Speaker 1: A Christmas guest by Selma Lagerloff. One of those who
had lived the life of a pensioner at Ekeby was
little roster who could transpose music and play the flute.
He was of low origin and poor, without home and
without relations. Hard times came to him when the company
of pensioners were dispersed. He then had no horse nor
carry all, no fur coat nor red painted luncheon basket.
He had to go on foot from house to house
and carry his belongings tied in a blue striped cotton handkerchief.
He buttoned his coat all the way up to his chin,
so that no one should need to know in what
condition his shirt and waistcut were. And in its deep
pockets he kept his most precious possessions, his flute taken
to pieces, his flat brandy bottle, and his music pen.
His profession was to copy music, and if it had
been as in the old days, there would have been
no lack of work for him. But with every passing
year music was less practiced in Ermland. The guitar with
its moldy silken ribbon and its worn screws, and the
dented horn with faded tassels and cord were put away
in the lumber room in the attic, and the dust
settled inches deep on the long iron bound violin boxes.
Yet the less little Ruster had to do with flute
and music pen, so much the more must he turn
to the brandy flask. And at last he became quite
a drunkard. It was a great pity. He was still
received at the manor houses as an old friend, but
there were complaints when he came, and joy when he went.
There was an odor of dirt and brandy about him,
And if he had only a couple of glasses of
wine or one toddy, he grew confused and told unpleasant stories.
He was the torment of the hospitable houses. One Christmas
he came to Lovdalla, where Liliocrona, the great violinist, had
his home. Liliocrona had also been one of the pensioners
of Ecby, but after the death of the major's wife,
he returned to his quiet farm and remained there. Roster
came to him a few days before Christmas, in the
midst of all the preparations, and asked for work. Liliocrona
gave him a little copying to keep him busy. You
ought to have let him go immediately, said his wife.
Now he will certainly take so long with that that
we will be obliged to keep him over Christmas. He
must be somewhere, answered Lily Crona, and he offered roster.
Toddy and Brandy sat with him and lived over again
with him the whole Echaby time. But he was out
of spirits and disgusted by him like everyone else, although
he would not let it be seen, for old friendship
and hospitality were sacred to him. In Lilacrona's house for
three weeks now, they had been preparing to receive Christmas.
They had been living in discomfort and bustle, had sat
up with dip lights and torches till their eyes grew red.
Had been frozen in the outhouse with the salting of
the meat, and in the brew house with the brewing
of the beer. But both the mistress and the servants
gave themselves up to it all without grumbling. When all
the preparations were done and the holy evening come, a
sweet enchantment would sink down over them. Christmas would loosen
all tongues, so that jokes and jests, rhymes and merriment
would flow of themselves without effort. Every one's feet would
wish to twirl in the dance, and from memories dark corners,
words and melodies would rise, although no one could believe
that they were there. And then every one was so good,
so good. Now, when Roster came, the whole household at
Lofdalla thought that Christmas was spoiled. The mistress and the
older children and the old servants were all of the
same opinion. Roster caused them a suffocating disgust. They were
moreover afraid that when he and Liliachrona began to rake
up the old memories, the artist's blood would flame up
in the great violinist and his home would lose him. Formerly,
he had not been able to remain long at home.
No one can describe how they loved their master on
the farm, since they had had him with them a
couple of years, and what he had to give, how
much he was to his home, especially at Christmas. He
did not take his place on any sofa or rocking stool,
but on a high, narrow wooden bench in the corner
of the fireplace. When he was settled there, he started
off on adventures he traveled about the earth, climbed up
to the stars and even higher. He played and talked
by turns, and the whole household gathered about him and listened.
Life grew proud and beautiful when the richness of that
one soul shone on it. Therefore they loved him as
they loved Christmas time, pleasure, the spring sun. And when
Little Rooster came, their Christmas peace was destroyed. They had
worked in vain. If he was coming to tempt away
their master. It was unjust that the drunkard should sit
at the Christmas table in a happy house and spoil
the Christmas pleasure. On the forenoon of Christmas Eve, Little
Roster had his music all written out, and he said
something about going, although of course he meant to stay.
Liliochrona had been influenced by the general feeling, and therefore
he said, quite lukewarmly and indifferently, that Roster had better
stay where he was over Christmas. Little Roster was inflammable
and proud. He twirled his mustache and shook back the
black artist's hair that stood like a dark cloud over
his head. What did Lilyocrona mean should he stay? Because
he had nowhere else to go. Oh, only think how
they stood and waited for him. In the big iron
works in the parish of Bro. The guest room was
in order, the glass of wet WelCom filled. He was
in great haste. He only did not know to which
he ought to go first. Very well, answered Liliacrona, you
may go if you will. After dinner, Little Roster borrowed
horse and sleigh coat and furs. The stable boy from
Lofdala was to take him to some place in Bro,
and then drive quickly back, for it threatened snow. No
one believed that he was expected, or that there was
a single place in that neighborhood where he was welcome.
But they were so anxious to be rid of him
that they put the thought aside and let him depart.
He wished it himself, they said, And then they thought
that now they would be glad. But when they gathered
in the dining room at five o'clock to drink tea
and to dance round the Christmas tree, Lilio Crona was
silent and out of spirits. He did not seat himself
on the bench. He neither tea nor punch. He could
not remember any polka. The violin was out of order.
Those who could play and dance had to do it
without him. Then his wife grew uneasy, the children were discontented.
Everything in the house went wrong. It was the most
lamentable Christmas Eve. The porridge turned sour, the candles sputtered,
the wood smoked, The wind stirred up the snow and
blew bitter cold into the rooms. The stable boy who
had driven Rooster did not come home. The cook wept,
the maids scolded. Finally, Lydia Crona remembered that no sheaves
had been put out for the sparrows, and he complained aloud.
Of all the women about him, who abandoned old customs
and were new fangled and heartless, they understood well enough
that what tormented him was remorse that he had let
little Roster go away from his home on Christmas Eve.
After a while, he went to his room, shut the door,
and began to play, as he had not played since
he had ceased roaming. It was full of hate and scorn,
full of longing and revolt. You thought to bind me,
but you must forge new fetters. You thought to make
me as small minded as yourselves, But I turned to
larger things, to the open commonplace. People, slaves of the home,
Hold me prisoner, if it is in your power. When
his wife heard this music, she said, tomorrow he's gone.
If God does not work a miracle in the night,
our inhospitableness has brought on just what we thought we
could avoid. In the meantime, little Roster drove about in
the snow storm. He went from one house to the
other and asked if there was any work for him
to do. But he was not received anywhere. They did
not even ask him to get out of the sledge.
Some had their houses full of guests. Others were going
away on Christmas Day, drive to the next neighbor. They
all said he could come and spoil the pleasure of
an ordinary day, but not of Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve
came but once a year, and the children had been
rejoicing in the thought of it all the autumn. They
could not put that man at a table where there
were children. Formerly they had been glad to see him,
but not since he had become a drunkard. Where should
they put the fellow? Moreover, the servants room was too plain,
and the guest room was too fine, So Little Rooster
had to drive from house to house in the blinding, snow.
Wet mustache hung limply down over his mouth. His eyes
were bloodshot and blurred, but the brandy was blown out
of his brain. He began to wonder and to be amazed.
Was it possible that no one wished to receive him?
Then all at once he saw himself. He saw how
miserable and degraded he was, and he understood that he
was odious to people. It is the end of me,
he thought. No more copying of music, no more flute playing.
No one on earth needs me, no one has compassion
on me. The storm whirled and played, tore apart the
drifts and piled them up again, took a pillar of
snow in its arms and danced out onto the plain,
lifted one flake up to the clouds, and chased another
down into a ditch. It is so, said little Roster.
While one dances and whirls, it is play. But when
one must be buried in the drift and forgotten, it
is sorrow and grief. But down they all have to go.
And now it was his turn to think that he
had now come to the end. He no longer asked
where the man was driving him. He thought that he
was driving in the land of death. Little Roster made
no offerings to the gods that night. He did not
curse flute playing or the life of a pensioner. He
did not think that it had been better for him
if he had plowed the earth or sown shoes. But
he mourned that he was now a worn out instrument
which pleasure could no longer use. He complained of no one,
for he knew that when the horn is cracked and
the guitar will not stay in tune, they must go.
He became all at once a very humble man. He
understood that it was the end of him on this
Christmas Eve, Hunger and cold would destroy him, for he
understood nothing was good for nothing, and had no friends.
The sledge stops, and suddenly it is light about him,
and he hears friendly voices, and there is someone who
is helping him into a warm room, and some one
who is pouring warm tea into him. His coat is
pulled off him, and several people cry that he is welcome,
and warm hands rub life into his benumbed fingers. He
was so confused by it all that he did not
come to his senses for nearly a quarter of an hour.
He could not possibly comprehend that he had come back
to Lofdalla. He had not been at all conscious that
the stable boy had grown tired of driving about in
the storm and had turned home. Nor did he understand
why he was now so well received in Liliocrona's house.
He could not know that Liliocrona's wife understood what a
weary journey he had made that Christmas Eve, when he
had been turned away from every door where he had knocked.
She felt such compassion on him that she forgot her
own troubles. Liliocrona went on with the wild playing up
in his room. He did not know that Roster had come.
The latter sat meanwhile in the dining room with the
wife and the children. The servants, who used also to
be there on Christmas Eve had moved out into the kitchen,
away from their mistress's trouble. The mistress of the house
lost no time in setting Roster to work. You hear,
I suppose she said that Liliocrona does nothing but play
all the evening, and I must attend to setting the
table and the food. The children are quite forsaken. You
must look after. These two smallest children were the kind
of people with whom Little Rooster had had least intercourse.
He had met them neither in the bachelor's wing, nor
in the campaign tent, neither in the wayside inns, nor
on the highways. He was almost shy of them, and
did not know what he ought to say. That was
fine enough for them. He took out his flute and
taught them how to finger the stops and holes. There
was one of four years and one of six. They
had a lesson on the flute, and were deeply interested
in it. This is A, he said, and this is C,
and then he blew the notes. Then the young people
wished to know what kind of an A and C
it was that was to be played. Roster took out
his score and made a few notes. No, they said,
that is not right, and they ran away for an A, B. C. Book.
Little Roster began to hear their alphabet. They knew it,
and they did not know it. What they knew was
not very much. Roster grew eager. He lifted the little
boys up each on one of his knees, and began
to teach them Lilia Crone's wife went out and in
and listened quite in amazement. It sounded like a game,
and the children were laughing the whole time. But they learned.
Roster kept on for a while, but he was absent
from what he was doing. He was turning over the
old thoughts from out in the storm. This was good
and pleasant, but nevertheless it was the end of him.
He was worn out. He ought to be thrown away,
and all of a sudden he put his hands before
his face and began to weep. Lilia Crona's wife came
quickly up to him, Roster. She said, I can understand
that you think it is all over for you. You
cannot make a living with your music, and you are
destroying yourself with brandy. But it is not the end, Roster. Yes,
sobbed the little flute player. Do you see that to
sit as to night with the children, that would be
something for you. If you would teach children to read
and write, you would be welcomed everywhere. That is no
less important an instrument on which to play, Rooster, than
flute and violin. Look at them, Rooster. She placed the
two children in front of him, and he looked up blinking,
as if he had looked at the sun. It seemed
as if his little blurred eyes could not meet those
of the children, which were big, clear and innocent. Look
at them, Rooster, repeated Liliocrona's wife. I dare not, said Rooster,
for it was like a purgatory to look through the
beautiful child eyes to the unspotted beauty of their souls.
Liliocrona's wife laughed loud and joyously. Then you must accustom
yourself to them, Rooster, you can stay in my house
as schoolmaster this year. Liliocrona heard his wife's laugh and
came out of his room. What is it, he said,
What is it? Nothing? She answered, But that Rooster has
come again, and I've engaged him as schoolmaster for our
little boys. Liliocrona was quite amazed. Do you dare, he said,
Do you dare? Has he promised to give up? No,
said the wife. Roster has promised nothing. But there is
much about which he must be careful when he has
to look little children in the eyes every day. If
it had not been Christmas, perhaps I would not have ventured.
But when our Lord dared to place a little child
who was his own son among us sinners, So can
I also dare to let my little children try to
save a human soul. Liliocronach could not speak, but every
feature and wrinkle in his face twitched and twisted, as
always when he heard anything noble. Then he kissed his
wife's hand as gently as a child who asks for forgiveness,
and then cried aloud, all the children must come and
kis their mother's hand. They did so, and then they
had a happy Christmas in Lilia Crona's house. End of
a Christmas Guest by Selma Lagerloff