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

one always recognises a place by a single feature? One does not exactly know how even the most familiar spot looks from all sides. And Munkhyttan one always knew by the little islet. If one had not seen the place for many years, one would know it again by this islet, where the dark treetops were lifted towards the sunset.

Hede sat quite still, and looked at the islet and at the branches of the trees and at the gray ice which surrounded it.

This was the view he knew best of all; there was nothing on the whole estate he knew so well, for it was always this islet that attracted the eye. And soon he was sitting looking at the islet without thinking about it, just as one does with things one knows so well. He sat for a long time gazing. Nothing disturbed him, not a human being, not a gust of wind, no strange object. He could not see Ingrid; she had skated far away on the ice.

A rest and peace fell upon Gunnar Hede such as one only feels in home surroundings. Security and peace came to him from the little islet; it quieted the everlasting unrest that tormented him.

Hede always imagined he was amongst enemies, and always thought of defending himself. For many years he had not felt that peace which made it possible for him to forget himself. But now it came upon him.

Whilst Gunnar Hede was sitting thus and not thinking of anything, he happened mechanically to make a movement as one may do when one finds one’s self in accustomed circumstances. As he sat there with the shining ice before him and with skates on his feet, he got up and skated on to the lake, and he thought as little of what he was doing as one thinks of how one is holding fork or spoon when eating.

He glided over the ice; it was glorious skating. He was a long way off the shore before he realized what he was doing.

“Splendid ice!” he thought. “I wonder why I did not come down earlier in the day. It is a good thing I was more here yesterday,” he said. “I will really not waste a single day during the rest of my vacation.”

No doubt it was because Gunnar Hede happened to do something he was in the habit of doing before he was ill that his old self awakened within him.

Thoughts and associations connected with his former life began to force themselves upon his consciousness, and at the same time all the thoughts connected with his illness sank into oblivion.

It had been his habit when skating to take a wide turn on the lake in order to see beyond a certain point. He did so now without thinking, but when he had turned the point he knew he had skated there to see if there was a light in his mother’s window.

“She thinks it is time I was coming home, but she must wait a little; the ice is too good.”

But it was mostly vague sensations of pleasure over the exercise and the beautiful evening that were awakened within him. A moonlight evening like this was just the time for skating; he was so fond of this peaceful transition from day to night. It was still light, but the stillness of night was already there, the best both of day and of night.

There was another skater on the ice; it was a young girl. He was not sure if he knew her, but he skated towards her to find out. No; it was no one he knew, but he could not help making a remark when he passed her about the splendid ice.

The stranger was probably a young girl from the town. She was evidently not accustomed to be addressed in this unceremonious manner; she looked quite frightened when he spoke to her. He certainly was queerly dressed; he was dressed quite like a peasant.

Well, he did not want to frighten her away. He turned off and skated further up the lake; the ice was big enough for them both.

But Ingrid had nearly screamed with astonishment. He had come towards her skating elegantly, with his arms crossed, the brim of his hat turned up, and his hair thrown back, so that it did not fall over his ears.

He had spoken with the voice of a gentleman, almost without the slightest Dalar accent. She did not stop to think about it. She skated quickly towards the shore. She came breathless into the kitchen. She did not know how to say it shortly and quickly enough.

“Miss Stafva, the young master has come home!”

The kitchen was empty; neither the housekeeper nor the servants were there. Nor was there anybody in the housekeeper’s room. Ingrid rushed through the whole house, went into rooms where no one ever went. The whole time she cried out, “Miss Stafva, Miss Stafva! the young master has come home!”

She was quite beside herself, and went on calling out, even when she stood on the landing upstairs, surrounded by the servants, Miss Stafva, and her ladyship herself. She said it over and over again. She was too much excited to stop. They all understood what she meant. They stood there quite as much overcome as she was.

Ingrid turned restlessly from the one to the other. She ought to give explanations and orders, but about what? That she could so lose her presence of mind! She looked wildly questioning at her ladyship.

“What was it I wanted?”

The old lady gave some orders in a low, trembling voice. She almost whispered.

“Light the candles and make a fire in the young master’s room. Lay out the young master’s clothes.”

It was neither the place nor the time for Miss Stafva to be important. But there was all the same a certain superior ring in her voice as she answered:

“There is always a fire in the young master’s room. The young master’s clothes are always in readiness for him.”

“Ingrid