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Angry words and harshness from him only bowed
her down in humble love. If he struck her, she would
creep to his hand like a dog and kiss it. She did not
know what to do to find alleviation for this dumb
pain.
She caught up a pen and some paper and began
to write. She wrote of her love and her longing, and
she begged not for his love but for mercy. It was
a kind of verse that she wrote. When she finished,
she thought that perhaps if he saw it he might
believe in her love. Why should she not send it to
him? She would send it next day, and she quite
believed that it would bring him back to her.
Next day she went about in mental strife with
herself. What she had written seemed so weak, so
feeble. It had neither rhyme nor metre: it was only
prose. He might laugh at such poetry, and her pride
awoke, too. If he did not love her, it was a great
degradation to beg for his love. Now and again
prudence whispered that she ought to be thankful to
have escaped the connection with Gösta Berling and
all the wretched circumstances it would bring in its
train. But the aching of her heart was so great that
her feelings, after all, must have their way.
Three days later she put the verses in an envelope
and wrote Gösta Berling’s name upon it. Still they
were not sent. Before she found a suitable messenger,
she heard such tales of Gösta Berling that she
felt it was too late to win him back. But it became
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