Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Gösta Berling—Poet
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better than returning with a wretched fox—the worst
animal created, useless both living and dead.
And Fru Uggla? She had not left her room yet.
She was in bed reading a novel, as she did every
morning. An angel, such as she was, could not be
expected to do any work.
No, that must be done by those who are old and
grey like Mamsell Ulrika. Day and night she was
on her feet trying to keep things together. It was no
easy task; it was but the truth that they had had
no meat but bear hams all the winter. She certainly
expected no great wages—she had seen none as yet
but they would not turn her out when she grew
too old to earn her bread. Even a housekeeper was
considered a human being here, and they would
certainly give old Ulrika a decent funeral when the
time came, if there was any money with which to
buy a coffin.
“For no one can say what may happen,” she
said, drying her eyes, which always overflowed so
easily. “We are in debt to that wicked Sintram,
and he can sell us up any day. True, Ferdinand is
now engaged to Anna Stjärnhök, and she is rich,
but she will very soon tire of him. And then what
is to become of us and our three cows and nine
horses, our light-hearted girls who only think of
going from one ball to another, our fields where
nothing grows, our kind, good-natured Ferdinand
who never will be quite a man? What will become
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