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

So she thought she would at least talk with him.

Before he came, she had all the curtains drawn up, and she placed herself so that her face came in the full light.

For it was her intention to put him to a sort of test; but Melchior Sinclair was a wonderful man that day.

When he saw her, he did not make a sign, nor did he exclaim. It was as if he had not seen any change in her. She knew how highly he prized her beauty. But he showed no sorrow. He controlled himself not to wound her. That touched her. She began to understand why her mother had loved him through everything.

He showed no hesitation. He came with neither reproaches nor excuses.

“I will wrap the wolfskin about you, Marianne; it is not cold. It has been on my knees the whole time.”

To make sure, he went up to the fire and warmed it.

Then he helped her to raise herself from the sofa, wrapped the cloak about her, put a shawl over her head, drew it down under her arms, and knotted it behind her back.

She let him do it. She was helpless. It was good to have everything arranged, it was good not to have to decide anything, especially good for one who was so picked to pieces as she, for one who did not possess one thought or one feeling which was her own.

Melchior lifted her up, carried her down to the sleigh, closed the top, tucked the furs in about her, and drove away from Ekeby.

She shut her eyes and sighed, partly from pleasure, partly from regret. She was leaving life, the real life; but it did not make so much difference to her⁠—she who could not live but only act.

A few days later her mother arranged that she should meet Gösta. She sent for him while her husband was off on his long walk to see after his timber, and took him in to Marianne.

Gösta came in; but he neither bowed nor spoke. He stood at the door and looked on the ground like an obstinate boy.

“But, Gösta!” cried Marianne. She sat in her armchair and looked at him half amused.

“Yes, that is my name.”

“Come here, come to me, Gösta!”

He went slowly forward to her, but did not raise his eyes.

“Come nearer! Kneel down here!”

“Lord God, what is the use of all that?” he cried; but he obeyed.

“Gösta, I want to tell you that I think it was best that I came home.”

“Let us hope that they will not throw you out in the snowdrift again.”

“Oh, Gösta, do you not care for me any longer? Do you think that I am too ugly?”

He drew her head down and kissed her, but he looked as cold as ever.

She was almost amused. If he was pleased to be jealous of her parents, what then? It would pass. It amused her to try and win him back. She did not know why she wished to keep him, but she did. She thought that it was he who had succeeded for once in freeing her from herself. He was the only one who would be able to do it again.

And now she began to speak, eager to win him back. She said that it had not been her meaning to desert him for good, but for a time they must for appearance’s sake break off their connection. He must have seen, himself, that her father was on the verge of going mad, that her mother was in continual danger of her life. He must understand that she had been forced to come home.

Then his anger burst out in words. She need not give herself so much trouble. He would be her plaything no longer. She had given him up when she had gone home, and he could not love her any more. When he came home the day before yesterday from his hunting-trip and found her gone without a message, without a word, his blood ran cold in his veins, he had nearly died of grief. He could not love anyone who had given him such pain. She had, besides, never loved him. She was a coquette, who wanted to have someone to kiss her and caress her when she was here in the country, that was all.

Did he think that she was in the habit of allowing young men to caress her?

Oh yes, he was sure of it. Women were not so saintly as they seemed. Selfishness and coquetry from beginning to end! No, if she could know how he had felt when he came home from the hunt. It was as though he had waded in ice-water. He should never get over that pain. It would follow him through the whole of his life. He would never be the same person again.

She tried to explain to him how it had all happened. She tried to convince him that she was still faithful. Well, it did not matter, for now he did not love her any more. He had seen through her. She was selfish. She did not love him. She had gone without leaving him a message.

He came continually back to that. She really enjoyed the performance. She could not be angry, she understood his wrath so well. She did not fear any real break between them. But at last she became uneasy. Had there really been such a change in him that he could no longer care for her?

“Gösta,” she said, “was I selfish when I went to Sjö after the major; I knew that they had smallpox there. Nor is it pleasant to go out in satin slippers in the cold and snow.”

“Love lives on love, and not on services and deeds,” said Gösta.

“You wish, then, that we shall be as strangers from now on, Gösta?”

“That is what I wish.”

“You are very changeable, Gösta Berling.”

“People often charge me with it.”

He was cold, impossible to warm, and she was