The Story of Gösta Berling - Selma Lagerlöf (fb2 epub reader .TXT) 📗

go,” he said. “My wife must obey me. I wish that my countess shall know whither it leads to be self-willed.”

Gösta stood helpless. The countess was quite white; but she did not move.

“Go,” said the count.

“Henrik, I cannot.”

“You can,” said the count, harshly. “You can. But I know what you want. You will force me to fight with this man, because your whim is not to like him. Well, if you will not make him amends, I shall do so. You women love to have a man killed for your sake. You have done wrong, but will not atone for it. Therefore I must do it. I shall fight the duel, countess. In a few hours I shall be a bloody corpse.”

She gave him a long look. And she saw him as he was⁠—stupid, cowardly, puffed up with pride and vanity, the most pitiful of men.

“Be calm,” she said. And she became as cold as ice. “I will do it.”

But now Gösta Berling became quite beside himself.

“You shall not, countess! No, you shall not! You are only a child, a poor, innocent child, and you would kiss my hand. You have such a white, beautiful soul. I will never again come near you. Oh, never again! I bring death and destruction to everything good and blameless. You shall not touch me. I shudder for you like fire for water. You shall not!”

He put his hands behind his back.

“It is all the same to me, Herr Berling. Nothing makes any difference to me any more. I ask you for forgiveness. I ask you to let me kiss your hand!”

Gösta kept his hands behind his back. He approached the door.

“If you do not accept the amends my wife offers, I must fight with you, Gösta Berling, and moreover must impose upon her another, severer, punishment.”

The countess shrugged her shoulders. “He is mad from cowardice,” she whispered. “Let me do it! It does not matter if I am humbled. It is after all what you wanted the whole time.”

“Did I want that? Do you think I wanted that? Well, if I have no hands to kiss, you must see that I did not want it,” he cried.

He ran to the fire and stretched out his hands into it. The flames closed over them, the skin shrivelled up, the nails crackled. But in the same second Beerencreutz seized him by the neck and threw him across the floor. He tripped against a chair and sat down. He sat and almost blushed for such a foolish performance. Would she think that he only did it by way of boast? To do such a thing in the crowded room must seem like a foolish vaunt. There had not been a vestige of danger.

Before he could raise himself, the countess was kneeling beside him. She seized his red, sooty hands and looked at them.

“I will kiss them, kiss them,” she cried, “as soon as they are not too painful and sore!” And the tears streamed from her eyes as she saw the blisters rising under the scorched skin.

For he had been like a revelation to her of an unknown glory. That such things could happen here on earth, that they could be done for her! What a man this was, ready for everything, mighty in good as in evil, a man of great deeds, of strong words, of splendid actions! A hero, a hero, made of different stuff from others! Slave of a whim, of the desire of the moment, wild and terrible, but possessor of a tremendous power, fearless of everything.

She had been so depressed the whole evening she had not seen anything but pain and cruelty and cowardice. Now everything was forgotten. The young countess was glad once more to be alive. The goddess of the twilight was conquered. The young countess saw light and color brighten the world.

It was the same night in the pensioners’ wing.

There they scolded and swore at Gösta Berling. The old men wanted to sleep; but it was impossible. He let them get no rest. It was in vain that they drew the bed-curtains and put out the light. He only talked.

He let them know what an angel the young countess was, and how he adored her. He would serve her, worship her. He was glad that everyone had forsaken him. He could devote his life to her service. She despised him of course. But he would be satisfied to lie at her feet like a dog.

Had they ever noticed an island out in the Löfven? Had they seen it from the south side, where the rugged cliff rises precipitously from the water? Had they seen it from the north, where it sinks down to the sea in a gentle slope, and where the narrow shoals, covered with great pines wind out into the water, and make the most wonderful little lakes? There on the steep cliff, where the ruins of an old viking fortress still remain, he would build a palace for the young countess, a palace of marble. Broad steps, at which boats decked with flags should land, should be hewn in the cliff down to the sea. There should be glowing halls and lofty towers with gilded pinnacles. It should be a suitable dwelling for the young countess. That old wooden house at Borg was not worthy for her to enter.

When he had gone on so for a while, first one snore and then another began to sound behind the yellow-striped curtains. But most of them swore and bewailed themselves over him and his foolishness.

“Friends,” he then says solemnly, “I see the green earth covered with the works of man or with the ruins of men’s work. The pyramids weigh down the earth, the tower of Babel has bored through the sky, the beautiful temples and the gray castles have fallen into ruins. But of all which hands have built, what is it which has not fallen, nor shall fall? Ah, friends, throw away the trowel and