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- Gösta Berling—Poet
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Gösta Berling-Poet
IT was Christmas, and a ball was to be given at
Borg. At that time—and it must be nearly sixty
years ago—young Count Dohna lived at Borg. He
was newly married, and his countess was both young
and beautiful. Gay times were in store for the old
estate.
Invitations had also come to Ekeby; but of all
the cavaliers who were spending Christmas there,
Gösta Berling, the poet, as they called him, was the
only one who was inclined to accept.
Borg and Ekeby lie on opposite shores of the
narrow Löfven Lake—Borg is in Svartsjö parish,
Ekeby in Bro—and when the lake is frozen, it is
only a dozen miles from one estate to the other.
The penniless Gösta Berling was fitted out by
the old cavaliers for this festivity as if he were a
king’s son who upheld the honor of the kingdom.
His coat with its shining gold buttons was new, his
cambric frills were finely starched, his patent leather
shoes shone. His overcoat was lined with the finest
beaver, and a cap of sable fur covered his fair, curly
head. They spread a bearskin with silver claws over
his racing sledge, and he was to drive black Don
Juan, the pride of the stable.
He whistled to Tankred, his white hound, and,
snatching up the reins, drove away gaily,
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