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Speaker 1: A Christmas guest by Selma Lagerloff. One of those who

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had lived the life of a pensioner at Ekeby was

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little roster who could transpose music and play the flute.

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He was of low origin and poor, without home and

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without relations. Hard times came to him when the company

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of pensioners were dispersed. He then had no horse nor

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carry all, no fur coat nor red painted luncheon basket.

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He had to go on foot from house to house

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and carry his belongings tied in a blue striped cotton handkerchief.

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He buttoned his coat all the way up to his chin,

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so that no one should need to know in what

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condition his shirt and waistcut were. And in its deep

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pockets he kept his most precious possessions, his flute taken

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to pieces, his flat brandy bottle, and his music pen.

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His profession was to copy music, and if it had

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been as in the old days, there would have been

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no lack of work for him. But with every passing

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year music was less practiced in Ermland. The guitar with

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its moldy silken ribbon and its worn screws, and the

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dented horn with faded tassels and cord were put away

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in the lumber room in the attic, and the dust

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settled inches deep on the long iron bound violin boxes.

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Yet the less little Ruster had to do with flute

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and music pen, so much the more must he turn

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to the brandy flask. And at last he became quite

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a drunkard. It was a great pity. He was still

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received at the manor houses as an old friend, but

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there were complaints when he came, and joy when he went.

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There was an odor of dirt and brandy about him,

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And if he had only a couple of glasses of

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wine or one toddy, he grew confused and told unpleasant stories.

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He was the torment of the hospitable houses. One Christmas

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he came to Lovdalla, where Liliocrona, the great violinist, had

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his home. Liliocrona had also been one of the pensioners

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of Ecby, but after the death of the major's wife,

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he returned to his quiet farm and remained there. Roster

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came to him a few days before Christmas, in the

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midst of all the preparations, and asked for work. Liliocrona

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gave him a little copying to keep him busy. You

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ought to have let him go immediately, said his wife.

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Now he will certainly take so long with that that

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we will be obliged to keep him over Christmas. He

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must be somewhere, answered Lily Crona, and he offered roster.

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Toddy and Brandy sat with him and lived over again

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with him the whole Echaby time. But he was out

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of spirits and disgusted by him like everyone else, although

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he would not let it be seen, for old friendship

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and hospitality were sacred to him. In Lilacrona's house for

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three weeks now, they had been preparing to receive Christmas.

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They had been living in discomfort and bustle, had sat

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up with dip lights and torches till their eyes grew red.

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Had been frozen in the outhouse with the salting of

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the meat, and in the brew house with the brewing

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of the beer. But both the mistress and the servants

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gave themselves up to it all without grumbling. When all

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the preparations were done and the holy evening come, a

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sweet enchantment would sink down over them. Christmas would loosen

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all tongues, so that jokes and jests, rhymes and merriment

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would flow of themselves without effort. Every one's feet would

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wish to twirl in the dance, and from memories dark corners,

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words and melodies would rise, although no one could believe

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that they were there. And then every one was so good,

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so good. Now, when Roster came, the whole household at

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Lofdalla thought that Christmas was spoiled. The mistress and the

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older children and the old servants were all of the

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same opinion. Roster caused them a suffocating disgust. They were

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moreover afraid that when he and Liliachrona began to rake

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up the old memories, the artist's blood would flame up

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in the great violinist and his home would lose him. Formerly,

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he had not been able to remain long at home.

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No one can describe how they loved their master on

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the farm, since they had had him with them a

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couple of years, and what he had to give, how

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much he was to his home, especially at Christmas. He

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did not take his place on any sofa or rocking stool,

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but on a high, narrow wooden bench in the corner

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of the fireplace. When he was settled there, he started

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off on adventures he traveled about the earth, climbed up

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to the stars and even higher. He played and talked

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by turns, and the whole household gathered about him and listened.

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Life grew proud and beautiful when the richness of that

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one soul shone on it. Therefore they loved him as

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they loved Christmas time, pleasure, the spring sun. And when

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Little Rooster came, their Christmas peace was destroyed. They had

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worked in vain. If he was coming to tempt away

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their master. It was unjust that the drunkard should sit

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at the Christmas table in a happy house and spoil

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the Christmas pleasure. On the forenoon of Christmas Eve, Little

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Roster had his music all written out, and he said

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something about going, although of course he meant to stay.

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Liliochrona had been influenced by the general feeling, and therefore

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he said, quite lukewarmly and indifferently, that Roster had better

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stay where he was over Christmas. Little Roster was inflammable

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and proud. He twirled his mustache and shook back the

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black artist's hair that stood like a dark cloud over

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his head. What did Lilyocrona mean should he stay? Because

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he had nowhere else to go. Oh, only think how

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they stood and waited for him. In the big iron

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works in the parish of Bro. The guest room was

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in order, the glass of wet WelCom filled. He was

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in great haste. He only did not know to which

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he ought to go first. Very well, answered Liliacrona, you

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may go if you will. After dinner, Little Roster borrowed

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horse and sleigh coat and furs. The stable boy from

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Lofdala was to take him to some place in Bro,

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and then drive quickly back, for it threatened snow. No

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one believed that he was expected, or that there was

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a single place in that neighborhood where he was welcome.

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But they were so anxious to be rid of him

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that they put the thought aside and let him depart.

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He wished it himself, they said, And then they thought

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that now they would be glad. But when they gathered

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in the dining room at five o'clock to drink tea

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and to dance round the Christmas tree, Lilio Crona was

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silent and out of spirits. He did not seat himself

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on the bench. He neither tea nor punch. He could

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not remember any polka. The violin was out of order.

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Those who could play and dance had to do it

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without him. Then his wife grew uneasy, the children were discontented.

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Everything in the house went wrong. It was the most

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lamentable Christmas Eve. The porridge turned sour, the candles sputtered,

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the wood smoked, The wind stirred up the snow and

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blew bitter cold into the rooms. The stable boy who

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had driven Rooster did not come home. The cook wept,

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the maids scolded. Finally, Lydia Crona remembered that no sheaves

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had been put out for the sparrows, and he complained aloud.

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Of all the women about him, who abandoned old customs

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and were new fangled and heartless, they understood well enough

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that what tormented him was remorse that he had let

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little Roster go away from his home on Christmas Eve.

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After a while, he went to his room, shut the door,

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and began to play, as he had not played since

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he had ceased roaming. It was full of hate and scorn,

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full of longing and revolt. You thought to bind me,

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but you must forge new fetters. You thought to make

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me as small minded as yourselves, But I turned to

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larger things, to the open commonplace. People, slaves of the home,

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Hold me prisoner, if it is in your power. When

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his wife heard this music, she said, tomorrow he's gone.

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If God does not work a miracle in the night,

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our inhospitableness has brought on just what we thought we

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could avoid. In the meantime, little Roster drove about in

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the snow storm. He went from one house to the

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other and asked if there was any work for him

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to do. But he was not received anywhere. They did

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not even ask him to get out of the sledge.

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Some had their houses full of guests. Others were going

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away on Christmas Day, drive to the next neighbor. They

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all said he could come and spoil the pleasure of

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an ordinary day, but not of Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve

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came but once a year, and the children had been

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rejoicing in the thought of it all the autumn. They

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could not put that man at a table where there

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were children. Formerly they had been glad to see him,

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but not since he had become a drunkard. Where should

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they put the fellow? Moreover, the servants room was too plain,

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and the guest room was too fine, So Little Rooster

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had to drive from house to house in the blinding, snow.

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Wet mustache hung limply down over his mouth. His eyes

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were bloodshot and blurred, but the brandy was blown out

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of his brain. He began to wonder and to be amazed.

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Was it possible that no one wished to receive him?

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Then all at once he saw himself. He saw how

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miserable and degraded he was, and he understood that he

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was odious to people. It is the end of me,

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he thought. No more copying of music, no more flute playing.

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No one on earth needs me, no one has compassion

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on me. The storm whirled and played, tore apart the

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drifts and piled them up again, took a pillar of

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snow in its arms and danced out onto the plain,

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lifted one flake up to the clouds, and chased another

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down into a ditch. It is so, said little Roster.

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While one dances and whirls, it is play. But when

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one must be buried in the drift and forgotten, it

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is sorrow and grief. But down they all have to go.

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And now it was his turn to think that he

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had now come to the end. He no longer asked

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where the man was driving him. He thought that he

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was driving in the land of death. Little Roster made

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no offerings to the gods that night. He did not

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curse flute playing or the life of a pensioner. He

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did not think that it had been better for him

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if he had plowed the earth or sown shoes. But

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he mourned that he was now a worn out instrument

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which pleasure could no longer use. He complained of no one,

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for he knew that when the horn is cracked and

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the guitar will not stay in tune, they must go.

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He became all at once a very humble man. He

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understood that it was the end of him on this

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Christmas Eve, Hunger and cold would destroy him, for he

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understood nothing was good for nothing, and had no friends.

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The sledge stops, and suddenly it is light about him,

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and he hears friendly voices, and there is someone who

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is helping him into a warm room, and some one

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who is pouring warm tea into him. His coat is

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pulled off him, and several people cry that he is welcome,

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and warm hands rub life into his benumbed fingers. He

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was so confused by it all that he did not

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come to his senses for nearly a quarter of an hour.

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He could not possibly comprehend that he had come back

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to Lofdalla. He had not been at all conscious that

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the stable boy had grown tired of driving about in

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the storm and had turned home. Nor did he understand

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why he was now so well received in Liliocrona's house.

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He could not know that Liliocrona's wife understood what a

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weary journey he had made that Christmas Eve, when he

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had been turned away from every door where he had knocked.

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She felt such compassion on him that she forgot her

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own troubles. Liliocrona went on with the wild playing up

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in his room. He did not know that Roster had come.

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The latter sat meanwhile in the dining room with the

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wife and the children. The servants, who used also to

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be there on Christmas Eve had moved out into the kitchen,

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away from their mistress's trouble. The mistress of the house

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lost no time in setting Roster to work. You hear,

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I suppose she said that Liliocrona does nothing but play

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all the evening, and I must attend to setting the

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table and the food. The children are quite forsaken. You

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must look after. These two smallest children were the kind

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of people with whom Little Rooster had had least intercourse.

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He had met them neither in the bachelor's wing, nor

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in the campaign tent, neither in the wayside inns, nor

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on the highways. He was almost shy of them, and

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did not know what he ought to say. That was

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fine enough for them. He took out his flute and

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taught them how to finger the stops and holes. There

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was one of four years and one of six. They

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had a lesson on the flute, and were deeply interested

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in it. This is A, he said, and this is C,

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and then he blew the notes. Then the young people

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wished to know what kind of an A and C

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it was that was to be played. Roster took out

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his score and made a few notes. No, they said,

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that is not right, and they ran away for an A, B. C. Book.

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Little Roster began to hear their alphabet. They knew it,

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and they did not know it. What they knew was

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not very much. Roster grew eager. He lifted the little

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boys up each on one of his knees, and began

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to teach them Lilia Crone's wife went out and in

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and listened quite in amazement. It sounded like a game,

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and the children were laughing the whole time. But they learned.

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Roster kept on for a while, but he was absent

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from what he was doing. He was turning over the

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old thoughts from out in the storm. This was good

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and pleasant, but nevertheless it was the end of him.

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He was worn out. He ought to be thrown away,

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and all of a sudden he put his hands before

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his face and began to weep. Lilia Crona's wife came

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quickly up to him, Roster. She said, I can understand

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that you think it is all over for you. You

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cannot make a living with your music, and you are

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destroying yourself with brandy. But it is not the end, Roster. Yes,

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sobbed the little flute player. Do you see that to

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sit as to night with the children, that would be

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something for you. If you would teach children to read

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and write, you would be welcomed everywhere. That is no

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less important an instrument on which to play, Rooster, than

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flute and violin. Look at them, Rooster. She placed the

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two children in front of him, and he looked up blinking,

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as if he had looked at the sun. It seemed

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as if his little blurred eyes could not meet those

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of the children, which were big, clear and innocent. Look

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at them, Rooster, repeated Liliocrona's wife. I dare not, said Rooster,

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for it was like a purgatory to look through the

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beautiful child eyes to the unspotted beauty of their souls.

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Liliocrona's wife laughed loud and joyously. Then you must accustom

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yourself to them, Rooster, you can stay in my house

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as schoolmaster this year. Liliocrona heard his wife's laugh and

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came out of his room. What is it, he said,

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What is it? Nothing? She answered, But that Rooster has

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come again, and I've engaged him as schoolmaster for our

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little boys. Liliocrona was quite amazed. Do you dare, he said,

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Do you dare? Has he promised to give up? No,

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said the wife. Roster has promised nothing. But there is

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much about which he must be careful when he has

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to look little children in the eyes every day. If

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it had not been Christmas, perhaps I would not have ventured.

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But when our Lord dared to place a little child

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who was his own son among us sinners, So can

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I also dare to let my little children try to

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save a human soul. Liliocronach could not speak, but every

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feature and wrinkle in his face twitched and twisted, as

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always when he heard anything noble. Then he kissed his

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wife's hand as gently as a child who asks for forgiveness,

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and then cried aloud, all the children must come and

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kis their mother's hand. They did so, and then they

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had a happy Christmas in Lilia Crona's house. End of

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a Christmas Guest by Selma Lagerloff