He had said that he had no knife, but you could never trust a man who had been with Wallenstein. Perhaps this story of his was just a trick to get money, as the parson had suggested, or even, since he was so near starved and had been turned from the inn, a device to get a meal and a lodging for the night. She watched him carefully, lest he slip his hand into his pocket, or into his breast, and come forth with a knife, and the more she watched him, the more certain she became that he was only an impostor, and she wished that she were not alone in the house with him. She wished that she could send him out to the byre and lock the door upon him. But he would not stir; she knew that. He was waiting for the return of Parson Juste and the magistrate, and he was there by her own demand. He was calm enough about it now for anyone who knew himself to be a fraud. You would think he might be frightened at the thought of being questioned by so great a man as Judge Thorwaldsen. Indeed, he had not seemed pleased at the idea. Perhaps he would yet be frightened, and slip out before they came. Or perhaps he meant to strike her down and rob the house and escape. She watched him very carefully, and she reckoned that, even if he drew a knife, she could seize the parson’s stool and strike him with it.

And then, the more she watched him, the more the face again began to resemble that of Niels, and the beggar became a man who had been dug from the ground before her very eyes. She remembered again how awfully the corpse had stunk, and the odor of filth which surrounded the beggar became to her nostrils the odor of corruption. A deep unholy terror possessed her. This was not Niels returned to explain the corpse, but the corpse of Niels returned to harry the soul of old Vibeke. She sat very still for fear that her fear would cross the small intervening space to the living corpse and that he would know his power over her. Little by little she forced her fear of him back, but only by the power of a greater fear, that he should know she feared him. She thought that if he talked, he would have less time to think of what harm he might do. She felt also that she would be less frightened if she spoke. So she began:

“That must have been a dreadful battle when you lost your arm.”

“Aye,” he said.

“And a long time ago. Fourteen years you have been doing without that arm.”

“So long?” he said. “I hadn’t counted.”

“I cannot write but I can reckon,” said Vibeke.

“Fourteen years of begging. And all that time you never once came near Jutland?”

“As I told you,” he said.

“Nor met a Jutlander?”

“Mistress Vibeke,” said the beggar, “you ask me questions. Parson asks me questions. Master Thorwaldsen will ask more questions. I can wait until Parson and Magistrate come back, and answer them all at once.”

Vibeke gave a short laugh.

“No doubt but you are a Jutlander, whatever else,” she said.

The beggar lifted his shoulders, let them drop in a slow shrug.

“I answer questions. You do not believe me. Why do I waste my breath?”

There was justice in the remark, so that Vibeke did not reply. They sat, one on each side of the fire, in silence, while Vibeke’s fear grew larger and pressed against her heart, as she said to herself, like an indigestion. Presently the beggar said:

“As you know something about it, how would you reckon Morten’s wealth?”

“In money, I would not know,” said the old woman. “In land, he had more than when he was born.”

“You are a Jutlander also,” said the beggar.

“But I know this,” said she. “The one that inherits the wealth will inherit no good will with it.”

Again the beggar lifted his shoulders in that sluggish gesture of unconcern.

“Who has wealth needs no good will,” he said.

“Never believe that,” said the old woman.

The beggar made no answer, and they waited, Vibeke never taking her eyes from the figure across from her, the beggar now and again stealing a covert glance at the old woman from beneath his heavy slanting brows. The time went slowly. Only once again did the beggar open his lips.

“Yet how should Master Thorwaldsen know Niels?” he said. “How many times did he meet Niels on the road, or at the market, and stop to speak with him? I shall ask for Anna Sörensdaughter, I shall.”

Vibeke pressed her old lips more firmly together. The beggar continued to stare into the fire. Not for the world would she let him know what tenderness, what sense of loss the mention of that name brought into this hour of fear and dislike. She closed her eyelids slowly to press away the tears that gathered; opened them again upon a blurred figure in the firelight.

The coming of Judge Tryg Thorwaldsen and Pastor Juste changed all this. An eddy of damp air entered with them and made the chimney smoke. Vibeke ran to take the judge’s cloak, to help the pastor off with his boots. At Thorwaldsen’s command she drew up a trestle table to the middle of the floor, set chairs, brought candles, replenished the fire. The low roof seemed lower still because of the height of Thorwaldsen’s figure, and the room smaller because of the shift of furniture.

“We will have light,” said the judge, “so that I can look well at this man. And, Pastor, fetch your paper and ink. We will have a record of all that is said. Sit here by the table, Pastor. Vibeke, set the lights here.”

The door being shut, the chimney drew properly again. The air cleared. The candle flames steadied themselves. Vibeke brought a pewter mug of beer and set it by the fire to warm for Judge Tryg Thorwaldsen. They began with the examination.

“It is established,” said Pastor Juste, “that we have here a man who declares himself to be Niels, the brother of Morten Bruus, lately of Ingvorstrup in the parish of Vejlby. He further deposes that he left the province of Jutland in nutting time in the autumn before the defeat of King Christian, whom God save, at Lutter-am-Barenberge. That would have been, then, shall we say, in October 1625?”

The judge nodded. “As you say, Pastor Juste.” The beggar also assented.

“Then, having been a soldier for seven years, off and on, he lost an arm at Lützen, and that would be in 1632.”

Again Tryg nodded and the beggar copied him.

“He then begged his bread throughout the German duchies, as also in Bohemia and in Slesvig-Holstein, for the space of fourteen years. He is now returned to Aalsö parish in the month of November, and the year 1646, to lay claim to the fortune of his brother Morten. He has as yet called upon no one living and able to identify him.”

“Write that all down,” said Tryg, and after a pause the pastor answered, “It is written.”

“And now, Master Thorwaldsen,” said the beggar, “do you not remember Niels Bruus?”

“You could be Niels,” said Thorwaldsen. “Or you could not be. I was present when they buried the body of Niels—so called.”

The beggar grinned at that, and Tryg said, “I hope that you understand that it is a serious matter for you to represent yourself as someone other than you are. You stand in the way of a heavy penalty if you should fail to prove yourself Niels Bruus.”

“Anna Sörensdaughter will identify me,” said the beggar with confidence.

The judge looked at him for a long moment without stirring, almost as if he had not spoken. Then he said, “Let me question you a little. You have asked us to remember Niels. If you are Niels, you will remember something of Vejlby, and of Aalsö. You were a boy here. Did you do your catechism with Pastor Qvist?”

The beggar shook his head. “With Pastor Peder Korf,” he said, and added piously, “I did it none too well, more’s the pity.”

“But why not with Pastor Sören?” inquired the judge. “You were of his parish.”

The beggar shrugged his shoulders. “We were none too good friends with Pastor Sören when I was a boy. Morten had quarrels with him, and Morten sent me to Pastor Korf. I did not always come when I was sent.”

The judge considered this awhile and then said, “You must have known Vejlby well, however. Tell me something of Vejlby. The inn there—tell me, what was the name of the inn at Vejlby and where did it stand?”

“That is easy,” said the beggar. “Everyone knows that the name of the inn was the Red Horse, and it stood on the market street, facing the east.”

Juste Pedersen was about to interrupt, when Tryg checked him with a motion of his hand.

“Was there anything else you can remember about the Red Horse Inn?” he inquired.

The beggar had a faint smile. “It was also called the Sign of the Three-legged Horse,” he said.

“He is wrong enough there,” said Pastor Juste, “but he has probably been at a great many inns in his day, and perhaps we should not reckon this too seriously.”

“But he is not wrong,” said the judge. “When the Germans came, they burned the inn, and the new inn stands, as you are thinking, in quite another spot and has another name, but the old inn stood, as he says, on the market street facing east, and the artist who made the sign, for reasons of his own, painted the red horse with three legs.” He reached into his pocket for a white linen handkerchief and wiped his hands upon it nervously. “In a horse-trading country, Pastor Juste, you will grant that even the churls remember a horse with three legs. But your memory is not always so clear,” he said, turning again to the beggar, “and one thing else puzzles me. Why have you not asked Vibeke Andersdaughter to identify you?”

“Ah, she,” said the beggar. “I have been a long time trying to remember her name. I know now. She was Pastor Sören’s housekeeper in the old days. She has changed. She is old now. Besides, I never paid much attention to her.”

Tryg looked at Vibeke. She answered slowly, “He might be Niels Bruus. I think he is Niels Bruus.”

“Well, am I not Niels Bruus now?” demanded the beggar. “You say so—Vibeke says so.”

“There is nothing so far,” said Tryg very slowly, “to prove that you are not Niels Bruus. The whole matter now lies in how honest an explanation you can give . . .” He paused, and the beggar took the words out of his mouth.

“Of the corpse in the garden, eh? Well, I will tell you.”

“Speak a little slowly,” said Juste. “I cannot write too fast.”

“Well,” said the beggar, “as you know, I was a servant to Pastor Sören Qvist.”

“Tell me,” said Tryg curiously, “you that left Jutland because you were afraid of Morten, were you never afraid of Pastor Sören?”

“Oh no,” said the beggar promptly. “The pastor was a good man. Even when he was angry, and struck me, I was not afraid of him, for he was still a good man. But Morten—Morten had always a kind of devil in him. Even when we were children I was always afraid of him. He was always much cleverer than I. He was older, too, and more handsome, but he was always cleverer. And always I did what he told me to. So when he told me to plague the pastor and make him angry; I did. Then Morten rewarded me. Morten did not love the pastor. Do you understand?”

“I begin to understand,” said Thorwaldsen. “Go on.”

“Then one day I made Pastor angry and he knocked me down. I remember it was nutting time. I ran home to Morten and told him what had happened, and he praised me and gave me good food. Then he locked me up. I thought that was strange, but Morten was cleverer than I. Master Thorwaldsen, cannot I have one swig from your mug? It makes me thirsty to talk so much.”

The judge swore under his breath, but pushed the pewter mug toward the beggar, who drank, and drank again. Finally he set the mug on the table, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his crimson doublet, and went on with his story.

“Morten locked me up until midnight. This was at Ingvorstrup. Then he came, and he gave me a spade to carry. We went out toward Revn, and beyond, as well as I could tell, but we stopped at a crossroads. There was a suicide buried, not many days before. Morten said dig, and I dug, but Morten pulled the body out of the ground. I was frightened. I had not been a soldier then. I was not used to such things. Neither had the suicide been exorcised.” He shuddered, and Vibeke crossed herself.

“We made the earth smooth again, and tramped on it to make it just as it had been. He hid the body in a beechwood, and we went back to Ingvorstrup. The sky was already getting light when we reached home. Then Morten locked me up again. The next night he came and fetched me, and took me to the beechwood. There he made me undress. Then he undressed the corpse. I tell you, I was frightened, and I asked him what he thought he was going to do, and he told me he was going to play a little trick on Pastor Sören, and that I should ask no more questions. Then he made me dress in the clothes of the suicide. That I did not like. And he dressed the body in my clothes, with everything I had been wearing, even to my earring. I had only one earring. Even that he took.

“Then he struck the dead man in the face with the spade two or three times, and once on the crown of the head, and he said, laughing, ‘That is to make him look more like you.’ Then he put the body in a sack that he had brought with him, and he said to me, ‘Carry the sack.’ ‘No,’ I said, but I had to carry it all the same.”

The beggar paused and looked into the mug, which was empty, and no one offered to refill it.

“I had to carry the sack all the way to Vejlby to the road that runs east of the pastor’s garden to Tolstrup. I tell you, it was heavy. But Morten carried the spade. There we went into the wood that is on the hillside overlooking the garden, and we waited, and watched the road and the parsonage for some time. It was moonlight and we could see very well. But everything was still. No one came on the road. By and by Morten said to me, ‘Go down to the house, to Parson’s room, and bring me back his nightcap and his dressing gown.’ But that he did not make me do. I was too frightened. I should have fallen on my knees before the hedge if I had tried to do that.

“Then Morten said, ‘I will go myself,’ and he left me, with the sack alone in the woods. I swear to you, I wished that I had never seen my brother Morten. I cursed him and I cursed the hour. But he came back after a little while, and he was wearing the dressing gown and the nightcap, and never a cat had heard him. He was clever, oh, he was. He reached into his pocket, then, and took out a little leather bag. I heard it go clink.

“He untied the bag, and he poured out on the ground a little pile of silver. No, a big pile of silver. I had never seen so much money all at once before—no, nor since. Then he made me hold the bag, and he counted the money back into it, a piece at a time. There were one hundred rix-dollars. The moonlight came through the leaves and shone on every piece, so that he knew I could see that they were all good.

“He said, ‘I am going to play a little trick on Pastor Sören, and you talk too much. You must go out of Jutland. I will give you that bag which you hold in your hands, but if you ever so much as show your nose in Jutland again, I will say that you stole the money, and have you hanged for it. Go now, and remember, my word against yours, and I am much cleverer than you.’ Such a brother he was.

“I went that night as far as I could. I slept by day, and traveled by night, until I was in South Jutland. At first it was not so bad. When the money was gone, I joined with Wallenstein. After I lost my arm it was worse. I have had a bad time of it, all told, but now I shall be rich. He laughs best who lives longest, eh? This time I am cleverer than Morten, for I am still alive.” He looked again into the pewter mug, then turned it upside down upon the table and waited, grinning hopefully.

Vibeke had not taken her eyes from the face of the one-armed man during this long recital. He had spoken with a slowness which in its way testified to his honesty, for he seemed never to have made this speech before. Indeed, it might have been surmised that he had avoided the subject even in his thought, turning his back upon it whenever it had edged into his conscious vision. When he had finished speaking, she stared at him unmoving for a long full minute and then dropped her face into her hands and began to weep. She wept as women do who have restrained their tears for a long time. She wept as if her heart would break. Judge Thorwaldsen also dropped his head in his hands, as if struck with a mighty contrition. Only Pastor Juste, whose head had been bent above his paper, laid down his quill, lifted his head, and, leaning back in his chair, stared at the beggar with eyes unclouded by sorrow but so intent that they might have run him through with their sharp light. The beggar, looking in surprise from the bowed head of the magistrate to the shielded face of Vibeke, brought back his eyes to the eyes of Juste, but could not sustain the narrowed steady gaze. His eyes faltered, turned aside; he sat looking at the floor. Suddenly Pastor Juste slapped his hand upon the table. He cried:

“But this man is a murderer!”

“Oh no,” said the beggar, looking up quickly. “The corpse was a suicide. I swear to you it was a suicide. We never killed it.”

“Fool, fool,” said Juste, “the suicide is of no importance. This man is the murderer of Sören Qvist.”

The beggar actually stood up at this, then, his knees giving way, sank slowly back upon his stool. “No, Pastor, no!” he said. “Morten never touched Pastor Sören. Nor I, neither. Pastor was sleeping in his bed. Morten only took the dressing gown.”