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

The young girl did just the opposite. She went into the drawing-room, placed herself at the window, sobbed and shook, but did not herself know that she was not still. She impatiently dried the tears from her eyes, so that she could see over the snowfield in front of the house. If only she did not cry, there was nothing she could miss seeing in the clear moonlight. At last he came.

“There he is! there he is!” she cried to her ladyship. “He walks quickly! he runs! Do come and see!”

Her ladyship sat quite still before the fire. She did not move. She strained her ears to hear, just as much as the other strained her eyes to see. She asked Ingrid to be quiet, so that she could hear how he walked. Ah, yes, she would be quiet. Her ladyship should hear how he walked. She grasped the windowsill, as if that could help her.

“You shall be quiet,” she whispered, “so that her ladyship can hear how he walks.”

Her ladyship sat bending forward, listening with all her soul. Did she already hear his steps in the courtyard? She probably thought he would go towards the kitchen. Did she hear that it was the front steps that creaked? Did she hear that it was the door to the front hall that opened? Did she hear how quickly he came up the stairs, two or three steps at a time? Had his mother heard that? It was not the dragging step of a peasant, as it had been when he left the house.

It was almost more than they could bear, to hear him coming towards the door of the drawing-room. Had he come in then, they would no doubt both have screamed. But he turned down the corridor to his own rooms.

Her ladyship fell back in her chair, and her eyes closed. Ingrid thought her ladyship would have liked to die at that moment. Without opening her eyes, she put out her hand. Ingrid went softly up and took it; the old lady drew her towards her.

“Mignon, Mignon,” she said; “that was the right name after all. But,” she continued, “we must not cry. We must not speak about it. Take a stool and come and sit down by the fire. We must be calm, my little friend. Let us speak about something else. We must be perfectly calm when he comes in.”

Half an hour afterwards Hede came in; the tea was on the table, and the chandelier was lighted. He had dressed; every trace of the peasant had disappeared. Ingrid and her ladyship pressed each other’s hands.

They had been sitting trying to imagine how he would look when he came in. It was impossible to say what he might say or do, said her ladyship. One never had known what he might do. But in any case they would both be quite calm. A feeling of great happiness had come over her, and that had quieted her. She was resting, free from all sorrow, in the arms of angels carrying her upwards, upwards.

But when Hede came in, there was no sign of confusion about him.

“I have only come to tell you,” he said, “that I have got such a headache, that I shall have to go to bed at once. I felt it already when I was on the ice.”

Her ladyship made no reply. Everything was so simple; she had never thought it would be like that. It took her a few moments to realize that he did not know anything about his illness, that he was living somewhere in the past.

“But perhaps I can first drink a cup of tea,” he said, looking a little surprised at their silence.

Her ladyship went to the tea-tray. He looked at her.

“Have you been crying, mother? You are so quiet.”

“We have been sitting talking about a sad story, I and my young friend here,” said her ladyship, pointing to Ingrid.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I did not see you had visitors.”

The young girl came forward towards the light, beautiful as one would be who knew that the gates of heaven the next moment would open before her.

He bowed a little stiffly. He evidently did not know who she was. Her ladyship introduced them to each other. He looked curiously at Ingrid.

“I think I saw Miss Berg on the ice,” he said.

He knew nothing about her⁠—had never spoken to her before.

A short, happy time followed. Gunnar Hede was certainly not quite himself; but those around him were happy in the belief that he soon would be. His memory was partly gone. He knew nothing about certain periods of his life; he could not play the violin; he had almost forgotten all he knew; and his power of thinking was weak; and he preferred neither to read nor to write. But still he was very much better. He was not frightened; he was fond of his mother; he had again assumed the manners and habits of a gentleman. One can easily understand that her ladyship and all her household were delighted.

Hede was in the best of spirits⁠—bright and joyous all day long. He never speculated over anything, put to one side everything he could not understand, never spoke about anything that necessitated mental exertion, but talked merrily and cheerfully. He was most happy when he was engaged in bodily exercise. He took Ingrid out with him sledging and skating. He did not talk much to her, but she was happy to be with him. He was kind to Ingrid, as he was to everyone else, but not in the least in love with her. He often wondered about his fiancée⁠—wondered why she never wrote. But after a short time that trouble, too, left him. He always put away from him anything that worried him.

Ingrid thought that he would never get really well by doing like this. He must some time be made to think⁠—to face