Gösta Berling. Selma Lagerlöf

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СКАЧАТЬ this happened in the beginning of the twenties in a far-a-way parish in Western Värmland.

      It was the first misfortune which befell Gösta Berling; it was not the last.

      For colts who cannot bear spur or whips find life hard. For every pain which comes to them they bolt down wild ways to yawning chasms. As soon as the road is stony and the way hard they know no other remedy than to cast off their load and rush away in frenzy.

II

       THE BEGGAR

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      One cold December day a beggar came wandering up the slopes of Broby. He was dressed in the most miserable rags, and his shoes were so worn that the cold snow wet his feet.

      Löfven is a long, narrow lake in Värmland, intersected in several places by long narrow sounds. In the north it stretches up to the Finn forests, in the south down to the lake Väner. There are many parishes along its shores, but the parish of Bro is the largest and richest. It takes up a large part of the lake’s shores both on the east and west sides, but on the west side are the largest estates, such as Ekeby and Björne, known far and wide for wealth and beauty, and Broby, with its large village and inn, courthouse, sheriff-quarters, vicarage, and market-place.

      Broby lies on a steep slope. The beggar had come past the inn, which lies at the foot of the hill, and was struggling up towards the parsonage, which lies at the top.

      A little girl went in front of him up the hill; she dragged a sledge laden with a bag of meal. The beggar caught up with the child and began to talk to her.

      “A little horse for such a heavy load,” he said.

      The child turned and looked at him. She was a little creature about twelve years old, with sharp, suspicious eyes, and lips pressed together.

      “Would to God the horse was smaller and the load larger; it might last longer,” answered the girl.

      “Is it then your own food you are dragging home?”

      “By God’s grace it is; I have to get my own food, although I am so little.”

      The beggar seized the sled rope to drag it up.

      The girl turned and looked at him.

      “You needn’t think that you will get anything for this,” she said.

      The beggar laughed.

      “You must be the daughter of the Broby clergyman.”

      “Yes, yes, I am indeed. Many have poorer fathers, but none have worse. That’s the Lord’s truth, although it’s a shame that his own child should have to say it.”

      “I hear he is mean and ill-natured, your father.”

      “Mean he is, and ill-natured he is, but they say his daughter will be worse if she lives so long; that’s what people say.”

      “I fancy people are right. What I would like to know is, where you found this meal-bag.”

      “It makes no difference if I tell you. I took the grain out of father’s store-house this morning, and now I have been to the mill.”

      “May he not see you when you come dragging it behind you?”

      “You have left school too early. Father is away on his parish visits, can’t you see?”

      “Somebody is driving up the hill behind us; I hear the creaking of the runners. Think if it were he who is coming!”

      The girl listened and peered down, then she burst into tears.

      “It is father,” she sobbed. “He will kill me! He will kill me!”

      “Yes, good advice is now precious, and prompt advice better than silver and gold,” said the beggar.

      “Look here,” said the child, “you can help me. Take the rope and drag the sledge; then father will believe it is yours.”

      “What shall I do with it afterwards?” asked the beggar, and put the rope round his shoulders.

      “Take it where you like for the moment, but come up to the parsonage with it when it is dark. I shall be looking out for you. You are to come with the bag and the sledge, you understand.”

      “I shall try.”

      “God help you if you don’t come!” called the girl, while she ran, hurrying to get home before her father.

      The beggar turned the sledge with a heavy heart and dragged it down to the inn.

      The poor fellow had had his dream, as he went in the snow with half-naked feet. He had thought of the great woods north of lake Löfven, of the great Finn forests.

      Here in the parish of Bro, where he was now wandering along the sound which connects the upper and lower Löfven—in this rich and smiling country, where one estate joins another, factory lies near factory—here all the roads seemed to him too heavy, the rooms too small, the beds too hard. Here he longed for the peace of the great, eternal forests.

      Here he heard the blows echoing in all the barns as they threshed out the grain. Loads of timber and charcoal-vans kept coming down from the inexhaustible forests. Endless loads of metal followed the deep ruts which the hundreds gone before had cut. Here he saw sleighs filled with travellers speed from house to house, and it seemed to him as if pleasure held the reins, and beauty and love stood on the runners. Oh, how he longed for the peace of the forest.

      There the trees rise straight and pillarlike from the even ground, there the snow rests in heavy layers on the motionless pines, there the wind is powerless and only plays softly in the topmost leaves, there he would wander deeper and still farther in, until at last his strength would fail him, and he would drop under the great trees, dying of hunger and cold.

      He longed for the great murmuring grave above the Löfven, where he would be overcome by the powers of annihilation, where at last hunger, cold, fatigue, and brandy should succeed in destroying his poor body, which had endured everything.

      He came down to the inn to await the evening. He went into the bar-room and threw himself down on a bench by the door, dreaming of the eternal forests.

      The innkeeper’s wife felt sorry for him and gave him a glass of brandy. She even gave him another, he implored her so eagerly.

      But more she would not give him, and the beggar was in despair. He must have more of the strong, sweet brandy. He must once again feel his heart dance in his body and his thoughts flame up in intoxication. Oh, that sweet spirit of the corn!

      The summer sun, the song of the birds, perfume and beauty floated in its white wave. Once more, before he disappears into the night and the darkness, let him drink sunshine and happiness.

      So he bartered first the meal, then the meal-sack, and last the sledge, for brandy. On it he got thoroughly drunk, СКАЧАТЬ