The Story of Gösta Berling by Selma Lagerlöf (readnow txt) 📕

Gösta could bear it no longer. He was wild, he was out of his head⁠—sometimes God had to send his wolves after him to force him to obedience⁠—but this old woman’s tears, this old woman’s laments were harder for him to bear than the howling of the wolves. He let her know the truth.

“Marianne has been ill the whole time,” he said. “She has had smallpox. She was to get up today and lie on the sofa. I have not seen her since the first night.”

Madame Gustava leaped with one bound to the ground. She left Gösta standing there, and rushed away without another word to her husband.

The people in the auction-room saw her come up to him and eagerly whisper something in his ear. They saw how his face grew still more flushed, and his hand, which rested on the cock, turned it round so that the brandy streamed over the floor.

It seemed to all as if Madame Gustava had come with such important news that the auction must end immediately. The auctioneer’s hammer no longer fell, the clerks’ pens stopped, there were no new bids.

Melchior Sinclair roused himself from his thoughts.

“Well,” he cried, “what is the matter?”

And the auction was in full swing once more.

Gösta still sat in the kitchen, and Madame Gustava came weeping out to him.

“It’s no use,” she said. “I thought he would stop when he heard that Marianne had been ill; but he is letting them go on. He would like to, but now he is ashamed.”

Gösta shrugged his shoulders and bade her farewell.

In the hall he met Sintram.

“This is a funny show,” exclaimed Sintram, and rubbed his hands. “You are a master, Gösta. Lord, what you have brought to pass!”

“It will be funnier in a little while,” whispered Gösta. “The Broby clergyman is here with a sledge full of money. They say that he wants to buy the whole of Björne and pay in cash. Then I would like to see Melchior Sinclair, Sintram.”

Sintram drew his head down between his shoulders and laughed internally a long time. And then he made his way into the auction-room and up to Melchior Sinclair.

“If you want a drink, Sintram, you must make a bid first.”

Sintram came close up to him.

“You are in luck today as always,” he said. “A fellow has come to the house with a sledge full of money. He is going to buy Björne and everything both inside and out. He has told a lot of people to bid for him. He does not want to show himself yet for a while.”

“You might say who he is; then I suppose I must give you a drink for your pains.”

Sintram took the dram and moved a couple of steps backwards, before he answered⁠—

“They say it is the Broby clergyman, Melchior.”

Melchior Sinclair had many better friends than the Broby clergyman. It had been a lifelong feud between them. There were legends of how he had lain in wait on dark nights on the roads where the minister should pass, and how he had given him many an honest drubbing, the old fawning oppressor of the peasants.

It was well for Sintram that he had drawn back a step or two, but he did not entirely escape the big man’s anger. He got a brandy glass between his eyes and the whole brandy keg on his feet. But then followed a scene which for a long time rejoiced his heart.

“Does the Broby clergyman want my house?” roared Melchior Sinclair. “Do you stand there and bid on my things for the Broby clergyman? Oh, you ought to be ashamed! You ought to know better!”

He seized a candlestick, and an inkstand, and slung them into the crowd of people.

All the bitterness of his poor heart at last found expression. Roaring like a wild beast, he clenched his fist at those standing about, and slung at them whatever missile he could lay his hand on. Brandy glasses and bottles flew across the room. He did not know what he was doing in his rage.

“It’s the end of the auction,” he cried. “Out with you! Never while I live shall the Broby clergyman have Björne. Out! I will teach you to bid for the Broby clergyman!”

He rushed on the auctioneer and the clerks. They hurried away. In the confusion they overturned the desk, and Sinclair with unspeakable fury burst into the crowd of peaceful people.

There was a flight and wildest confusion. A couple of hundred people were crowding towards the door, fleeing before a single man. And he stood, roaring his “Out with you!” He sent curses after them, and now and again he swept about him with a chair, which he brandished like a club.

He pursued them out into the hall, but no farther. When the last stranger had left the house, he went back into the drawing-room and bolted the door after him. Then he dragged together a mattress and a couple of pillows, laid himself down on them, went to sleep in the midst of all the havoc, and never woke till the next day.

When Gösta got home, he heard that Marianne wished to speak to him. That was just what he wanted. He had been wondering how he could get a word with her.

When he came into the dim room where she lay, he had to stand a moment at the door. He could not see where she was.

“Stay where you are, Gösta,” Marianne said to him. “It may be dangerous to come near me.”

But Gösta had come up the stairs in two bounds, trembling with eagerness and longing. What did he care for the contagion? He wished to have the bliss of seeing her.

For she was so beautiful, his beloved! No one had such soft hair, such an open, radiant brow. Her whole face was a symphony of exquisite lines.

He thought of her eyebrows, sharply and clearly drawn like the honey-markings on a lily, and of the bold