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gliding over the surface of the lake on a quiet evening
in August. The men who rowed took slow strokes
and cast frightened glances at the passengers lying
in the bow and stern; but Count Dohna, who was
also there, was not afraid. He took them one by
one in his own aristocratic hands and threw them
into the water. His brow was clear, and he breathed
deeply. He felt himself to be fighting for the pure
evangelical faith. And no miracle was performed
in honor of the old saints—they sank silently and
hopelessly to destruction.
Next Sunday morning Svartsjö church shone
white. No pictures disturbed the peace of inner
contemplation. With the soul’s eye alone the pious
must see the glories of heaven and the faces of the
blessed. The prayers of men must rise on their
own strong wings to the Most High. They must
no longer clutch at the hem of the saints’ mantles.
Oh, green is the earth, man’s loved home, and
blue is heaven, the goal of his longing; all the world
shines in color; why, then, is the church white?
White as winter, naked as poverty, pale as fear!
It glitters not with frost as the winter forest. It
gleams not with pearls and lace as a white bride.
The church stands there covered with cold, dead
whitewash, without a statue, without a painting.
Count Dohna sat that day in a flower-decked
chair in the choir to be seen and praised by all
men. He would be honored now for mending the
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