The Saga of Gosta Berling Read online

  He sat and watched the dovecote. The birds had a grate in front of the opening. They were enclosed, as long as winter lasted, so that the hawk would not wipe them out. Now and then a dove came and stuck its white head out between the bars.

  “She’s waiting for spring,” said Melchior Sinclaire. “But she has to be patient for the time being.”

  The dove came so regularly that he took out his watch and observed her with watch in hand. Exactly every three minutes she stuck out her head.

  “No, my little friend,” he said, “do you think spring will be ready in three minutes? She’ll have to learn to wait.”

  And he himself had to wait, but he had plenty of time.

  At first the horses scraped impatiently in the snow, but then they got sleepy from standing and blinking in the sunlight. They leaned their heads together and slept.

  The coachman sat straight on the stand with whip and reins in hand and his face turned directly toward the sun and slept, slept so that he snored.

  But the mill owner did not sleep. He had never been less inclined to sleep. He had seldom had more enjoyable hours than during this happy wait. Marianne had been sick. She had not been able to come before, but now she would come. Oh, of course she would. And everything would be fine again.

  Now she really would understand that he was not angry with her. He had come personally with two horses and a covered sleigh.

  Over by the entrance to the beehive sat a titmouse occupied with a really devilish trick. He would have his dinner of course, and sure enough he was knocking on the entrance to the beehive with his sharp little beak. But inside the hive the bees were hanging in a large, dark sack. Everything is in the strictest order; the stewards dole out the food rations, the cupbearer runs from mouth to mouth with nectar and ambrosia. The ones that are hanging farthest in change places with the ones outside at a steady crawl, so that heat and comfort might be evenly divided.

  Then they hear the knocking of the titmouse, and the whole hive buzzes with curiosity. Is it friend or enemy? Is it a danger to the community? The queen has a bad conscience. She cannot wait in peace and quiet. Do you think it is the murdered drone’s phantoms that are haunting out there? “Go out and see what it is!” she orders her sister, the doorkeeper. And this is done. With a “Long live the Queen!” she rushes out, and hi! the titmouse is over her. With neck extended and wings shaking with excitement he seizes her, crushes her, eats her, and no one carries the news of her fate in to the queen. But the titmouse starts knocking again, and the queen bee continues to send out her doorkeep ers, and all of them disappear. No one comes back to tell who has knocked. Ugh, it is getting dreadful inside in the dark hive! Vengeful spirits are pursuing their game outside. If only one lacked ears! If only one could refrain from being curious! If only one could wait in peace!

  The great Melchior Sinclaire laughed so that he had tears in his eyes at the stupid womenfolk inside the hive and at the clever, yellow-green rogue outside.

  There’s no trick to waiting when you are completely sure of your business, and when there is plenty to divert your thoughts with.

  There comes the big farm dog. He sneaks up on the very tips of his paws, keeping his eyes on the ground and wagging his tail a little, as if he intended to be off on the most indifferent errand. Suddenly he starts to eagerly dig in the snow. No doubt the old scoundrel has concealed ill-gotten goods there.

  But just as he is lifting his head to see whether he can now eat in peace, he becomes quite disappointed by seeing two jays in front of him.

  “Thief!” say the jays, looking like conscience itself. “We are police officers. Over here with the stolen goods!”

  “Oh, hush, you rascals! I’m the farm sheriff.”

  “Just the right one!” they mock.

  The dog throws himself over them, and they flee with languid wing strokes. The dog rushes after them, jumping and barking. But while he is chasing the one, the other is already back. She flies down into the hole, tearing at the piece of meat, but doesn’t manage to lift it. The dog jerks the meat to himself, holding it between his paws and biting into it. The jays sit down right in front of him and say mean things. He glares sternly at them while he eats, and when things get much too crazy, he rushes up and drives them away.

  The sun started to sink down against the western hills. The great mill owner looked at his watch. It was three o’clock. And Mother, who had dinner ready at twelve!

  Just then the servant came out and reported that Miss Marianne wished to speak with him.

  The mill owner placed the wolf skin over his arm and went up the steps in a marvelous mood.

  When Marianne heard his heavy steps coming up the stairs, she did not yet know whether she would go home with him or not. She only knew that she must have an end to this long waiting.

  She had hoped that the cavaliers would come home, but they did not. So she herself had to see that all of this would come to an end. She couldn’t hold out any longer.

  She had thought that he would go his way in anger when he had waited for five minutes, or that he would break down the doors or try to set fire to the house.

  But there he sat, calm and smiling, and only waited. She harbored neither hatred nor love for him. But there was an inner voice in her, that warned her as it were about once again placing herself in his power. And besides, she wanted to keep her word to Gösta.

  If he had fallen asleep, if he had spoken, if he had been worried, if he had shown any sign of hesitation, if he had the wagon driven away in the shadows! But he was simply patience and certainty.

  Certain, so contagiously certain that she would come, if only he waited.

  Her head hurt. Every nerve twitched. She could not find peace as long as she knew that he was sitting there. It was as if his will carried her, bound, down the stairs.

  So she would at least speak with him.

  Before he came, she had the curtain drawn up, and she arranged herself so that her face came into full daylight.

  In that way she no doubt intended to set him to a type of test, but Melchior Sinclaire was a remarkable man that day.

  When he saw her, he did not make a gesture, he did not let out a cry. It was as if he had not seen any change in her. She knew how highly he had adored her fair appearance. But he did not show any sign of sorrow. He mastered his whole being so as not to distress her. This touched her. She began to understand why her mother still held him dear.

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

  “I will wrap the wolf skin around you, Marianne. It’s not cold. It’s been on my lap the whole time.”

  In any case he went over to the fire and warmed it.

  Then he helped her get up from the sofa, wrapped the fur around her, hung a shawl over her head, pulled it down under her arms, and tied it on her back.

  She let it happen. She was without a will of her own. It was good to be sheltered, it was sweet not to need to decide. Above all good for anyone who was as picked apart as her, for anyone who did not own a thought or a feeling that was her own.

  The great mill owner lifted her up, carried her down to the sleigh, drew up the cover, tucked the blankets around her, and drove away from Ekeby.

  She closed her eyes and sighed, partly in pleasure, partly in loss. She was leaving life, real life, but then that might as well be the same to her; she could not live, only pretend.

  A few days later, her mother arranged it so that she happened to encounter Gösta. She sent for him while the mill owner was taking his long walk up to the log drivers, and led him in to Marianne.

  Gösta came in, but he neither greeted her nor spoke. He remained standing over by the door and looked at the ground like an obstinate boy.

  “But Gösta!” exclaimed Marianne. She was sitting in her armchair, and looked at him half amused.

  “Yes, that’s my name.”

  “Come here, come all the way up to me, Gösta!”

  He went slowly up to her, withou
t raising his eyes.

  “Come closer! Get on your knees here!”

  “Good Lord, what good will all this do?” he exclaimed, but he obeyed.

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

  “Let’s hope they won’t throw Miss Marianne out into the snowdrifts anymore.”

  “Oh, Gösta, don’t you like me anymore? Do you think I’m too ugly?”

  He pulled down her head and kissed her, but he appeared equally cold.

  She was actually amused. If it pleased him to be jealous of her parents, what of it? It would soon pass. Now it amused her to try to win him back. She scarcely knew why she wanted to keep him there, but she wanted to. She was reminded that he had nonetheless succeeded in freeing her from herself, if only for once. He was probably the only man who would be able to do so yet again.

  And now she began to talk, eager to win him back. She said that it had not been her intention to abandon him forever, but for the sake of appearances they must break off their connection for a while. He himself could see that her father stood on the threshold of madness, that her mother was in constant mortal danger. He must understand that she had been forced to go home.

  Then his anger burst out in words. She didn’t need to put on airs. He didn’t want to be her plaything any longer. She had abandoned him as soon as she had been able to go home, and he could not love her anymore. When he came home from the hunt the day before yesterday and found her gone without a greeting, without a word, then his blood had frozen in his veins; he had been close to dying from sorrow. He could not love the one who had caused him so much pain. And besides, she had never loved him. She was a coquette, who wanted to have someone who kissed and caressed her here in the home parish too, that was all.

  So did he think that she was accustomed to letting bachelors caress her?

  Oh well, he probably believed that. Women were not as holy as they appeared. Selfishness and coquetry from beginning to end! No, if she had known how he felt, when he came home from the hunt! It was as if he had waded in ice water. He would never overcome that pain. It would follow him throughout the rest of his life. He could never again be human.

  She tried to explain to him how it had all happened. She tried to remind him that she had always been faithful.

  Yes, it was all the same, for now he no longer loved her. Now he had seen through her. She was selfish. She did not love him. She had gone without even saying good-bye.

  Over and over again he came back to this. She was almost enjoying the scene. She could not get angry. She understood his anger so well. She did not fear any real breakup either. Finally, though, she became worried. Had there been such a change in him that he could no longer love her?

  “Gösta!” she said. “Was I selfish when I went to Sjö after the major? I did remember that they had smallpox there. It isn’t good to go out in thin shoes in the cold and snow either.”

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

  “So you want us to be strangers from here on, Gösta?”

  “That’s what I want.”

  “Gösta Berling is very changeable.”

  “I’m usually accused of that.”

  He was cold, impossible to thaw, and in reality she herself was even colder. Self-observation sat and smiled scornfully at her attempts to pretend to be in love.

  “Gösta!” she said, as she made yet another effort. “I have never consciously wronged you, even if it might appear so. I beg you: forgive me!”

  “I cannot forgive you.”

  She knew that if she possessed a genuine emotion, she would have won him back. And she tried to pretend to be impassioned. The eyes of ice mocked her, but still she tried. She did not want to lose him.

  “Don’t go, Gösta! Don’t leave angry! Think of how ugly I’ve become! No one can love me again.”

  “I don’t either,” he said. “You’ll have to get used to seeing your heart trampled on, like other people.”

  “Gösta, I have never been able to love anyone but you! Forgive me! Don’t abandon me! You are the only man who can save me from myself.”

  He pushed her away from him.

  “You don’t speak the truth,” he said with icy calm. “I don’t know what you want from me, but I see that you’re lying. Why do you want to hang on to me? You’re so rich that you should never lack for suitors.”

  And with that he left.

  And as soon as he had shut the door, loss and pain in all of its majesty made its entry into Marianne’s heart.

  It was love, child of her own heart, that came out of its corner where the eyes of ice had banished him. He came, the longed-for one, now when it was too late. Now he stepped forth, serious and almighty, and loss and pain held up his royal mantle.

  When Marianne could with real certainty say to herself that Gösta Berling had abandoned her, she experienced a purely physical pain so terrible that she was almost knocked unconscious. She pressed her hands against her heart and sat for hours in the same place, struggling with tearless sorrow.

  And it was she herself who suffered, not a stranger, not an actress. It was she, herself.

  Why had her father come and separated them? Her love had not been dead. It was simply in her state of weakness after the illness that she had not been able to experience its power.

  Oh God, oh God, that she had lost him! Oh God, that she had awakened so late!

  Ah, he was the only man, he was the conqueror of her heart! She could take anything from him. Hardness and angry words from him simply inclined her to humble love. If he had struck her, she would have crept over to him like a dog and kissed his hand.

  She seized pen and paper and wrote with terrible ardor. First she wrote about her love and loss. Then she pleaded, not for his love, only for his mercy. It was a kind of verse that she wrote.

  She did not know what she should do to get some relief for this dull pain.

  When she had finished, she thought that if he were to see this, he might still believe that she loved him. Well, why shouldn’t she send what she had written to him? The next day she would send it, and she no doubt believed that it would lead him back to her.

  The next day she was anxious and in conflict with herself. What she had written appeared so pitiful and stupid to her. It had neither rhyme nor meter. It was only prose. He would only laugh at such verses, wouldn’t he?

  Her pride also awakened. If he did not love her anymore, then it was a terrible degradation to beg for his love.

  At times wisdom came to her and said that she ought to be happy that she had escaped from the connection with Gösta and all the miserable conditions that would come with it.

  The torment of her heart was, however, so awful that at last her feelings had to prevail. Three days after the day when she had become aware of her love, she had the verses bound and Gösta Berling’s name written on the cover. They were not sent, however. Before she had found a suitable messenger, she had heard such things about Gösta Berling that she realized it was already too late to win him back.

  But it became her lifelong sorrow that she had not sent the verses in time, while she could have won him.

  All her pain bound itself fast on this point: “If I had not hesitated so long, if I had not hesitated so many days!”

  They—these written words—would have won for her the happiness of life, or at least the reality of life. She was certain that they would have led him back to her.

  Sorrow, however, came to do her the same service as love. It made her into a whole person, capable of devoting herself to good as well as bad. Seething emotions coursed freely through her soul without being blocked by the ice-cold of self-observation. Then she was also, despite her ugliness, much loved.

  It is said, however, that she never forgot Gösta Berling. She grieved for him the way you grieve over a wasted life.

  And her poor verses, which for a time were much read, are long since forgotten. Yet they
seem strangely moving, the way I see them, written on yellowed paper, with washed-out ink and a cramped, neat handwriting. The loss of an entire life is bound up in these poor words, and I write of them with a certain mystic dread, as if secret powers were dwelling in them.

  I ask you to read them, and think about them. Who knows what power they might have had if they had been sent? They are, however, passionate enough to bear witness to a true emotion. Perhaps they would have led him back to her.

  They are touching enough, tender enough in their awkward formlessness. No one can wish them otherwise. No one will want to see them tied up in the chains of rhyme and meter, and yet it is so melancholy to think that perhaps just this imperfection hindered her from sending them in time.

  I ask you to read them, and love them. It is a person in a state of great distress who has written them.

  Child, you have loved, but never more

  shall you taste the delights of love.

  Storms of passion have shaken your soul.

  Be glad, you have now come to rest.

  No more are you tossed in towering delight.

  Be glad, you have now come to rest.

  No more to be lowered to painful depths,

  oh, never more!

  Child, you have loved, but never more

  shall your soul be set on fire.

  You were like a field of dried-up grass,

  consumed by fire for one brief moment.

  From billowing smoke-clouds and flakes of ash

  the birds of the heavens fled howling in fear.

  May they return home! You will burn no more,

  can no longer burn.

  Child, you have loved, but never more

  shall you hear the voice of love.

  The force of your heart, like tired children,

  who are sitting on hard school benches,

  long to be out in freedom and games,

  but no one calls to them now.

  They sit like forgotten outposts:

  no one calls to them now.

  Child, the only one is gone

  and with him all love and delight in loving.