The Story of Gösta Berling Selma Lagerlöf (freda ebook reader .txt) 📖

The Story of Gösta Berling

By Selma Lagerlöf.

Translated by Pauline Bancroft Flach.

Table of Contents Titlepage Imprint Translator’s Preface The Story of Gösta Berling Introduction I: The Priest II: The Beggar Part I I: The Landscape II: Christmas Eve III: Christmas Day IV: Gösta Berling, Poet V: La Cachucha VI: The Ball at Ekeby VII: The Old Vehicles VIII: The Great Bear in Gurlitta Cliff IX: The Auction at Björne X: The Young Countess XI: Ghost-Stories XII: Ebba Dohna’s Story XIII: Mamselle Marie Part II I: Cousin Christopher II: The Paths of Life III: Penitence IV: The Iron from Ekeby V: Lilliecrona’s Home VI: The Witch of Dovre VII: Midsummer VIII: Madame Musica IX: The Broby Clergyman X: Patron Julius XI: The Plaster Saints XII: God’s Wayfarer XIII: The Churchyard XIV: Old Songs XV: Death, the Deliverer XVI: The Drought XVII: The Child’s Mother XVIII: Amor Vincit Omnia XIX: The Broom-Girl XX: Kevenhüller XXI: Broby Fair XXII: The Forest Cottage XXIII: Margareta Celsing Endnotes Colophon Uncopyright Imprint

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Translator’s Preface

The Story of Gösta Berling was published in Sweden in 1894 and immediately brought its author into prominence.

The tales are founded on actual occurrences and depict the life in the province of Värmland at the beginning of this century. Värmland is a lonely tract in the southern part of Sweden, and has retained many of its old customs, while mining is the principal industry of its sparse population. It consists of great stretches of forest, sloping down to long, narrow lakes, connected by rivers.

Miss Lagerlöf has grown up in the midst of the wild legends of her country, and, deeply imbued with their spirit, interprets them with a living force all her own.

Her efforts have been materially encouraged by the Crown Prince of Sweden, and there is every reason to expect that her genius has not reached its fullest development.

Stockholm, May, 1898.

The Story of Gösta Berling Introduction I The Priest

At last the minister stood in the pulpit. The heads of the congregation were lifted. Well, there he finally was. There would be no default this Sunday, as on the last and on many other Sundays before.

The minister was young, tall, slender, and strikingly handsome. With a helmet on his head, and girt with sword and shirt of mail, he could have been cut in marble and taken for an ideal of Grecian beauty.

He had a poet’s deep eyes, and a general’s firm, rounded chin; everything about him was beautiful, noble, full of feeling, glowing with genius and spiritual life.

The people in the church felt themselves strangely subdued to see him so. They were more used to see him come reeling out of the public house with his good friends, Beerencreutz, the Colonel with the thick, white moustaches, and the stalwart Captain Christian Bergh.

He had drunk so deeply that he had not been able to attend to his duties for many weeks, and the congregation had been obliged to complain, first to the dean, and then to the bishop and the chapters. Now the bishop had come to the parish to make a strict inquiry. He sat in the choir with the gold cross on his breast; the clergymen of the neighboring parishes sat round about him.

There was no doubt that the minister’s conduct had gone beyond the permissible limit. At that time, in the twenties, much in the matter of drinking was overlooked, but this man had deserted his post for the sake of drink, and now must lose it.

He stood in the pulpit and waited while the last verse of the psalm was sung.

A feeling came over him as he stood there, that he had only enemies in the church, enemies in all the seats. Among the gentry in the pews, among the peasants in the farther seats, among the little boys in the choir, he had enemies, none but enemies. It was an enemy who worked the organ-bellows, an enemy who played. In the churchwardens’ pews he had enemies. They all hated him, everyone⁠—from the children in arms, who were carried into the church, to the sexton, a formal and stiff old soldier, who had been at Leipzig.

He longed to throw himself on his knees and to beg for mercy.

But a moment after, a dull rage came over him. He remembered well what he had been when, a year ago, he first stood in this pulpit. He was then a blameless man, and now he stood there and looked down on the man with the gold cross on his breast, who had come to pass sentence on him.

While he read the introduction, wave after wave of blood surged up in his face⁠—it was rage.

It was true enough