Chapter II: Weeks passed (3)

I concluded my business as speedily as possible and went my way.

As it happened I still kept thinking of Svältbacka Matti and his two barrels of tar. I couldn’t get him out of my head. I compared his life and surroundings with that of the pastor. There was a great difference between them. But as human beings they were equal.

Business kept me several days in the little village. When I traveled on again, I went into a more remote part of the parish. Here the roads were so poor and confusing that I was forced to hire a guide. He was a young man and wholly untouched by the responsibilities and cares of this world. We scarcely exchanged two words on the trip.

About a mile and a half from the church, on the left at a little distance there was a farm, where a lot of people were assembled.

“What sort of farm is that?” I inquired of my guide.

“That is Svältbacka,” replied the young man carelessly. I started.

“What are all those people doing there?” I ventured, confused.

“O--that’s an auction sale--an execution. It’s because of a debt to the pastor,” he explained indifferently.

“Is the owner’s name Matti?” I asked.

“Yes, that’s it,” replied the young man with increasing indifference.

“I met him on the way to your village. He was going to the city. We went along together. How is this sale possible? I surely should have met him again.”

“That’s easy enough to understand. Matti took another road. There’s a detour here.”

“I suppose he is not back from the city, because he was going to the city to sell two barrels of tar to pay the interest,” I ventured.

“Probably so.”

Here the road turned toward Svältbacka.[6]

“Drive up to the house,” I ordered.

The guide obeyed.

When we came near I saw that the auction was all over. There hadn’t been much to sell. One or two lean cows was all! Besides the cows there were a few half naked, hungry little children, and a worn looking woman. But a creditor hasn’t any use for creatures of this kind.

The cows were outside the yard, tied together with willow twigs. The new owner held one end of the twigs. They were just in the act of being driven away. The woman, white and trembling, stood in the midst of the hungry children. She did not weep. She had wept all she could long ago, as her eyes bore witness. I went up to her and said:

“Did your husband not get back from the city? Is that the cause of the auction?”

“How do you know that Matti went to the city?” was the reply, looking at me searchingly.

“I went part of the way with him.”

“No, he hasn’t come back. And he said he was going to hasten all he could. I’m afraid something has happened. The road is bad. The old mare is so lean, too. But when Matti comes now it won’t do any good. Now everything’s gone. It’s all over. Even if the cows were not good for much, they gave a few drops for the children. They were sold for nothing, too. Who would pay for them when they were so lean? They didn’t bring enough to pay the pastor, let alone the costs of the auction.” Thus spoke the woman.

Yes, yes, the misfortune had come. Things had gone their way, and no one could say that a wrong had been done, for law is changeless and power is holy.

I had seen enough. I sought out my guide in the crowd, betook myself to my conveyance and again we set out. Traveling across the untenanted land that had just been cleared strange thoughts came to me, and we did not talk, my guide and I.

“What sort of man is the pastor? What do the villagers think of him?” at length I inquired of my guide.

“Oh, the pastor is a fine _preacher_. But he’s so mean and niggardly that he steals the very ashes from the hearths,” replied the young man indifferently, beginning to hum a song.

That day I reached the end of the journey. Here I tarried several days. Then again one Saturday I set out with my guide on the return. Sunday morning I was in the village. I put my horse up at a farm, and determined to go to church, since the opportunity presented itself. The church bells rang solemnly. They were summoning the people to listen to a message of love and peace.

When I reached the church they were carrying a dead man upon a bier. The pall bearers put their burden down, to wait for the pastor and the clerk. It looked as though the pastor was still quarreling with the clerk, and he said: “I tell you the rascals are stealing from me.”

“Whom are they burying?” I asked of some one near.

“Svältbacka Matti. He died driving to the city.”

Now I understood. A shudder ran over me. My old traveling companion was dead. He had put forth too great an effort to make the journey. That was the reason he could not return and prevent the auction.

The clerk read the psalm:

“Great suffering and sorrow in the valley of tears,” etc.--

Probably Matti’s pastor chose this psalm. His sharp eyes and instinct had told him that it was appropriate.

When we reached the grave and the pastor began to bless the last place of rest, he took the shovel, stuck it in the ground, lifted up earth three times and threw it upon the coffin of the dead man. With great pathos then he exclaimed: “Dust thou art, and to dust thou shalt return.” When he had thrown the wet and frozen earth upon Matti’s coffin, it seemed to me I could hear a voice saying: “He’s a fine _preacher_. I don’t blame the pastor--I wouldn’t steal--but I couldn’t pay.”

Among the mourners I looked for Matti’s wife. This woman who had been tried in sorrow was tragically white. With tearless, reddened eyes and hollow cheeks, she stood in the midst of the half naked children, who were shivering and looked at one point--the coffin. I went up to speak to her.

When the burial was over I asked some of the people about Matti. He was taken ill with pneumonia before he reached the city. He was ill-clothed, wet, underfed, and he could not struggle against it.

Now the bell summoned to church service. With others I entered the building. After the singing and the altar service, the pastor went to the pulpit. He chose for text: “Love thy neighbor as thyself.” “Love,” he said, “was the fulfilling of the law.” With pathos and display of genuine ability he explained to his hearers this high and noble command.

During the most zealous part of his speech I heard again the words: “He is a good _preacher_.” The lengthy sermon seemed not to be lacking in effect. Here and there women wept.

After service he spoke of the dead man. “God in his mercy has taken from this vale of tears, the farmer Matti Antinporka of Svältbacka, aged forty-two years, three months and eight days.

What is wealth and what is gold?
Trash--that melt to dust and mold.
Care and sorrow here below
Both the rich and poor must know.”

Thus the pastor bestowed the last earthly service upon Matti. And he did not do it in the cheap manner of a hireling, but with oratorical eloquence and fervor. When he read the hymn above, it seemed to his hearers that he scorned gold and riches, and that he really suffered for the companions in suffering of poor Matti.

But while he was reading the hymn in a loud and impressive voice, I heard another voice saying:

“I’m so stupid that of course I don’t understand such things. The Pastor--he knows more about it than I!”

FOOTNOTES:

[6] Svältbacka means Hunger Field.

Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious punctuation and accentuation errors have been corrected.

Page 24: “the gentle rythm” changed to “the gentle rhythm”

Page 89: “color of the pomegranite” changed to “color of the pomegranate”

Page 100: “humble servent” changed to “humble servant”