Читать книгу Thy Soul Shall Bear Witness (Historical Novel) - Selma Lagerlöf - Страница 4

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On this same New Year's Eve, but so late that it : was night and quite dark, three fellows were sitting drinking ale and Schnapps in the little shrubbery surrounding the city church. They had thrown themselves down on "a withered grass-plot, beneath some lime-trees, the black branches of which gleamed with moisture. Earlier in the evening they had gathered together in a lap-room, but, after closing time, they sat out-of-doors, as they knew that it was New Year's Eve, and for that reason they had betaken themselves to the shrubbery. They wanted to be near the steeple-clock, so as not to miss hearing when it was time to drink a toast to the New Year.

They were not sitting in darkness, but had abundance of light from the gleams thrown on the shrubbery by the electric lamps in the surrounding streets. Two of them were old and down-at-heel; a couple of unlucky tramps who had slunk into the town to swill up the coppers they had amassed by begging. The third was a man somewhat past thirty. He, like the others, was very shabbily dressed, but he was tall and well built, and seemed to be sound of limb and stalwart.

They were afraid of being discovered and driven off by the police, and that was the reason of their sitting close together, so that they might talk in low tones, almost in whispers. The younger fellow was doing the talking, and the other two were listening with-such rapt attention that they let the bottles he for a long while undisturbed.

"Once upon a time I had a chum," said the speaker, and his voice took a serious, almost eerie tone, while a gleam of cunning lit up his eyes, " who was always quite unlike his usual self on New Year's Eve. Not because he had on that day gone through his big account books and was dissatisfied with his year's profits, but simply because he had heard tell of something dangerous and mysterious which might befall anybody on that day. I assure you, friends, that he used to sit silent and anxious from morning to night, and would not once look at a drink. He was not a moody man otherwise, but it would have been as impossible to get him out on a New Year's Eve—for a little spree such as this— as it would be for one of you two to be hail-fellow-well-met with the Lord Lieutenant.

"Ah, well! I suppose you are wondering what he was afraid of. It was something of a job to get that out of him, but on one occasion; however, he told me what it was. Perhaps you Would not care to hear it to-night ? It does feel a bit dismal in a shrubbery like this, which, likely enough, may have been a graveyard in bygone days. What do you think ? "

As the two tramps naturally protested that they did not know what it was to be afraid of ghosts he proceeded to tell the story.

"He had come of a rather superior class, this man I'm telling you about. He had been a student at Upsala University, so he knew a little bit more than fellows like us, you see. And mark you, gentlemen, he kept sober and quiet on New Year's Eve simply so as not to get mixed up in a fight, or expose himself to the risk of any accident, and so come to die on that day. He did not care a rap if he met his death on any other day whatsoever, provided only that nothing fatal befell him on New Year's Eve, for in that case he believed that he would be made to drive the death-cart."

"The death-cart? " repeated his two hearers together, in a tone of interrogation.

The tall fellow amused himself by whetting their curiosity, asking them if they really wanted to hear the story just where they were sitting; but they were eager for him to go on with it.

"Well, this friend of mine," he continued, " always used to assert that there is an old, old cart, of the sort which peasants use for carrying their goods to market, but so dilapidated that it never ought to exhibit itself on the king's highway. It is so bespattered with mud, so dusty and dirty, that one can hardly see what it is made of. Its shafts are flawed, its fellies sit so loosely that they rattle, the wheels have not seen grease within the memory of man, and creak in a way to drive one crazy. Its bottom is rotten, and the driver's cushion is tattered and torn, and half the back of the seat has been broken off. And' this' cart has an old, old horse that is one-eyed, lame, and grey with age in mane and tail. It is so skinny that its spine sticks up like a saw beneath its skin, and all its ribs can be counted. It is stiff-legged, lazy, and ill-disposed, and moves no faster than a young child crawls. For the horse there is harness that is worn out and motheaten, it has lost all its buckles and clasps, and the pieces are joined together with odds and ends of sail twine and birch twigs. It cannot boast a single boss of brass or silver, but only a few sparse tassels of yarn, which are a disfigurement and not an ornament. The reins are in keeping with the harness, for they consist solely of knot upon knot— they have been mended so often that nobody can make any "further use of them."

He got up and screeched out his hand for the bottle, perhaps give his audience time to reflect on that they had heard.

"Perhaps you think this sounds too much like romancing," he said, resuming his story; "but see, the fact is that, besides the harness and the wretched reins, there is a driver, who sits crooked and loathsome on the tattered seat, and drives the old horse. He is blue-black on the lips and grey-blue on the cheeks, and his eyes are as sombre as broken mirrors. He is clad in a long black stained monkish habit, with a cowl which he pulls down over his face, and in his hand he holds a blunt and rusty scythe in a long handle. And, mark you, the man who sits driving, with those reins tied together, is no ordinary driver, but is in the service of a grim master whose name is Death. Night and day he needs must fare on his master's errands. Directly anyone is doomed to die—understand that, friends—it is his duty to be on the spot. He comes rattling along in his creaking old cart, as fast as the lame horse can drag him."

The narrator paused, and tried to get a glimpse of his companions' faces. When he discovered that they were as attentive as he could possibly desire he, went on with his story.

"You have possibly seen some picture or other of Death, and you have perhaps noticed that, for the most part, he goes on foot. That is not Death himself, but only his driver. Look you, one might think that, so high and mighty a lord maybe' will garner none but the very finest crops, and will leave to his driver the care of the poor little straws and weeds that grow by the wayside. But now you must pay attention to the most curious thing in this story. Well, the legend is that, though there is always the same cart and the same horse to make the rounds in this particular business, yet it is not always the same driver. That grim figure will be the last man or woman who dies during the year—the one who gives up the ghost just as the clock strikes twelve on New Year's Eve—and is foredoomed to. become Death's driver. His corpse will be buried like all other corpses, but his wraith must don the monk's habit, grasp the scythe, and journey round from one house of death to another for a whole year, till he or she is released on the next New Year's Eve.

He ended his story, and gazed at his undersized companions with a look of crafty expectation. He noticed that they were looking in a fruitless effort to see what time the church clock was pointing to.

"The clock has just struck a quarter to twelve," he informed them, "so you need not have the slightest doubt that the fateful hour has come. Now perhaps you understand what it was that my friend dreaded—nothing except that he might die just when the clock struck twelve on New Year's Eve, and that he might be compelled to become the ghastly driver I have told you about. All that day, I believe, he used to sit and imagine that he could hear, the death-cart creaking and rattling. And, mark you, gentlemen, the curious part of it is that he is said to have died last year on that very same New Year's Eve."

"Did he die immediately before the New Year was ushered in ? "

"All I know is that he died on New Year's Eve, but I've never found out the exact time. Well, well, I might have predicted that he would die at that very hour, because he sat worrying himself about it. If you two got that idea into your heads, likely enough the same fate would overtake you."

The two puny fellows, as if by mutual agreement, each clutched the neck of a bottle and took a long pull, after which they began slowly and awkwardly to stagger to their feet.

"But, friends, surely you would never dream of going your ways before the stroke, of midnight?" cried the narrator, when he saw that he had succeeded all too well in frightening them. " I can never really believe that you attach the least importance to such an old wife's story as.this. Bear in mind that my friend was rather a weakling—not like us, of good, sound old Swedish stock. Come now, will you take a drink and sit down again ? It will, I think, be just as we'll," he went on, when he had got them down on the grass, " for us to keep our seats. This is the first place where I've had a rest since morning. Everywhere else I was attacked by the Salvation Army people, who want me to go to Sister Edith, who, "so they say, is dying. But I made excuses. Nobody for choice would let himself in for such a beastly sermonising as I should get."

The two tramps, their brains clouded by their last heavy pull at the Schnapps bottle, both bounced up at hearing Sister Edith's name mentioned, and asked if she was the one who was managing the Slum Rescue in that town.

"Yes, right enough, she's the one! replied the younger man. "She has been honouring me with her special attentions all this year. I hope she isn't one of your intimate acquaintances, in which case your grief would be terrible." It was not unlikely that the two tramps retained , some "recollection of a kindness Sister Edith had shown them. " They asserted with dogged determination that, according to their view of the matter, if Sister Edith wanted to meet somebody, no matter who he or she might be, it was that person's plain duty to go to her at once.

"Ha! that's your opinion, is it ? " said their companion. " Well, I will go, if you, whose acquaintance with me is somewhat slight, can tell me what pleasure it would give Sister Edith to meet me."

Neither of the two vagabonds condescended to answer" his question; all they did was to insist on his taking himself off, and, when he repeatedly refused to do so and got irritated with them, they flew into such a violent rage as to declare that, if he would not go of his own accord, they would give him a sound thrashing. Thereupon they got on their feet and rolled up their coat-sleeves to attack him.

Their adversary, who was quite aware that he was the biggest and strongest man in the whole town, was moved with a sudden sympathy for the wretched weaklings.

"If you must needs have it that way," he cried. "of course I am ready whenever you please; but I venture to say that I think, gentlemen, that we might as well make up this quarrel, especially if you bear in mind what I have just told you."

The tipsy fellows hardly knew what had upset their tempers, but their lust for battle was whetted, and they hurled themselves on their companion with clenched fists. So confident-was he of his superiority that he did not trouble to stand up, but remained sitting on the ground. He merely stretched out his arms and warded off his adversaries right and left; as if they had been a pair of puppies. But, like puppies, they returned to the attack, and one of them managed to deal the big man a doughty blow on the chest. The moment afterwards the latter felt something hot rising.in his throat and filling his mouth. As he was aware that one of his lungs was gone, he suspected this to be the starting of a hemorrhage. He stopped fighting and threw himself on the ground, a stream of blood gushed over his lips.

This was of itself a grave misfortune, but what rendered it almost irretrievable was that his companions, when they felt the warm blood spraying over their hands and saw him sinking down, on the ground, believed that they had murdered him, and took to flight. He was left deserted! The hemorrhage, it is true, gradually ceased, but directly he made the slightest effort to rise the blood welled forth again.

It was not a particularly cold night, but the dampness and chill began to torture him as he lay prostrate on the ground. He had a feeling that he was likely to perish unless someone came to his rescue and took him to a place of shelter. To all intents and purposes he was lying in the very heart of the town, and, as it was New Year's Eve, there were multitudes of people up, and he could hear them walking about the streets that ran round the shrubbery—but not a soul entered it. He could even hear the murmur of their voices! It was hard, he thought, that he should perish for lack of help, when help was so near at hand.

He lay waiting for a while, but the cold tortured him worse and worse, and, when he realised that it was impossible for him to^get on his feet, be determined at any rate, to shout for assistance.

Just as he was uttering his cry for help the clock in the tower above him began striking!

The human voice was so completely stifled in that loud metallic clang that nobody noticed his cry of distress. The hemorrhage started afresh, and it was now so extremely violent that he could hardly help thinking that all the'blood in bis body was about to leave it—if it had not, as it seemed, already done so.

"It can't really be possible, that I am to die now, while the clock is actually striking midnight! " he thought, but he had a feeling that he was going out like a burnt-out candle.

He sank down into darkness, and unconsciousness at the very moment that the last booming stroke of the clock died away—heralding the birth of the New Year.