Short Fiction Selma Lagerlöf (best book club books of all time .txt) 📖

out to the forest; for it is every man’s duty to kill a bear wherever and whenever he comes across one. It does not do to spare a bear, for sooner or later it will get a taste for flesh, and then it will spare neither man nor beast.

But after they were gone a great feeling of fear came over the old housewife, and she began to read her Bible. She read the lesson for the day, which was also the text for the Pastor’s sermon; but she did not get further than this: “Peace on earth, goodwill towards men.” She remained sitting and staring at these words with her dull eyes, now and again sighing deeply. She did not read any further, but she repeated time after time in her slow, drawling voice, “Peace on earth, goodwill towards men.”

The eldest son came into the room just as she was going to repeat the words afresh.

“Mother!” he said softly.

She heard him, but did not take her eyes from the book whilst she asked:

“Are you not with the others in the forest?”

“Yes,” said he, still more softly, “I have been there.”

“Come to the table,” she said, “so that I can see you.”

He came nearer, but when she looked at him she saw that he was trembling. He had to press his hands hard against the edge of the table in order to keep them still.

“Have you got the bear?” she asked again.

He could not answer; he only shook his head.

The old woman got up and did what she had not done since her son was a child. She went up to him, laid her hand on his arm, and drew him to the bench. She sat down beside him and took his hand in hers.

“Tell me now what has happened, my boy.”

The young man recognised the caress which had comforted him in bygone days when he had been in trouble and unhappy, and he was so overcome that he began to weep.

“I suppose it is something about father?” she said.

“It is worse than that,” the son sobbed. “Worse than that?”

The young man cried more and more violently; he did not know how to control his voice. At last he lifted his rough hand, with the broad fingers, and pointed to what she had just read: “Peace on earth.⁠ ⁠…”

“Is it anything about that?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Is it anything about the peace of Christmas?”

“Yes.”

“You wished to do an evil deed this morning?”

“Yes.”

“And God has punished us?”

“God has punished us.”

So at last she was told how it had happened. They had with some trouble found the lair of the bear, and when they had got near enough to see the heap of fagots, they stopped in order to load their guns. But before they were ready the bear rushed out of its lair straight against them. It went neither to the right nor to the left, but straight for old Ingmar Ingmarson, and struck him a blow on the top of the head that felled him to the ground as if he had been struck by lightning. It did not attack any of the others, but rushed past them into the forest.

In the afternoon Ingmar Ingmarson’s wife and son drove to the Dean’s house to announce his death. The son was spokesman, and the old housewife sat and listened with a face as immovable as a stone figure.

The Dean sat in his easy-chair near his writing-table. He had entered the death in the register. He had done it rather slowly; he wanted time to consider what he should say to the widow and the son, for this was, indeed, an unusual case. The son had frankly told him how it had all happened, but the Dean was anxious to know how they themselves looked at it. They were peculiar people, the Ingmars.

When the Dean had closed the book, the son said:

“We wanted to tell you, sir, that we do not wish any account of father’s life to be read in church.”

The Dean pushed his spectacles over his forehead and looked searchingly at the old woman. She sat just as immovable as before. She only crumpled the handkerchief a little which she held in her hand.

“We wish to have him buried on a week day,” continued the son.

“Indeed!” said the Dean.

He could hardly believe his own ears. Old Ingmar Ingmarson to be buried without anyone taking any notice of it! The congregation not to stand on railings and mounds in order to see the display when he was being carried to the grave!

“There will not be any funeral feast. We have let the neighbours know that they need not think of preparing anything for the funeral.”

“Indeed, indeed!” said the Dean again.

He could think of nothing else to say. He knew quite well what it meant for such people to forego the funeral feast. He had seen both widows and fatherless comforted by giving a splendid funeral feast.

“There will be no funeral procession, only I and my brothers.”

The Dean looked almost appealingly at the old woman. Could she really be a party to all this? He asked himself if it could be her wishes to which the son had given expression. She was sitting there and allowing herself to be robbed of what must be dearer to her than gold and silver.

“We will not have the bells rung, or any silver plates on the coffin. Mother and I wish it to be done in this way, but we tell you all this, sir, in order to hear, sir, if you think we are wronging father.”

Now the old woman spoke:

“We should like to hear if your Reverence thinks we are doing father a wrong.”

The Dean remained silent, and the old woman continued, more eagerly:

“I must tell your Reverence that if my husband had sinned against the King or the authorities, or if I had been obliged to cut him down from the gallows, he should all the same have had an honourable funeral, as his father