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Political Outsiders in Swedish History,
1848-1932
Political Outsiders in Swedish History,
1848-1932

Edited by

Lars Edgren and Magnus Olofsson

 Political Outsiders in Swedish History, 1848-1932, Edited by Lars Edgren and Magnus Olofsson

This book first published 2009

Cambridge Scholars Publishing

12 Back Chapman Street, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2XX, UK

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Copyright © 2009 by Lars Edgren and Magnus Olofsson and contributors

All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

ISBN (10): 1-4438-0976-4, ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-0976-4

 TABLE OF CONTENTS

List of Images ............................................................................................ vii

Introduction ................................................................................................. 1
Lars Edgren and Magnus Olofsson

The Uses of Scandal: Nils Rudolf Munck af Rosenschöld,

and the Radical Democratic Tradition in Sweden ....................................... 9
Lars Edgren

The Violent Democrat – and the Radical Tradition in Sweden ................. 39

Victor Lundberg

The Tullberg Movement: The Forgotten Struggle for Landownership ..... 55

Magnus Olofsson

Revolutionary Outsiders in Sweden: Reclaiming Human Dignity ............ 75

Eva Blomberg

Sweden, Country of Consensus – A Teleological History? An Essay

on Social and Political Collective Violence in Swedish History. ............ 107
Stefan Nyzell

A Consensual Democracy? The Historical Roots of the Swedish

Model....................................................................................................... 133
Mary Hilson

Political Outsiders in Swedish History: Reflections from a Political

Science Perspective ................................................................................. 157
Lee Miles

References ............................................................................................... 171

Contributors............................................................................................. 187
 LIST OF IMAGES

Picture 1: Arbetarrörelsens arkiv i Landskrona (The Archive of the Labour

Movement in Landskrona), The Landskrona Collection, Demonstration
against high food prices outside City Hall in Landskrona 1917;
Photographer: Unknown

Picture 2: Arbetarrörelsens arkiv i Landskrona (The Archive of the Labour

Movement in Landskrona), The Anton Nilson Collection, The ship
Amalthea after the bombing by the anarchist Anton Nilson in 1908;
Photographer: Unknown

Picture 3: Arbetarrörelsens arkiv och bibliotek (Labour Movement

Archives and Library), Photo Collection, The signing of the Saltsjöbaden
Agreement 20th December 1938; Photographer: Meyerhöffer

Picture 4: Arbetarrörelsens arkiv och bibliotek (Labour Movement

Archives and Library), The Ådalen Collection, Demonstrations in Ådalen
14th May 1931 shortly before the military opened fire, Photographer:
Rudolf Södergren
 INTRODUCTION

LARS EDGREN AND MAGNUS OLOFSSON

This is a book about political outsiders. Being an outsider is here

understood in a dual sense. The “outsiders” considered in this text were
outsiders in their own times, but also – and perhaps even more so –
outsiders of the dominant story lines of Swedish history. The idea behind
the book is that an assessment of their role can serve a dual purpose. Such
an investigation can lead to a reconsideration of people and movements
that, during their time, and although they were in many ways marginal,
helped to shape Swedish politics and society. After all, it is always the
case that those in opposition play a crucial role in shaping dominant
groups, their perceptions and actions. Yet, discussions of their respective
historiographical outsidership will also further a critical understanding of
influential versions of Swedish history.
Swedish history has of course always been interpreted in many
different ways, and to single out any one dominant story is open to
challenge. However, in this volume, the starting point is taken to be an
interpretation that takes its vantage point from historical groundings of the
twentieth century Swedish welfare state, commonly referred to as the
Swedish model. Since the respective authors frequently return to this
theme, a very brief outline will only be offered in this introduction. What
we think of is an understanding of Swedish history as uniquely shaped by
consensus, cooperation, negotiation, non-violence, and continuity. This is
a long tradition which, for many, was deemed to be a pre-condition for the
successful building of modern Sweden. From the late nineteenth century,
the Social Democratic Party became the main actor in the story. Initially a
party intent on revolutionary change, it rapidly turned into a reformist
party. An emphasis on these aforementioned particular Swedish traditions
contributed to the successful establishment of the party’s dominance in
Swedish politics, and the Social Democrats could thus easily be
incorporated as a new element in a long tradition. They would act as the
standard bearer and carry on the traditions of consensus, cooperation, and
non-violence.
2 Introduction

Historical interpretations are potent forces in shaping contemporary

understandings of nations and their purpose. Presumably all countries have
dominant interpretations of their history. In the USA, one can think of
mythologies of Founding Fathers and consensus interpretations; in
England, there existed the Whig interpretation that was influential for a
long time, while in France the role of the Revolution shaped national
understandings of this country’s history. Yet, these interpretations have
also been hotly contested, both in public and scholarly debate. Herbert
Butterfield’s critique of the Whig interpretation is a classic of
historiography. In France, the bicentennial of the Revolution engendered
sharp debate on how to integrate this historic event into interpretations of
French history. Perhaps the most striking example is that of Germany and
the struggle over interpretations of the Nazi experience. While the
discussions on this were probably most fervent during the Historikerstreit
in the 1980’s, this is still an ever present debate.
Swedish historiography is therefore in no way strange in having
dominant interpretative schemes, relevant for contemporary society. What
is perhaps less common is that there has been relatively little public or
scholarly debate about these overriding interpretations. Certainly there
have been challenges. With the rise of Marxist historiography in the
1980’s, a leftist critique of the role of the Social Democratic Party
developed. It had failed in radically transforming capitalist Sweden, and
this was in need of an explanation. Interpretations of Early Modern
Sweden stressing consensus, came under attack from young Marxist
scholars, who understood Sweden at that time as a conflict ridden class
society. Another example of critiques of dominant interpretations was the
commotion concerning sterilisation as an instrument of population
policies. This discussion made headlines even outside Sweden,
presumably because the articles that initiated the commotion explicitly
associated sterilisation with Social Democratic welfare policies. With
these, and a few other exceptions, we believe it is fair to say that synthetic
interpretations of Swedish history have been lacking both in scholarly and
public debate. This has allowed a dominant interpretation to remain both
unchallenged and curiously unarticulated. Synthetic ambitions are not
usually characteristics of Swedish historians.
In this volume, our purpose is to reflect on possibly different ways to
understand Swedish history leading up to the Social Democratic period of
dominance, starting in 1932. We are not suggesting a new synthetic
interpretation. The authors rather point to a number of lost causes that are
problematic to integrate into a consensus interpretation. Authors suggest
that a more comparative approach might make Swedish ‘exceptionalism’
 Lars Edgren and Megnus Olofsson 3

appear less persuasive, and some authors suggest different ways to

conceptualise the establishment of the Social Democratic dominance.
Some of the papers focus on specific cases (Edgren, Olofsson,
Lundberg, Blomberg, and, to some extent, Nyzell), while others take a
more general approach (Nyzell, Hilson, and Miles). The cases are not
chosen as to be representative of all possible outsiders. Rather the cases all
represent and investigate radical protest against established society. We
look at a radical democratic tradition of the nineteenth century (Edgren,
Lundberg, and, to some degree, Olofsson), agrarian protest in the 1860’s
(Olofsson), syndicalism in the early twentieth century (Blomberg), and a
strike which led to a violent confrontations in the 1920’s (Nyzell). These
were all expressions of radical challenges from outside mainstream
politics, yet they were also marginalized in later historiography. They were
thus outsiders in the dual sense of the title of this volume.
Another candidate that could be labelled as an example of radical
outsiders is the communist movement in Sweden. Indeed, it could be
claimed that communism has been difficult to incorporate in the main
story line of Swedish history. Nevertheless, the movement has attracted a
disproportionate amount of scholarly attention. It is probably safe to say
that the Communist Parties have been the object of more dissertations and
scholarly works than any other political party in Sweden.

The various essays of the volume approach their respective outsiders in

different fashions. Lars Edgren takes as his starting point a case study of
the dramatic circumstances surrounding the establishment of the radical
newspaper Fäderneslandet in the small university town of Lund in 1852.
After being moved to Stockholm, the paper was the leading radical
newspaper for several decades and was for a time even the largest Swedish
newspaper. The radicalism of the paper was directed against the political
establishment; in particular, the office holders (sw. ämbetsmän). The paper
attacked the misuse of power and moral failures of those in power, and
was consequently branded by dominant groups as “a paper of scandal”.
Edgren uses his case to draw broader conclusions. The political and moral
critique of the paper was based on a linking of the ‘people’ to a historical
tradition of defending liberty against – often foreign – oppressors. While it
is easy to find European parallels that also have a similar outlook on
society, Edgren argues that this tradition has been obscured in leading
interpretations of Swedish history, since it does not fit into interpretations
focusing on the role of the Social Democratic tradition as crucial in the
formation of modern Sweden. Munck af Rosenschöld has remained an
outsider of history.
4 Introduction

The theme of radical democracy is developed in Victor Lundberg’s

chapter on the army captain Julius Mankell. During the second half of the
nineteenth century, Mankell was periodically an important political voice
in Sweden, both as an armed sharpshooter (sw. skarpskytt) and a
democratic “friend of the people” (sw. folkvän). After his death, he was
eulogized by broad sections of radical Sweden. Lundberg uses Mankell’s
life to illustrate a radical political tradition that is today rather forgotten.
Mankell was part of this tradition from its birth in the 1850s to its demise
in the 1890s. In the ideological melting-pot in the 1850s, socialist, liberal,
radical, revolutionary, republican, utopian and anarchic ideas circulated. In
that milieu, a confrontational, republican and democratic radicalism based
on populism, and manifested in an anti-elitist rhetoric through the
conception ‘the people’, arose. That radicalism still lived on in the shape
of the national Swedish Suffrage Association of the 1890s, of which
Mankell was a leader and unifying force. Thus, Mankell’s life ran parallel
with Swedish nineteenth century radicalism. And the comments around his
death and funeral also signals the demise and sinking into oblivion of that
tradition. While praising Mankell, both reformist left-wing social liberals
and social democrats of the day saw him as a remnant from the past.
Lundberg’s main argument is that Mankell’s tradition of radicalism has
subsequently remained a political outsider, since that brand of popular,
confrontational nineteenth century radicalism calls into questions the
picture of a Swedish past as characterized by non-confrontational politics
and negotiation. Hence, Mankell and that particular tradition of radicalism
has come to be vastly undervalued and its importance neglected by
dominant, teleological traditions among historians and politicians alike,
whether liberals or social democrats.
In his essay, Magnus Olofsson discusses the largest and most drawn-
out conflict over landownership in Swedish history, a conflict that,
however, has been almost entirely ignored in historiography. The conflict
saw tenant farmers and rural poor making claims of landownership on the
large estates in the southern part of Sweden in the 1860s. Olofsson
reconstructs the cultural framework of the participants, to reach their view
of the society that they lived in and how they legitimized their struggle for
landownership and their often illegal methods. They claimed a right of
landownership which was not recognized by the legal system, but was
legitimized by their culture. It was, according to them at least, society that
was at fault, not they. This was a source of strength in their struggles.
Olofsson points to the similarities between these agrarian struggles and
those in other European countries, which has not usually been recognized.
The Tullberg Movement shares the same fate of being an outsider in the
 Lars Edgren and Megnus Olofsson 5

historiography with many others and is merely one example of how social
strife from Sweden’s contentious nineteenth century has become a
casualty of a teleological history writing that has repeatedly downplayed
conflict in the past.
In the first three essays, nineteenth century radical traditions with roots
before the socialist labour movement are in focus. With the essay by Eva
Blomberg, we encounter an opposition within the labour movement itself.
The central actors in her essay are syndicalists, who, by their rejection of
not only bourgeois society but also of reformism and traditional trade
union strategies, posed a serious challenge within the trade union
movement in Sweden during the 1910s and 1920s. Syndicalism considered
ordinary strikes too costly; instead non-agreement and direct action, such
as, the use of sabotage, depopulation and blockades, were preferred
methods. Syndicalism grew particularly strong during the Great War in the
iron mining industry. Manpower was in short supply and worker turnover
high. Large numbers of young men with little previous experience of
mining and the high turnover gave rise to overcrowding, wretched
conditions and interpersonal problems. Blomberg shows that there was a
perceptible shift in the conflict repertoire of the miners during the war
years, from individual to collective action, from foot-dragging,
drunkenness and assault to walk-outs, strikes, depopulation and blockades,
the two latter being favourite methods of syndicalism. At the core of
syndicalist action was, Blomberg argues, a quest for dignity. Syndicalist
methods and behaviour were centred on gaining respect as human beings
and asserting a strong, male identity. Swedish syndicalism would not
remain strong, however. Yet, as Blomberg points out, they have survived,
remaining as an outsider movement. Perhaps their individualism can prove
attractive in the present society, she reflects. While it is easy to see their
demise as a logical outcome of their outsider position towards dominant
themes in Swedish history, this is probably the result of retrospective
vision. For a time they did indeed pose a serious challenge to the reformist
trade union movement and the employers. It is only by their failure that
they have become historiographic outsiders.
Stefan Nyzell takes as his point of departure the Möllevången events in
Malmö in November 1926. A prolonged strike led to violent
confrontations when a strike breaker accidentally killed a striker. This is,
however, only the background for a critical discussion of a teleological
tendency in the Swedish historical debate concerning collective violence.
This theme, present in the previous essays, is here more directly
developed. There are, Nyzell argues, many similarly violent confrontations
to be found in Swedish in the period 1925–1932 and also 1908–1917.
6 Introduction

Nevertheless, Swedish historical research has tended to place the emphasis

on the absence of collective violence. This is because the emergence of the
Swedish model has been a central issue, and has come to be the defining
view on Swedish 20th century history, both in Sweden and internationally.
Even historians with critical perspectives have not taken instances of
collective violence as the departure for their studies. This has led to a
teleological tendency in historical writing. Examples of conflict and
violence have been downplayed and examples of compromise have been
emphasised. Indeed, some historians have found the roots of the Swedish
model in the 19th century or even early modern times, making it an
expression of a very old, Swedish mentality. And, importantly, the Social
Democratic Party has made skilful use of the past and has, since they came
into power in the 1930s, continually downplayed instances of strife and
violence. At the macro level, the one on which most research has actually
been conducted, Sweden’s past looks peaceful enough, but at the meso-
and micro levels, a different picture emerges, which is, of course, what the
initial story of the events at Möllevången shows. Hence, Nyzell argues that
there is a pressing need for more research to be undertaken focusing on
local examples of contentious politics and collective violence in Swedish
history before a full picture can emerge.
While Nyzell looks at the historiography from the perspective of
political violence, Mary Hilson in her contribution takes the historiography
from the vantage point of the crucial events in the early 1930’s, which has
usually been seen as the establishment of the Swedish model. The social
democratic election victory in 1932 and the crisis agreement between the
social democrats and the Farmers’ Party (Bondeförbundet), became the
starting point for a very long dominance of Swedish politics by the Social
Democrats. These events have been written into a grand narrative of
Swedish history, emphasising consensual tradition based on a tradition of
a free and influential peasantry. The events of the early 1930’s have thus
been seen as a culmination of a peculiar Swedish Sonderweg to modernity,
a story which reappears, critically evaluated, in most of the contributions
to this volume. Hilson argues that this story appears much less appealing,
if Swedish developments are put in a more comparative perspective,
focusing not so much on determinations from the past but on
contemporary contingencies. There were real potentials for radical
alternatives, both from left and the right. And only in retrospective do the
events of 1932/1933 appear as crucial. Hilson argues that while an
alternative version of Swedish history focusing on conflict cannot at
present be advanced, there is every reason to believe that marginalised
people and movements were important in shaping the society of their days,
 Lars Edgren and Megnus Olofsson 7

but have been neglected in existing historiography. The ‘lost causes’ and
the ‘blind alleys’ become hidden from history, as illustrated in the other
essays of the volume.
In the final chapter of the book, Lee Miles provides an ‘outsider’s’
view of the themes of the book. While the other authors are all historians,
Miles is a political scientist and is therefore engaging the other essays
from an interdisciplinary perspective. He follows two main lines of
argument. First, he develops the importance of the themes in the book,
especially as spelled out by Nyzell in his contribution, for political
scientists understanding of Swedish history: He argues that historical
perspectives can further an understanding of the cross class appeal of the
Social Democrats in Sweden, and the development of non-violent political
methods. The past experiences, recorded in the essays of this volume,
could serve as examples of how not to do politics. By being made
outsiders, they actually reinforce the mainstream.
Yet Miles does not let the issue rest here. He extends the major themes
of the essays into the realms of discussing contemporary politics. The
Social Democratic Party has been successfully challenged by the non-
socialist opposition. Miles suggests that this can be understood as a change
of underlying themes. Politics are moving towards a more divisive form of
consensual politics, strikes are returning as a way to handle conflicts,
while Sweden is at the same time losing its reputation as an exceptional
country. Historical interpretations might, by focusing on outsiders, help
others understand these developing themes and trends. And it might well
be suggested, and taking up the arguments outlined in the chapter by
Miles, that these current changes in the political system, are opening up
space for a critical re-evaluation of Swedish history. This volume might be
seen as a contribution to a further discussion of Sweden’s past. Outsiders
become visible when cracks in the political culture appear.

This collection of essays started out on the initiative of Victor Lundberg,

Stefan Nyzell, and Magnus Olofsson, who organized a session at the
European Social Science History Congress in Amsterdam in 2006. At that
session, Mary Hilson served as commentator and Lars Edgren as chair. For
publication further essays were included. The contributions were discussed
at a seminar in London in June 2008, funded by grants from the Political
Studies Association's (PSA) Scandinavian Politics Specialist Group, in
connection with which we would especially like to thank the chair of the
PSA-SPSG, Nicholas Aylott, for his help, and the Centre for European
Studies at UCL. The seminar was organised by the Department of
Scandinavian Studies, UCL. The editors wish to thank all the participants
8 Introduction

of that seminar, but especially the commentators Lee Miles and Christine
Agius. The editors want to advance their special thanks to Mary Hilson
and Lee Miles, who, at a critical point in the project, offered to help with
language editing as well as contributing comments on this introduction and
the papers by Edgren, Olofsson, and Lundberg. Their generous help was
invaluable!
 THE USES OF SCANDAL:
NILS RUDOLF MUNCK AF ROSENSCHÖLD,
AND THE RADICAL DEMOCRATIC TRADITION
IN SWEDEN

LARS EDGREN

Among the reference books at the University Library in Lund one can find
the old catalogues of the university. In the catalogue for the fall term of
1852 the last name in the list of students is crossed over by determined
pencil strokes. In the margin of the page is written: “effaced and
relegated”. This unusual act in a book that ordinarily raises little emotion,
actually serves to highlight the name that has been “effaced”. Below the
pencil strokes one can easily read the name: “Nils Rudolf Munck af
Rosenschöld”.1
Nils Rudolf Munck af Rosenschöld (1815–1894) was, in his own time,
a celebrity of sorts, a well known radical politician and founder of one of
the most important newspapers in nineteenth century Sweden. In 1852 and
1853 he was probably “the greatest show in town” in the small university
town of Lund in southern Sweden. Early in 1852, he founded the paper
Fäderneslandet. Literally the name translates to “Land of our fathers”. The
paper soon became controversial, and at the end of the year, Munck af
Rosenschöld was expelled from the university for his activities as a
newspaper publisher. During the spring the paper was prosecuted several
times for violations of the Freedom of the Press Act. The court
proceedings gathered large crowds in support of him. At one time, the
crowd actually tried to force their way into the court room. Munck of
Rosenschöld concluded that it was impossible to continue publishing the
paper in Lund and transferred it to Stockholm. There, Fäderneslandet soon
established itself as the dominant radical paper; a position it maintained

1
Lunds kongl. universitets katalog för höst-terminen 1852, Lund 1852, p. 33.
10 The Uses of Scandal

until challenged by the Social Democratic press in the 1880s. Indeed,

during the 1860s, it was actually the largest Swedish newspaper.2
In current interpretations of Swedish history, Munck af Rosenschöld
and his paper are barely noticed and have only a minor part to play. Very
few people know of his name.3 In local histories, his story is not
remembered.4 One is tempted to say that he is actually “effaced” from
history. Yet, the events in Lund related to his journalistic activities raise
the possibility to examine Swedish history from a different perspective
from the dominant ones. In this chapter, I will attempt to use the events to
open up a discussion of an important political tradition in Swedish history.
Fäderneslandet was labelled as a “paper of scandal” since it printed
information about individuals that were considered invidious to their
reputations. In this chapter, I will try to interpret this scandalous material
as an important part of a particular understanding of society. I do not claim
to be studying the birth of a new political tradition, but I do suggest that
the period around 1850 was a formative period for a radical democratic
tradition, of which Nils Rudolf Munck af Rosenschöld was an important
flag-bearer.
Radical and critical political traditions were not new to Sweden in the
1850’s. A radical press had existed for quite some time, and in the 1830’s
radicalism could evidently mobilize popular support in the streets of
Stockholm, as illustrated by the so called ‘Crusenstolpe riots’ in support of
a radical journalist. But there was an upsurge in radical activity around the
year of the European revolutions of 1848. At that time, several new radical
papers were established in Stockholm, appealing to artisans and workers
with their radical critique of established society. Some declared themself
as ‘socialist’. Associations were also formed that appealed to urban
workers. Some of these were Educational Associations (sw. Bildningscirklar)
with no open political purposes, but a number of Worker’s Associations
(sw. Arbetarföreningar) were also formed.
In Stockholm, there even existed a section of the Communist League,
which was responsible for the first translation of the Communist Manifesto

2
Sture M Waller, Den svenska pressens upplagor 1824–1872, Göteborg 2001, p. 91.
3
In the major Swedish encyclopedia, Nationalencyklopedin, his name occurs only
in a brief article on the noble family from which he belonged, and he is even
misnamed Nils, instead of Nils Rudolf, as he always wrote his own name. In the
most recent multi volume history of Sweden, he cannot be located in the index
(Bonniers svenska historia, 10, Stockholm 1968).
4
Krister Gierow, Lunds universitets historia, 3. 1790–1867, Lund 1971; Carl
Fehrman, Lärdomens Lund, Malmö 1984; Ragnar Blomqvist, Lunds historia, 2.
Nyare tiden, Lund 1978.
 Lars Edgren 11

into any language in 1848. In March of that year, Stockholm also

experienced several days of violent disturbances. The army was called in
and 18 demonstrators were shot to death and many more injured.
Nonetheless, the popular protests received no support from more
established politicians and the authorities had no trouble in maintaining
control. Even if there was a fear of radicalism among the authorities and
repressive measures taken, efforts were still made to mobilize workers for
political action.5 This is the immediate context in which Munck af
Rosenschöld’s activities must be seen. Fäderneslandet was typical of the
attempts to establish a radical politics based on a popular appeal at that
time. What is perhaps more remarkable is that the paper was established in
a small university town far away from the radical activities in Stockholm.
Munck af Rosenschöld was not unknown to the public before he turned
newspaper publisher. He was born in 1815 as the son of a professor at the
University of Lund. At the age of sixteen he was enrolled as a student at
the same university. His family was noble, and as a representative of his
family in the House of Nobles (sw. riddarhuset) he participated in the
parliamentary sessions of the 1840’s. There he earned a certain notoriety
among other parliamentary members, because of his radicalism and fiery
oratory. He left the House of Nobles after the disturbances of March 1848,
surrounded by suspicions that he was responsible for instigating the
events.
He now returned to Lund and finished his studies. In 1850 he earned
the degree of Master of Philosophy, at that time the highest degree in the
Faculty of Philosophy. But his further attempts at an academic career
floundered, and probably this was the cause of his marked enmity towards
several of the professors of the university.6

5
Åke Abrahamsson, Ljus och frihet till näringsfång. Om tidningsväsendet,
arbetarrörelsen och det sociala medvetandets ekologi – exemplet Stockholm 1838–
1869, Stockholm 1990; Carl Landelius, 1840- och 1850-talens bildningscirklar
och arbetarföreningar, 1–2, Stockholm 1936; Axel Påhlman & Walter Sjölin,
Arbetarföreningarna i Sverige 1850–1900. En undersökning av den liberala
arbetarrörelsens historia och kooperationens första skede, Stockholm 1944;
Torkel Jansson, Adertonhundratalets associationer. Forskning och problem kring
ett sprängfullt tomrum eller sammanslutningsprinciper och föreningsformer
mellan två samhällsformationer c:a 1800–1870, Stockholm 1985; Helge Almqvist,
”Marsoroligheterna i Stockholm 1848”, Samfundet S.t Eriks årsbok 1942, pp. 69–
144.
6
Ingemar Oscarsson, “Munck af Rosenschöld, Nils Rudolf”, Svenskt biografiskt
lexikon, vol 26, Stockholm 1987–89, pp. 6–8.
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
light burned in Young Master's room. The hour was late. The creek
was louder than I had ever heard it, a mockery, not a music. A wind
had sprung up and in the tree-tops there was a cold and rasping
whisper. I was striving to reach a decision as to what course I should
pursue. Undoubtedly I had killed the man or had thrown him so that
he might kill himself, but of this I had entertained no thought at the
time, my aim being to protect myself and to humiliate him, to show
him that I could turn and be his master. But I could not explain this
to the authorities, therefore I held no notion of giving myself up. To
run away were an acknowledgement of guilt, a brief inquiry and the
rope. I could make a flat denial, if accused, but was afraid that I
could not summon the nerve to maintain it. Still something must be
done. I might go to Mr. Clem, tell him the truth, get letters from him
to persons in the real land of the free and with his financial aid make
my escape out of the country. But this was blocked by the love I
bore my Young Master. I went to the well and washed my hands,
although I could find no blood on them, and the windlass was so
loud with its groaning that I fancied the whole world must hear it. A
dog came up, sniffed at me and trotted off. Life had been stirred
until I had found the sugar at the bottom. I must save myself, but I
could not run away without telling my Master, without asking his
advice. I would go to him. Up the stairway I stole without a noise. I
was afraid that I might find Old Master pacing the hall, and I
listened to hear his slippered feet, but all was still. I turned the knob
so gently that Young Master did not hear me when I entered the
room. He sat gazing at his book. I spoke and he started.
"Why do you come slipping in this way, Dan? You startled me. What
were you doing so long? What the devil is the matter with you,
boy?"
I caught at the edge of the table, dropped upon my knees and told
him my story. I do not know what his face might have shown, for my
eyes were cast down, I don't know what he felt, but I do know that
not a sound escaped him. I got up at the end and looked at him,
and his face was pale and hard.
"Lie down," he said, pointing to my lounge.
"To be pulled up by the sheriff?" I cried.
"Lie down and ask no questions, and stay there until I call for you. If
anyone comes in, you are too ill to get up. Do you hear me? This is
not a request; it is a command. D— you, will you do it?" he cried,
stamping the floor. "You belong to me. Do as I tell you. Take off your
clothes. If father asks for me, tell him I went away early in the
evening. Don't say a word."
I took off my clothes, with the tears falling on my trembling hands.
He watched me until I was in bed and then he put the light out. I
heard the door close—heard him going down the stairs.
 CHAPTER XIX.
Would day-light never come was a speculation that lay upon my
mind until it seemed to gather mold, like a rag in a damp cellar. But
why should I long for the sun to rise to pour light upon the blood in
the lane? And to myself I said that it would be better for me if
darkness should remain forever upon the earth. But the hours were
so tiresome and the world was so reproachfully still. I had thought
that my reading had led me away from the superstitions of my negro
ancestors; long ago I had thrown away the lucky bone taken from
the head of a cat-fish; I had ceased to make a cross mark in the
road and spit in it whenever I found that I had forgotten something
and was forced to turn back; I did not believe that the hanging of a
dead snake across the fence, belly up, would make it rain; I had
laughed at old Steve when he told me that a horse's tooth, ground
to powder and carried sewed up in a sack, would prevail against the
tricks of the conjurer. But now I believed in it all and trembled at the
awful consequences that a renegade scorn might call upon me. With
a cold sweat I remembered the words of a black hag who lived in a
hovel at the edge of the town. On an occasion, not more than a
month gone-by, she had taken offense at what she termed my
uppishness; she crossed her crutches in front of me, cut a
mysterious diagram in the air and swore that before the moon
changed twice I should fall a victim to a blighting calamity. The
moon had not changed twice and the calamity had fallen. I got up to
look at the moon, to search for a confirming mark upon it, but
through the windless night, dark clouds had floated and the sky was
black. At the window I sat and gazed into the darkness toward the
lane. A wind sprang up and was hoarse in the tree-tops. Rain would
come and wash the blood away, but the body and the crying wound
would be there at the coming of day. I wondered whither my Young
Master could have gone and why he should have left me. Was it that
he had gone thus early to the authorities to beg for my life? That
were useless. Law and society must have my blood. On my side a
ton of justice would be but a thistledown, blown by a baby's breath.
And I gazed from the window toward the lane. Day-light could not
be far away; it had already fallen upon the hilltops, I thought. Yes,
the far-off sky was turning gray; but nearer it was black with clouds.
Strange that a storm should be gathering just at this time. The
lighter it grew the nearer the clouds came. They split, one in the
form of a great bird, sailing away; the other was a horse galloping
madly, with a ribbon, a bridle-rein of lightning, flashing at its throat.
The household was stirring. I heard Old Master go down the stairs; I
heard old Steve calling the hogs. There was not to be a storm. The
clouds were gone and the air was sultry. The horn was blown to call
the negroes to breakfast. I heard horses galloping over the turn-
pike. But the body in the lane had not been found. God, I could see
it, lying near the fence! I heard someone coming and I crept back to
bed and covered myself. Mr. Clem entered the room.
"You boys going to sleep all day?" he asked. "But Bob's gone; where
is he? Why, he hasn't been to bed. Didn't he stay here last night?"
"No, sir; he went away early on business."
"But what's the matter with you this morning? You look sick."
"I am, sir. I don't believe I am able to get up."
"I'd better send for a doctor. Why, you've got a chill."
"Don't send for a doctor," I pleaded. "Don't send for anyone; let me
lie here alone."
"Well, I'm sorry you're sick," he said, turning about. "Want anything
to eat?"
"No, sir. I just want to lie here until Young Master comes."
For a time he stood looking hard at me, with his hand on the door.
"Hear of the row last night?" he asked. I feigned surprise and said
that I had not, whereupon he continued:
"The Old General finally summoned the requisite nerve and drove
the doctor off. I wasn't very close, but I heard all that passed. The
doctor pleaded and started to threaten and then the old man roared.
'If you are anywhere in this neighborhood by morning,' said he, 'I
will take a shot gun to you, I don't care what the public says or how
close its investigation may be.' The doctor moved on off and I
followed along, to see what he intended to do when the old man's
back was turned, and once I got close enough to hear his mutterings
and to understand him to say, 'I'll let the old fool go, but somebody
will die before morning.' Just then the General called me and I went
back. I don't know who the doctor intended to kill, didn't know but it
might be Bob, and I would have come in last night to tell him—saw
him going up the stairs—but Bill Mason came over and said that he
wanted to beat me out of a horse or two, and so I went over to his
place and haggled with him nearly all night. Man of considerable
worth, Mason is. Has kept his eyes pretty well open while other
people have been dreaming, but he napped a trifle and I came off
some time before day with two better horses than I took with me
and a pretty fair roll of money. I told Bob, you remember, that I
never would say anything more to you about running away, and I
won't. But somehow I think that justice ought to be stronger than
friendship or even blood relationship. Still, I'll keep my word with
him and not advise you to run away. I tell you what I'm going to do,
though. I'm going to throw this roll of money over there on the bed,
and if it's not there when I come back, and if you are gone by to-
night—but I promised Bob."
He threw a roll of bank notes on the bed and almost trotted in his
haste to get down the stairs. I got up and walked about the room,
not daring to look at the money, but my mind was not so obedient
as my eyes. The means of possible escape lay there within my
reach. Could any human being blame me for struggling to save my
life? I went to the window and looked out and drew back with a
shudder. The body had been found. Several persons were standing
about it, and along the lane there walked a number of men, my
young master in the midst of them and among them I recognized
the coroner of the county. They were going to hold the inquest. I
saw Old Master and Mr. Clem walking hard to overtake them. Now
was my time. I jumped into my clothes, wondering that no one had
called me to see the dead man; I clapped my hat upon my head—
and seized the money. I ran to the door, but to save my life I could
not cross the threshold. I stood there gasping, with that old
woman's crutches crossed before me. I threw the money upon the
bed and my love for my master arose strong and overpowering in
my heart, and with the tears streaming from my eyes I bounded
down the stairs, out into the yard, over the fence, and tore down the
lane toward the spot where the body lay under the stern eye of the
law. I caught up with Old Master and Mr. Clem just as they reached
the place—I ran to Young Master, and he turned upon me with a
frown. "Don't interrupt me," he cried, waving his hand. "I know your
devotion to me, but I demand silence. Gentlemen," he said,
addressing the coroner and the jury, "I don't intend to make myself
out altogether blameless, but I was forced to kill him. I was
unarmed and it was his own knife that shed his blood." And then,
while I stood there gaping, he gave in minutest detail an account of
the strike, the struggle and the fall. I looked at Old Master as he
stood there bent forward, staring; at Mr. Clem as he gazed upon the
young man who had stepped in between me and the hangman, but
my jaws were locked wide open and I could not speak.
"Gentlemen," said Mr. Clem, "I demand to be sworn." He held up his
hand, muttered the oath and then proceeded with his testimony.
"Last night I heard the doctor say he would kill him. He said that he
would let the old man go, meaning my brother, but that someone
would die before day, and I know that he meant Bob. It has been
well known among us that bad blood existed between them. I—"
Suddenly I leaped forward, struck upon the head, I fancied, by the
crutches of the old woman, and with a cry I fell upon my knees. "My
master did not kill him;" I groaned in agony. "I killed him. Listen to
me and then you may hang me. I—"
Bob sprang at me and clapped his hand over my mouth.
"Gentlemen," he said, "this poor, devoted boy would save my life—
it's his way of repaying a life-long kindness. Pay no attention to him,
but let us attend to the demands of justice. I killed this man, I have
told you why and how. And I am ready to take the consequences.
Come here, Dan." He jerked me to my feet and led me off. "Dispute
me another time," he said, "and before God I will cut your throat.
Now go to the house or I'll take a stick and beat you every step of
the way."
I was almost bereft of my senses as I walked toward the house. I
met Old Miss with a troop of negroes behind her. She was wringing
her hands and the negroes were crooning a low chant. Some one
bade me stop, but I hastened on, through the yard, up to the room;
and the sight of the money lying there on the bed, the thought that
I had clutched it to run away from the noblest man that ever
breathed, drove me mad; and I fell upon the lounge and the world
was black.
When I opened my eyes to the light, I was undressed between the
sheets and a cloth was bound about my head. Someone was talking.
I looked up and saw a physician just taking his leave. Bob stood at
the window. I raised myself up and he hastened to me.
"Don't get up, Dan," he said.
"Yes, I am all right now." But I was not all right. I was so weak that
I could scarcely sit up in bed.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"Oh, about ten," he answered, smiling. "And I'm devilish glad to see
that you've come out all right. We thought at one time that you were
gone. You raved all day yesterday."
"Yesterday! No, we were deep in our books yesterday."
"Dan, you have been in bed a week."
"Is it possible?" I cried, and then I looked at him. He read the
inquiry that was in my mind. "The coroner's jury discharged me," he
said. "And not a vestige of blame clings to me. The neighbors all
have come to give me their hands. Now if you are going to cry like a
fool, I won't tell you about it. There, I didn't mean to be harsh. It's
all right. They said that I couldn't have done otherwise, and no
regret is expressed. Why, it has made quite a hero out of you. Fame
whirls her cloak in the air and we never know how soon it is going to
fall. Don't look at me that way. Oh, yes, you may take my hand if
you want to. There, now, don't blubber. Why, don't you know they
would have hanged you long before this time? But we won't talk
about that. We didn't bury him in the garden," he went on after a
slight pause, "but in the grave-yard on the other side of town. We
agreed, mother with the rest of us, that he must not lie beside my
sister. It may seem strange to you, but the household appears
happier. Father's mind has thrown off a load. And Uncle Clem has
been so stimulated that he has filled the stable with horses. He's
preparing to drive them to market. Don't be in a hurry about getting
up. Just take your time. And I'll go down and have them send you
something to eat."
 CHAPTER XX.
News came that a minister had preached a sermon upon my
devotion to my master and exhorted his hearers to be thus faithful
unto their Master, the Lord. This was brought to me by none other
than Old Miss herself. I was able to sit with a book upon my lap, and
out of respect for her prejudice, I put the volume down as she
entered the room, but she bade me keep it. And when she had told
me what the preacher said, she added: "You may read all the books
you like, for we know now that you cannot be poisoned by them. It
was noble of you, Dan."
"Please don't talk that way," I pleaded, my heart smiting me.
"Yes, I will. You tried to throw yourself into my son's place to save
him, and I can't say too much in your favor. And you will reap your
reward when the time comes. 'Well done, thou good and faithful
servant,' can be said of you."
Old Master came in while she was sitting there. He appeared to be
pleased with the attention she showed me, or his pleasure might
have proceeded from his discovery that her temper was improved.
"You'll be all right now pretty soon," he said. "I don't believe that I'd
read too much. It isn't well to strain your mind. Has your young
master told you that he is preparing himself for examination? He is
nearly ready, and will be by the time court meets next week. He's
afraid that he won't get through without a bobble, but I think he'll
go through like a flash. He has decided to enter old Judge Bruce's
office. The old fellow doesn't know much but he is a good palaverer
and has a pretty fair practice. He never was a real judge, you know
—was a candidate once and came off with the title but missed the
office."
As Old Master became warmer toward me, Old Miss grew cooler; her
countenance while she talked had been kindly, but now it was veiled
with a frown. The prospect of seeing Young Master established as a
lawyer lifted my spirits, but the sight of his mother's displeasure
toward me threw them down. Old Master observed the change in
the atmosphere. "Madam," said he, "I have been thinking that we
need a new carpet for the parlor."
"Indeed," she replied, bowing with a mocking grace, "I am delighted
to credit your eye-sight with a sudden improvement. I have spoken
of the condition of that carpet until I am tired of it. It's the talk of
the neighborhood, I'm sure. Mrs. Ramsey turned up her nose at it
the other day, and I couldn't help thinking that it was a pretty pass
indeed to be humiliated in my own house by such a thing as she is.
And it was no longer ago than last fall that her husband had to sell
an old negro woman that had been in the family all her life."
"Huh," grunted the old man, winking slyly at me. "Did she turn up
her nose very high?" He grabbed out a red handkerchief, snorted
into it and sat looking at her with the water of an old mischief
standing in his eyes.
"General, don't laugh at me. I am the last person in this world that
you should laugh at. Don't you do it!"
"But, madam, you are the first person I should laugh with."
"I don't see how you can laugh at anybody after what we have gone
through with lately, blood spattered on our door-sill; but I actually
believe that you have been gayer since that awful event." With that
remark she flounced out of the room, and the old man sat there,
looking out into the blue space of the speckless day, silent and
absorbed. After a time he turned his old eyes slowly upon me.
"The youth whose promise in life embraces the prospect of a broad
scope should be taught that at the end of it all—this alluring rain-
bow—lies disappointment. Sometimes when I have seen my men in
the field, with no thought of the morrow and with never a worry
except some trifling physical ill, I have wished that I was one of
them. I started out wrong," he went on, shaking his head slowly up
and down. "Horses can be called back from a false spurt in the race,
and another start taken, but men must go on. Dan, I have stood by
and seen you trying to educate yourself, and I have said nothing,
although I know that education is often the sensitizing of a nerve
that leads to misery. To be a gentleman means to possess a large
ability to feel, and to feel is to worry, to brood and to suffer. Men of
the North and gentlemen of the South, the phrase has gone forth.
Our old Virginia blood is gentle, in society; but alone, it is hot with
the lingering fire of the cavalier. Do you know what I am saying?" he
asked, deepening the wrinkles in his brow.
"No, sir; I don't know that I do."
"I suppose not. I have been beating the devil around an oratorical
stump, sir," he said, his scrawny, red neck stiffening. "I don't know
that I understand myself. Is that Bob or Clem coming up the stairs?
It's Bob. Glad to see you doing so well," he added, getting up. And
standing for a moment, he put his hand on my head. "You are a
noble fellow, even if you are a slave and a negro."
Going out he met Young Master coming in. The young man saluted;
the old man gave him a smile and a kindly nod and passed on. Bob
spoke to me; said he was glad to see me improving so fast; he sat
down and took up his book. He opened it at random, knowing it so
well that any place offered an understandable beginning, but he did
not read. He turned his eyes toward me and said: "You remember
that about two months ago a gentleman named Potter bought the
old Jamison place, over on the pike? Mother and I called on the
family. And since then I have been over there a number of times,
though I have said nothing about it to even you. All my life I have
been gazing about to discover a sweet secret, and I think I've found
one. Yes—and her name is Jane." At this he laughed, threw down his
book, shoved his chair back and put his feet on the table. "The name
is well enough, no doubt, but in this part of the country we usually
associate it with a black wench, you know; and I was impudent
enough to ask Mrs. Potter why she didn't call her Jenny, but she shut
me up with, 'she was named for my mother and it is an honorable
name, I'm sure.' And it is, too—it takes on bright colors as I
associate it with her. But I never thought that I could be smitten
with a girl named Jane. It struck me that they had nick-named a
rose—said scat to a lily. Do you know what she did? Came over here
to see you. Said she wanted to see a hero. I brought her up and she
looked upon you as you lay here unconscious. As a usual thing, a
boy is born in love—falls in love with his nurse if no one else is
handy—but I have escaped pretty well. Oh, I did rather love the
Webster girl, and I confess to breathing hard whenever Miss
Flemming, the old maid school-teacher, came about; but I'm sure I
never was knocked senseless with a perfumed slung-shot until I met
Jane. Well, the name's all right; is like the finest music—takes you
some time to discover its beauties. I told her that I was going to be
a lawyer and she said that was charming; declared that she was
coming to hear my first speech. I wish she would; I could shame
Demosthenes."
Not since he was a small boy had I heard him rattle on so, and it
was a delight to me. Of late his over-manishness and his abstraction
had told of too deep an absorption in his books, of an impatient
ambition gnawing him, and this chaffy talk and the idle light of his
countenance relieved a fear that had crept into my mind.
"There is something more than beauty about her," he went on,
taking pleasure in the interest I was showing. "She reminds Uncle
Clem of a blooded horse, he says. I was inclined to take exceptions
at this, but remembered that it was but an expression of real
enthusiasm. She steps like a fawn, springs off the turf before she
appears to have touched it. My first feeling toward her was one of
gladness. I was selfish enough to believe, or to fancy that I believed,
she had been created to delight me. And when I removed my eyes
from her, I felt sad. Her eyes laughed at me and her lips seemed to
say, I have found a fool. At the gate she had jumped off a horse and
was in a riding habit when she came running into the room. She was
in no wise embarrassed by me. After a while she said that she was
hungry and I was startled. I could not conceive of that creature
sitting down to vulgar bread, and I was stupid enough to say that I
didn't see how she existed in the winter, with the roses all gone. I
knew she must eat roses. And she smote me hard by replying that
cabbages came on about the time roses gave out. This tickled her
mother immensely and she shook her fat sides and fanned herself
with the wing of a guinea hen. I am getting all my visits mixed,
perhaps, but I am giving you a collection of impressions. The mother
is ignorant and the father is coarse. He made money driving mules
to New Orleans and bought the Jamison farm. Yes, her mother and
father are plebeian, but the girl is a patrician of the rarest type. She
told me that she had just come from school. I asked her if she were
sure she had not just come from a gallery of famous portraits. This
tickled her and my blood danced in rhythm with her laugh. Every line
of my prose, law, oratory, turned up crackling like drying leaves and
was blown away, but all the poetry I had read remained, blooming
anew. Now you know how bad off I am, and you may congratulate
yourself that you can't follow me into this new domain. Oh, what is
so delicious as a fool's love affair! But I wonder if she's going to
have fun with me and then tell me to go. No, sir, I'm going to win
her love if actions, words and devotion count for anything. Dan, she
has given me new blood. Good thing that something has happened,
for this quiet, expectant life is almost unbearable."
"What's that?" cried Mr. Clem, stepping into the room. "Quiet life, do
I hear? Well, it won't always be this quiet, my son. Lincoln will be
nominated for the presidency as sure as you live, and the chances
are that he'll get in, and then what? War, my boy; red-whiskered
war. The South is as sore as a stone-bruise and won't accept an
abolitionist. Our high aristocrats have been hankering a long time for
a fight and they are going to get it."
"Let it come," replied Young Master, shoving his hands into his
pockets. "It will be a tournament, music, smiles and flowers. Then
we'll all eat out of the same bowl."
"Don't you fool yourself!" the old man exclaimed, and I saw that he
was deeply in earnest. "It won't be a tournament. It will look more
like a butcher's pen."
"But the blood-letting will be good for our swollen pride. It will give
us all a chance to strut like a turkey gobbler, and, Uncle Clem, it will
bring up the price of horses."
"By the hoofs, I hadn't thought of that. I never saw a young fellow
improve as fast as you do, Bob. In the last week or so you have said
several pretty good things. You are getting the proper grasp on
truth; and if a man has truth in one hand it needn't make any
difference what the other fellow has in both hands. Yes, sir, if a war
should break out, the horse market would hold up its head and
snort. But say, Bob, wasn't there a little love mixed up in what you
were saying as I came in?"
"Not a little, uncle. All."
"The girl you've been prancing around with lately?"
"Yes, if you wish to put it that way."
"High stepper, Bobbie; trot a mile in—I mean she's all right. Good
nostrils—shapely nose, you understand. Laughs well, teeth all sound,
and if I were a young fellow, I'd agree to pay her way into every
show that might come along, and make a fire for her every morning.
Why, Dan, you appear to be tickled nearly to death. I want to tell
you that I found that money on the bed where I dropped it. Talk
about your heroes of old, why—"
I interrupted him with a sign of real distress. "I must beg of you and
of everyone else, Mr. Clem, not to try to make a hero out of me. But
there is a hero under this roof—"
"Dan," Young Master broke in, "I have just sharpened my knife and I
am almost tempted to cut off your ears. Of what use is an ear when
you turn it from heart-felt praise to catch the unsympathetic tones of
average life? And now when anyone starts to compliment you upon
your heroism, I command you to keep your ears open and your
mouth shut. You did act the part of a hero. Shut up, not a word out
of you."
Mr. Clem swore with a horsey oath that I was a hero, and I was
compelled to sit there and listen to his extravagant praise.
 CHAPTER XXI.
I saw Young Master admitted to the bar. The court-house was
crowded, for an exciting trial was on, but a kind-hearted bailiff let
me take a seat wherein I could hear every question asked by the
committee of examiners. I knew that he could answer them, and I
felt not the slightest fear, but my heart stood still as he tripped over
a point almost absurdly simple. I noticed that he had just cast his
eyes toward the gallery, and looking that way at the instant of his
petty stumble, I beheld a tall and graceful girl, standing with her
head leaning against a post, looking at him, and I knew that his
divinity had confused him. But he recovered himself, and I saw Old
Master swell with pride and Old Miss wipe her eyes. I was in hopes
that they would give him an opportunity to make a speech after the
examination, but there was no occasion for his oratory, so I walked
out to wait for him at the door. Old Master and Old Miss came out to
wait also, not caring to push themselves behind the bar among the
lawyers, and indeed too proud to let the neighbors presume that
there had been any anxiety concerning the result. Presently Young
Master came out with the girl whom I had seen standing in the
gallery. The old people shook hands with her when they had shaken
hands with him, and upon me the young woman turned her
beautiful eyes. "Oh, this is your faithful boy," she said, speaking to
Bob, but looking at me. "I am glad to see him out and looking so
well."
She had ridden a horse, but Young Master requested the favor of
taking her home in his buggy. She said that such an arrangement
would please her greatly, and her eyes danced with the delight of
the thought. I brought the buggy and was told to sit on the shelf
seat behind to lead her horse. She bade the old people an
affectionate good-bye, and out the turn-pike we drove, along the
stretches of red clover and underneath majestic trees. In the
distance to her home, three miles or more, there lay a charm, and
they did not suffer the spirited horse to trot. The day was warm, the
leather curtain raised, and I could hear distinctly the words that
passed between them. I could see that he had not more than hinted
at his love for her. Her beauty dazzled him and made him afraid. He
would have talked of books, but she leaped lightly from that subject,
and from this I inferred that her mind was not well stored with the
knowledge gathered by the busy men of the past. But she was
bright and her talk like herself was spirited and pretty, and her
observation was minute. She had seen everything about the court-
room, an old lawyer with a spot of ink on the sleeve of his linen
coat, a tattered book on the floor, a handful of trash swept into a
corner.
"The stars shine on all that lies beneath them," said Master, a fine
tribute to her eyes, I thought; and she must have thought so, too,
for she gave him a laugh that rippled like our creek of a morning
when the wind is low. But she protested against his gallantry with a
sternness that could not have belonged to her light nature, a plea to
him to repeat it, which he did. To his ardent nature, frivolity was a
foreign commodity upon which a heavy import tax was laid. He could
be argumentative, oratorical, gay, serious and bright for hours at a
time, but the silly though pretty chatter which our social life is
supposed to dash as spray between the masculine and the feminine
mind was far beyond him. In nearly all affairs he was too intense for
the perfectly balanced mind. And on this day he strove repeatedly to
fasten the young woman down to seriousness, that he might
estimate her mental strength, I perceived; but she flitted about like
a humming bird, no sooner attracted by one flower than allured
away by another. Still the perfect femininity of her wit, or that which
might pass for it, was captivating. A strained and tiresome novelette,
now almost forgotten, was then an imported rage, and she had not
escaped the infection. She spoke of characters that Bob knew
nothing of and was surprised at his frank acknowledgment of
ignorance.
"A young man of your standing can't afford not to know that
character," she said. "Society demands it of you, and I believe I
would pretend to know," she added, laughing.
"We always meet society's demands when we pretend," he replied.
"People don't ask us to know a thing but to assume that we know it
and not get caught. I haven't had time to sip negus," he went on
after a pause; "I have been too busy with drinking a stronger
draught. I sit in the glow of the great books, but pass by the little
twinkling lights, for I know that soon they must go out."
"Or, in other words," she spoke up, "you tread upon a snow-drop
while gazing at a sun-flower."
This remark, and I acknowledge its aptness, was so pleasing to her
that she laughed the music of self-compliment; and the lambs in the
grass-land lifted their noses out of the sweet tangle of clover to look
at her. I was so close that when she leaned back once a wayward
wisp of her hair swept across my face, more like a breath than a
tangible touch, it was so silken and soft. I studied the almost
imperceptible grain of her pink, plush skin, I was so near her, and
yet to me she was so strangely unreal. To look upon her surely was
a delight, but turning away and shutting my eyes to recall her
features, she seemed a memory far off and shadowy. I could have
given her a sort of worship, the romantic adoration compelled by a
naiad reposing on a moss-bank at the source of a tinkling stream,
but I could not have felt for her the surging passion of a human
love. There was nothing supernatural in her grace; in her movement
there was the soft and unconscious suppression of a cat's agility;
and her bosom bespoke a strong instinct of motherhood, and yet to
me she was vaguely unnatural. She was wanting in heart.
A powerful love looks upon itself as hopeless; upon it must be
thrown that sort of a light, to complete its deliciousness; and I saw
that my master's love was powerful, but I could not see that it was
hopeless. She might never give him a woman's complete devotion, I
argued, for I did not believe that her nature could comprehend his
finer forces, but I felt that she would give him her hand and what
she supposed to be her heart.
"Do you mean to surrender your life wholly to law books?" she
asked, giving him a glance in which I could see a charming fear.
"Oh, no. To my mind a law book without poetry behind it is a heap
of helpless dust. At first I must agree to take almost any case that
may chance to come along, but after a while I will scorn all but the
causes that admit of an orator's effort."
"Oh, that will be lovely!" she cried. "And to think that you entertain
yourself and then get pay for it. However, if I were a man, I think I
would be a preacher. Preachers are nearly always so nice and clean
and they say such pretty things to women."
"It was my mother's ambition that I should be a preacher, and I'm
sorry now that I did not gratify it," he said.
"Oh, charming of you to say so, Mr. Gradley. You see I don't let such
a compliment get away from me. I might have pretended not to see
it, and—and I believe I would if I had thought a moment. Then I
could have made you repeat it. But really it is better for you to be a
lawyer than a preacher. You have so much fire. Everybody says you
are going to make your mark, and when you got into that trouble
lately some one said it would ruin you, but father said it wouldn't. He
killed a man once. Why, people have to kill men who try to kill them,
don't they? But we won't talk about that. Are you going to the pic-
nic over at Fletcher's Grove?"
"I hadn't thought about it. Are you going?"
"I don't know, but I'd like to, ever so much."
"Then go with me."
"Oh, that would be delightful, and I will be ready when you call for
me. Do you dance?"
"I think," said he, "that I might have courage enough to rob a stage-
coach or to fight a duel in a dark room, but I'm afraid that I couldn't
summon the nerve to get out before a number of people and try to
dance."
"Oh, you wouldn't mind it at all. Just as soon as the music strikes up
you forget all about yourself. But isn't it dull about here? Nothing to
do but to sit about and wait. Last year I visited an aunt who lives in
Connecticut, and I had such a nice time. Everyone there is so active.
But, after all, I was kept angry a good deal over the negro question.
I never did get so tired of hearing a subject dinged upon. They hate
us and can't help showing it; and they actually believe that one of
these days they'll come down here, and, as they express it, turn the
negroes loose. They believe we keep them chained together all the
time; and that hateful book, 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' is their bible. Have
you ever seen it?"
"My uncle brought a copy with him and I read it," Bob answered. "I
don't care for its principles, whether they are true or false—literature
being its own principle—but to me it bears the mark of a political
pamphlet that has happened to make a hit, strong with prejudice
but hasty and slip-shod in expression. To me there is no art in it, no
imagination but all sermon. The characters are unreal, standing in
the light of a red fire; they are talking-machines, grinding out music-
box melodies, set homilies; but the subject is powerful and the book
needs no art to give it force. And many a year will pass before we
hear the last of it."
"Why, Mr. Gradley, you can take an interest in light books after all. I
was afraid that you were determined to keep yourself chained to the
venerable masters of—of—what shall I say?—venerable masters of
profound thought. That will do, won't it?"
"Very appropriate, I assure you, but 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' can scarcely
be classed as a light book. It comes in a light garb but its nature is
most serious."
The horse shied at a piece of paper fluttering in the road, and with a
little scream she seized the lines. He asked her if she would give
them back when she should find that no longer was there any
danger, and laughing rhythmically and with blushes she returned the
lines to him.
"No, apology and no embarrassment," said he. "It came of woman's
instinctive sense of protection, of her responsibility at a time of
peril."
"Now you are making fun of me, Mr. Gradley. Oh, boy (turning to
look at me). What's his name? Dan? Oh, yes. How's my horse
coming on, Dan? Well, for pity's sake, if he hasn't turned him loose."
The horse was grazing some distance down the road, and without
waiting to beg pardon for my stupid neglect of the charge intrusted
to me, I jumped down to run after him. Master and the young
woman did not wait for me, but drove to Miss Potter's home, now
but a short distance away. As I came up leading the horse toward
the gate, where master and Miss Potter were standing, old man
Potter came walking out. He was effusive in his welcome, swearing
upon his life that never was he gladder to see a man. "Ah," he said,
looking at me, "and this here is the boy that we all have heard such
a good report about. A likely young feller, Mr. Gradley, and I don't
reckon you'd care to sell him."
"No, sir," said Bob, assuming to be gentle but looking his contempt
for the coarse old fellow. But Mr. Potter could interpret no looks of
contempt; he was too busy surveying me from head to foot.
"Yes, reckon you do think a good deal of him, and I wouldn't wonder
but it would take a right putty piece of money to buy him."
"I could not be induced to part with him, sir," master replied.
"Yes, sir, got a right to think a good deal of him. Goin' to learn him
any sort of trade? Strong enough to make a good blacksmith.
Owned one about like him once. Swapped him for a woman and a
child."
"Why, father," the daughter spoke up, "Dan is Mr. Gradley's body
servant."
"Yes, I know," said the old fellow, his cold and speculative eye still
bent upon me, "but it wouldn't be out of the way to learn him how
to do something. Comes in mighty handy sometimes and we never
can tell what mout happen."
The girl winced at the word "mout," unmistakable symbol of the
white trash, and smiling to cut a blush in two, she said: "You
observe, Mr. Gradley, that father doesn't care how he talks. He fell
into the habit of imitating a queer old fellow who lived near us and
now he does it unintentionally. Let us go into the house?"
"Yes, come on," old Potter joined in. "Jest as cheap inside as out,
and it ain't as tiresome settin' as standin'. Boy, (giving his eye to me
again) go round to the kitchen and tell them to give you something
to eat."
"We haven't time to stop," Bob interposed. "We expect several
friends at dinner, and—"
"Jest as well eat a snack with us," the old fellow broke in. "Jest as
cheap and it won't take nigh so long. I reckon I've got as fine a
piece of mutton as you ever set your teeth on—sheep that I didn't
want to part with but an infernal dog came along this morning and
grabbed him and cut his throat as slick as a whistle—and we know
how to cook mutton at our house. Come on."
He continued to urge his hospitality, and to praise the sheep that
had been killed by a dog, and the girl pleaded with her eyes; and I
thought that Bob would waver, he smiled so and bowed so many
times, but in the end he was firm, and bade me turn the buggy
around. Even then, with his foot on the step, he lingered to speak
another word, though never seeming to utter what came into his
mind. At last we drove away, and the moment my back was turned,
the girl was only a shadow lying across my memory; and it worried
me. I could look at as delicate a thing as a flower and in my mind
could reproduce its form and its hue, but that woman was a blur to
her own image.
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