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that she existed. He imprisoned himself in his room
nearly all day, studying undecipherable manuscripts
and essays printed in an old-fashioned blurred print.
He read letters of nobility on parchment, to which
the Swedish seals hung large and round, formed in
red wax and guarded in a carved wooden case. He
examined armorial bearings of lilies on a white field
and blue griffins; he understood that kind of thing
and translated it easily—and re-read again and again
old funeral ovations and the dates of the births and
deaths of the noble Counts of Dohna, where their
exploits are compared to the heroes of Israel and
the gods of Hellas. You see these old things had
always given him pleasure. But he did not trouble
himself to think any further about his young wife.
Countess Märta had said that which had killed all
his love: “She took you for your money.” No one
can bear to think of that; it kills all love, and he was
now quite indifferent to what became of the young
woman. If his mother could bring her back to the
path of duty, so much the better. Count Dohna
cherished a great admiration for his mother.
This miserable state of things lasted a month.
Still it was not such a stormy and tumultuous time
as it sounds when the separate events are gathered
together within the bounds of a few written pages.
Countess Elizabeth seems to have been always calm
to outward appearance. It was but once, when she
heard of Gösta Berling’s death, that she lost her
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