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

she saw nothing of the poor wretched man. She only felt that she was once again near the beautiful soul of the man for whom she had longed so terribly.

There were a great many people about, and they could not help looking at her. They could not take their eyes from her face. She did not move; she stood waiting for him. But those who saw how radiant she was with happiness must have thought that she was waiting for some great and noble man, instead of a poor, half-witted fellow.

They said afterwards that it almost seemed as if there were some affinity between his soul and hers⁠—some secret affinity which lay so deeply hidden beneath their consciousness that no human being could understand it.

But when Hede was only a step or two from Ingrid her adopted mother took her resolutely round the waist and lifted her into the carriage. She would not have a scene between the two just outside the church, with so many people present. And as soon as they were in the carriage the man sent his horses off at full gallop.

A wild, terrified cry was heard as they drove away. The Pastor’s wife thanked God that she had got the young girl into the carriage.

It was still early in the afternoon when a peasant came to the Parsonage to speak with the Pastor. He came to speak about the crazy Dalar man. He had now gone quite raving mad, and they had been obliged to bind him. What did the Pastor advise them to do? What should they do with him?

The Pastor could give them no other advice but to take him home. He told the peasant who he was, and where he lived.

Later on in the evening he told Ingrid everything. It was best to tell her the truth, and trust to her own common sense.

But when night came it became clear to her that she had not time to wait for the spring. The poor girl set out for Munkhyttan by the highroad. She would no doubt be able to get there by that road, although she knew that it was twice as long as the way through the forest.

It was Whit-Monday, late in the afternoon. Ingrid walked along the highroad. There was a wide expanse of country, with low mountains and small patches of birch forest between the fields. The mountain-ash and the bird-cherry were in bloom; the light, sticky leaves of the aspen were just out. The ditches were full of clear, rippling water which made the stones at the bottom glisten and sparkle.

Ingrid walked sorrowfully along, thinking of him whose mind had again given way, wondering whether she could do anything for him, whether it was of any use that she had left her home in this manner.

She was tired and hungry; her shoes had begun to go to pieces. Perhaps it would be better for her to turn back. She could never get to Munkhyttan.

The further she walked, the more sorrowful she became. She could not help thinking that it could be of no use her coming now that he had gone quite out of his mind. There was no doubt it was too late now; it was quite hopeless to do anything for him.

But as soon as she thought of turning back she saw Gunnar Hede’s face close to her cheek, as she had so often seen it before. It gave her new courage; she felt as if he were calling for her. She again felt hopeful and confident of being able to help him.

Just as Ingrid raised her head, looking a little less downcast, a queer little procession came towards her.

There was a little horse, drawing a little cart; a fat woman sat in the cart, and a tall, thin man, with long, thin moustaches walked by the side of it.

In the country, where no one understood anything about art, Mr. and Mrs. Blomgren always went in for looking like ordinary people. The little cart in which they travelled about was well covered over, and no one could suspect that it only contained fireworks and conjuring apparatus and marionettes.

No one could suspect that the fat woman who sat on the top of the load, looking like a well-to-do shopkeeper’s wife, was formerly Miss Viola, who once sprang through the air, or that the man who walked by her side, and looked like a pensioned soldier, was the same Mr. Blomgren who occasionally, to break the monotony of the journey, took it into his head to turn a somersault over the horse, and play the ventriloquist with thrushes and siskins that sang in the trees by the roadside, so that he made them quite mad.

The horse was very small, and had formerly drawn a roundabout, and therefore it would never go unless it heard music. On that account Mrs. Blomgren generally sat playing the Jews’-harp, but as soon as they met anyone, she put it in her pocket, so that no one should discover they were artists, for whom country people have no respect whatever. Owing to this they did not travel very fast, but they were not in any hurry either.

The blind man, who played the violin, had to walk some little distance behind the others in order not to betray the fact of his belonging to the company. The blind man was led by a little dog; he was not allowed to have a child to lead him, for that would always have reminded Mr. and Mrs. Blomgren of a little girl who was called Ingrid. That would have been too sad.

And now they were all in the country on account of the spring. For however much money Mr. and Mrs. Blomgren were making in the towns, they felt they must be in the country at that time of the year, for Mr. and Mrs. Blomgren were artists.

They did not recognise Ingrid, and she went past them without taking any notice of them, for she was in a hurry; she was afraid of their detaining her.