Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Beggar
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But suddenly the Major’s wife was silent—and
took two or three turns about the room. Then she
drew up a chair to the fire, placed her feet on the
hearth, and rested her elbows on her knees.
“Good God,” she said, half laughing to herself,
what I said was so true, I did n’t notice it myself.
Don’t you think, Gösta Berling, that most people
in the world are dead or half dead? Do you think
we are all alive? Ah, no!
“Look at me. I am the Lady of the Manor at
Ekeby and the most powerful woman in Värmland.
If I lift a finger, the county police must skip; if I
lift two, the bishop does the same; and if I lift three,
I can make the archbishop and council and all the
judges and landed proprietors in Värmland dance
a polka on Karlstad market-place. And yet I tell
you, boy, I am nothing but a dressed-up corpse.
God alone knows how little life there is in me!”
The beggar leaned forward in his chair and
listened anxiously. The old lady rocked herself
before the fire, and never glanced at him as she
spoke.
“Don’t you think,” she continued, “that if I
were a living soul, and saw you sitting there,
miserable and sad, with thoughts of suicide in your
mind, that I could dispel them in a breath? I should
have tears and prayers to move you, and I should
save you—but now—I am dead. God knows how
little life there is in me!
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