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matter? Cavaliers may not grow old. If our shaking
hands could not lift a glass, our failing eyes not
distinguish the cards, what would life hold for us,
and what good are we in life? Of the thirteen who
celebrate Christmas Eve in the forge at Ekeby,
one must die: but every year brings a man to keep
up our number, a man experienced in all ways of
amusement. One who can handle both the violin
and the playing-cards must come and fill the empty
place. Old butterflies ought to die while the
summer sun still shines. I drink to the health of the
thirteenth!”
“But, Gösta, we are twelve,” remonstrated the
cavaliers, leaving their glasses untouched.
Gösta Berling, whom they called the poet, though
he never wrote any poetry, continued with
unruffled calm:
“Brother cavaliers, have you forgotten who you
are? You are the men who hold joy by force in
Värmland! You lend life to the violin-bow, you
keep the dancing going, and songs and amusement
ring through the land. Your hearts have learned to
refrain from gold, your hands from money. If you
did not exist, dancing would die, summer would die,
and roses and song and card-playing, and in the
whole of this blessed land there would be nothing
but iron and foundry proprietors. Joy shall live just
as long as you do. For six years I have celebrated
Christmas Eve at Ekeby, and no one has yet had
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