She had nothing against the idea, but she had so little faith in herself that she couldn’t come to any conclusion.
Finally, just eight days before the time for submitting manuscripts had expired, she decided to take from the novel five chapters which were sufficiently well connected to pass for a novelette, and chance it with these. But the chapters were far from ready. Three of them were loosely written, but of the remaining two there was barely an outline. Then the whole thing must be legibly copied, of course. To add to this, she was not at home just then, but was visiting her sister and brother-in-law, who still lived in Värmland. And one who has come to visit with dear friends for a short time cannot spend the days at a writing-desk. She wrote therefore at night, sitting up the whole week until four in the mornings.
Finally there were only twenty-four hours of the precious time left, and there were still twenty pages to be written.
On this the last day they were invited out. The whole family were going on a little journey to be gone for the night. Naturally, she had to accompany the rest. When the party was over and the guests dispersed, she sat up all night writing in the strange place.
At times she felt very queer. The place where she was visiting was the very estate on which the wicked Sintram had lived. Fate, in a singular way, had brought her there on the very night when she must write about him who sat in the rocker and rocked.
Now and then she looked up from her work and listened in the direction of the drawing-room for the possible sound of a pair of rockers in motion. But nothing was heard. When the clock struck six the next morning, the five chapters were finished.
Along in the forenoon they travelled home on a little freight steamer. There her sister did up the parcel, sealed it with sealing-wax, which had been brought from home for this purpose, wrote the address, and sent off the novelette.
This happened on one of the last days in July. Toward the end of August Idun contained a notice to the effect that something over twenty manuscripts had been received by the editors, but that one or two among them were so confusedly written they could not be counted in.
Then she gave up waiting for results. She knew, of course, which novelette was so confusedly written that it could not be counted in.
One afternoon in November she received a curious telegram. It contained simply the words “Hearty Congratulations,” and was signed by three of her college classmates.
For her it was a terribly long wait until dinnertime of the following day, when the Stockholm papers were distributed. When the paper was in her hands, she had to search long without finding anything. Finally, on the last page she found a little notice in fine print which told that the prize had been awarded to her.
To another it might not have meant so much, perhaps, but for her it meant that she could devote herself to the calling which all her life she had longed to follow.
There is but little to add to this: The story that wanted to be told and sent out in the world was now fairly near its destination. Now it was to be written, at least, even though it might take a few years more before it was finished.
She who was writing it had gone up to Stockholm around Christmas time, after she had received the prize.
The editor of Idun volunteered to print the book as soon as it was finished.
If she could ever find time to write it!
The evening before she was to return to Landskrona, she spent with her loyal friend, Baroness Adlersparre,7 to whom she read a few chapters aloud.
“Esselde” listened, as only she could listen, and she became interested. After the reading she sat silently and pondered. “How long will it be before all of it is ready?” she asked finally.
“Three or four years.”
Then they parted.
The next morning, two hours before she was to leave Stockholm, a message came from Esselde bidding her come to her before the departure.
The old Baroness was in her most positive and determined mood. “Now you must take a leave of absence for a year and finish the book. I shall procure the money.”
Fifteen minutes later the girl was on her way to the Principal of the Teachers’ College to ask her assistance in securing a substitute.
At one o’clock she was happily seated in the railway carriage. But now she was going no farther than Sörmland, where she had good friends who lived in a charming villa.
And so they—Otto Gumaelius and his wife—gave her the freedom of their home—freedom to work, and peace, and the best of care for nearly a year, until the book was finished.
Now, at last, she could write from morning till night. It was the happiest time of her life.
But when the story was finished at the close of the summer, it looked queer. It was wild and disordered, and the connecting threads were so loose that all the parts seemed bent upon following their old inclination to wander off, each in its own way.
It never became what it should have been. Its misfortune was that it had been compelled to wait so long to be told. If it was not properly disciplined and restrained, it was mostly because the author was so overjoyed in the thought that at last she had been privileged to write it.
