The Emigrants (22 page)

And the dean lost himself in new thoughts while preparing his sermon. He had much to say to his congregation next Sunday, deriving from Matthew 8:28.

He had also something to attend to today, something which could not wait. He sent for his servant and told him to pull out the sleigh and harness the fastest parsonage horse—he wished to drive to Sheriff Lönnegren in Ålebäck on an urgent matter.

Dean Brusander remained genial throughout. He was convinced he could take care of the Åkian heresy—with God’s help and through the assistance of the secular authorities.

—2—

In the middle of the big room in Danjel Andreasson’s house stood a long table which Inga-Lena had put in order this evening. She had pulled out the extra leaves, she had polished two tall brass candlesticks until they shone, she had lit the candles and placed one candlestick on each end of the table. She had brought forth the tallest candles which they had made at Christmas. She had covered the large table with a newly woven cloth of whole linen, which she was using now for the first time; it was washed and ironed and white as the snow without. From her linen chest she brought forth her finest and most precious possessions, for tonight they expected the most important visitor a human being could receive in his house. Tonight their old table was the Lord’s table, their tallow candles were God’s altar candles, and Inga-Lena’s new linen cloth was God’s altar cloth: the Lord Jesus Christ would be their guest tonight.

In the center of the table, between the candlesticks, she had placed the earthen jug with wine, sweet wine from Karlshamn, and the cake plate with newly baked rye cookies; Inga-Lena had made the Communion breads in the shape of a cross.

The gathering around the Lord’s altar in Kärragärde was to take place one hour before midnight. The people from the neighboring farms, two married couples, had just arrived. They were stamping off the snow in the entrance hall, where they were met by Danjel, who bade them step inside and join the brethren in Christ’s body. Those already congregated consisted of the house folk and the lodgers. No more visitors were expected, and Danjel locked the door and bolted it. The only time he allowed locked doors in his house was when the Lord Himself made a call. From the storm and snow outside the neighbors stepped into the pleasant, intimate stillness which reigned in Danjel’s house. He asked his guests to find their places at the table. With his
psalmodikon
—a musical instrument with one string, resembling a violin—he himself took the seat at the upper end.

Danjel Andreasson was shorter than average, narrow-shouldered, and slenderly built. His face was covered by a light-brown, unkempt beard, and his thick, round-cut hair fell down to the collar of his jacket. The little peasant was gentle in manner, slow in movement, thoughtful and mild in speech. Under a broad protruding forehead his brown eyes had a look of peace in them. His lips parted often, as if about to smile.

At the table’s long side, to the right of the master, sat the house folk: dishonorably discharged soldier Severius Pihl, a tall man with a disfigured face, sunken and devastated by smallpox and brännvin; invalided servant maid Sissa Svensdotter, lame in her right arm and crippled in her left foot; and unmarried Ulrika of Västergöhl and her daughter Elin. This daughter was the only one surviving of the four children of unknown fathers whom Ulrika had borne. Elin was barely fifteen years of age and would tonight receive Holy Communion for the first time. Because of her immoral life, Ulrika of Västergöhl herself had for many years been denied the holy sacraments by the church. It seemed remarkable to all that her life in adultery had not left noticeable signs of corruption, but her face retained the innocent features of a pure maiden, showing hardly a wrinkle; her well-shaped body, with its full bosom, was still supple and well preserved. Elin resembled her mother when young. She was a delicate maiden with a fair face.

At the opposite side of the table, to the left of Danjel, sat the people from neighboring farms, two men and two women. Inga-Lena had her place at the lower end of the table. There were ten guests in all at the devotional supper about to begin.

Danjel asked his wife to close the kitchen door, then he knelt beside his chair and prayed a silent prayer. All sat immobile, still and waiting. Outside, the snowstorm increased, and some loose boards at the corner of the house slapped as the gusts of wind pulled and shook them.

Danjel arose and said that Jesus had now arrived.

“Well meet our Saviour with the hymn about Gethsemane: ‘The Sacrifice Is Near. Bleed, My Heart!’”

The farmer of Kärragärde picked up his psalmodikon; he tuned the instrument and began to hum the hymn while he listened to the howling snowstorm outside as if he were trying to imitate the sound of the blizzard in the tune of the psalm. Then he drew the wooden bow across the strings, he played and sang:

“Wake, O Christian, while thy Saviour

Bids thee share His cup of woe!

Leave the haunts of sin forever—

He alone can peace bestow.

‘Watch and pray,’ He pleadeth ever,

‘Darkness seeks thy overthrow.’”

All joined in the singing, each according to his ability, and the hymn rose strong and powerful under the low ceiling with its cracked and sooty beams. The Åkians sang while the wind whirled round the cottage and filtered through cracks in walls and windows, causing the candle flames to flicker in the draft. The tallow candles lit up only part of the room, a small circle around the table, leaving the rest in semidarkness.

The people gathered here tonight had come to tarry with their Saviour, not to deny Him, like Peter, not to betray Him, like Judas. All those sitting here around Danjel’s table, waiting for him to give them the bread and wine, had experienced redemption through
their own faith,
the faith that Christ had suffered and died on the cross for their sins. In embracing this belief they felt that the body of Christ had taken possession of their own bodies, that they had sloughed off their old, sinful ones. Thus they were reborn, untainted, righteous, cleansed of all sins. The Lord’s new apostle, sitting here at table with them, had said to them: “Your sins are tied up in the linen napkin which was about Christ’s head when He was buried, and which He left in His grave.” And they all believed this.

Tonight again Christ bade them eat His body and drink His blood. This was the covenant between the Saviour and the saved, which must be resealed. It was simple for everyone to understand. Christ’s body was inside their bodies, while theirs were inside His, as His own words in Danjel’s Bible on the table verified: “He that eateth My flesh, and drinketh My blood, dwelleth in Me, and I in him.”

They were sundered from the church, no longer received at its altar ring. But the Lord was omnipresent and they could find Him everywhere, in all places under the roof of the heavens. Jesus had allowed Himself to be born in a stable, He could place His Communion table wherever He pleased, be it a byre, a woodshed, or a barn. He was with them wherever they sought Him, the Lord’s table stood wherever He was present.

And tonight He was with them again; they were sitting around His altar table. The ceiling of sooty beams above their heads was the vaulted ceiling of the Lord’s shining temple. This was a holy place.

“The hours pass, keep praying, sinners,

Follow Christ in happy mood.”

The hymn rang out to its close. Danjel moved his Bible close to the tallow candle, so that its light fell on the leaves, and he began to read in a clear and even voice the sacred words of the institution of the Lord’s Supper: “Our Lord Jesus Christ, in the night when He was betrayed, took the bread, gave thanks and brake it and gave unto His disciples, and said: ‘This is My body, which is given for you’ . . .”

The males had precedence in receiving the sacrament. With slow movements Danjel took from the plate a rye biscuit, broke it, and held a small piece to the mouth of soldier Pihl. “Jesus Christ, Whose body you receive, keep you in eternal life.”

The old soldier sat with his hands folded and his eyes closed. He bent forward while his lips received the crust of the rye cookie from the peasant’s hand. Severius Pihl was toothless; slowly his gums ground the bread to pieces. From the earthen jug Danjel now poured wine into a tin mug, and when the old man had swallowed his bread, Danjel held the mug to his mouth. The soldier drank the wine eagerly in one swallow, then gave thanks to the Saviour in a deep sigh.

“Jesus Christ, Whose blood you receive . . .”

The other Communion guests had folded their hands and, deeply aware of Christ’s presence, made not a single motion. A gust of wind shook the loose boards, which squeaked and banged. The candle flames flickered in a sudden draft from the window, the shadows moved quickly back and forth over the white tablecloth. The blizzard raged without, but the people locked in here were in a peaceful room, sanctified to the God Who had redeemed them, Who had gathered all their sins in His bloody napkin cloth.

Danjel Andreasson had administered bread and wine to the men; he continued with the women, and was about to give the bread to Ulrika of Västergöhl when a new sound from outside was heard above the storm: a man spoke with a coarse voice. The little peasant’s hand, holding Christ’s body, stopped in mid-air as for a moment he listened. Then he went on with the Communion as if nothing had been heard. He gave Ulrika a piece of the broken bread, and was about to hand her the wine when he was interrupted by another noise: someone knocked, then banged on the outside door.

All turned their heads and listened. Danjel put down the mug with Christ’s blood on the table. The blows on the door came in even intervals. But Danjel said nothing and his expression did not change.

Apprehension came over the others; they began to whisper.

Inga-Lena said: “Please, Danjel, do not open!”

His neighbors looked at Danjel, fear in their eyes, but he reassured them: they need not be afraid, they must remain fearless, sitting quietly on their chairs. The Lord Jesus was with them in this room tonight, no one need fear harm. Whosoever stood outside and tried to break in had no power against the will of the Almighty. This they must know.

The master of Kärragärde went with sure steps out into the entrance hall. Before touching the door lock he asked gently: “Who is disturbing the stillness of our house this night?”

“Sheriff Lönnegren! Open!”

“Whom do you search for at this late hour, Mr. Sheriff?”

“You, Danjel Andreasson! I order you in the name of the law, open your door!”

Other voices were heard, several men were on the porch.

“I do not obey the laws of man.”

“My official duty compels me to break down the door if you don’t open!”

“Then I must help you, Mr. Sheriff. I cannot allow you to commit a great outrage and increase your sins against God.”

Danjel opened the door. He saw horses and sleighs outside in the yard, but the horses had no bells, the visitors had driven without sleigh-bells so as not to announce their arrival.

Sheriff Lönnegren stepped inside, followed by Dean Brusander. After them came the assistant pastor, Krusell, and the churchwarden, Per Persson of Åkerby, and lastly the village bailiff, and Sheriff Lönnegren’s hired man. Danjel followed the callers inside; six men entered the room where Danjel’s little flock waited in trepidation—three from the spiritual authorities and three from the temporal. Dean Brusander and Pastor Krusell were dressed in the official garb of the clergy. Both ministers were pale and serious, and their black garments inspired awe.

Sheriff Lönnegren removed his uniform cap but was still unable to stand erect under the low ceiling of the peasant cottage; he hit his forehead against a beam and half exploded in an oath before he remembered the clerical company. He turned to the owner of the farm. “What are these people doing here in the middle of the night?”

“We are gathered in a devotional repast,” answered Danjel calmly.

The sheriff looked sharply at the neighbors. “I recognize people who do not belong to your house, Danjel Andreasson. It seems to me an unlawful meeting is taking place here.”

The two neighboring wives whispered anxiously to their husbands as the sheriff requested their names and place of residence. Danjel again called on his guests to remain calm and unafraid.

Ulrika of Västergöhl did not seem alarmed, rather angry. She glared with disgust at the peacebreakers.

The dean still remained silent while he studied the parishioners gathered around the old table: Pihl, the old soldier, reveler and gambler, often reproved but never improving until at last dishonorable discharge ended his crown service; Sissa Svensdotter, a poor creature, crippled, lame, and committed twice for thievery; and Ulrika of Västergöhl, repulsive harlot to whom the devil had given a fair body to entice men for whoring, and who had been mainly responsible for adultery within the parish. Indeed, the new Åkian master had gathered the dregs of the community around him.

Brusander caught sight of the wine jug on the table, he looked at the cake plate with cookies in the form of crosses, and his face paled still more. He drew in his breath deeply, his voice vibrated with indignation, rising to despair: “Your poor confused creatures! You defile the holy sacrament!”

“We enjoy the dear sacraments,” answered Danjel, humble yet inflexible.

“Which you have denied us, Mr. Dean!” injected Soldier Pihl.

“Because we no longer crawl under the priest cape!” added Ulrika.

Without paying attention to these remarks the dean turned to Sheriff Lönnegren, pointing at the table. “What more is needed? Danjel Andreasson administers the holy sacrament to these people! We have caught him in the act in his own house. We are all your witnesses to this offense.”

The sheriff regarded Danjel’s Communion table with a thoughtful and somewhat annoyed expression: he had set out tonight on this business most unwillingly, at Brusander’s request. People gathering for devotion within four walls did not distress him as they did the dean. He liked to leave people alone as long as they were quiet within doors, didn’t disturb the peace in public places, and didn’t harm their fellow men. These here did not harm other people, they were poor, wretched creatures, in rags, with defects and ugliness, poor devils, but no nuisance here. And when others were allowed to gather in peace for gambling and drinking, why shouldn’t these poor drones in religion be left undisturbed, as long as they in their turn left others undisturbed? The sheriff had advised the dean to attempt a reconciliation between the dissenters and the church.