Читать книгу Charlotte Löwensköld - Selma Lagerlöf - Страница 6

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It was only five-minutes’ walk from the church town to the deanery; but in those few minutes Karl Arthur thought of many stern and lordly things he would say to his betrothed.

“The time is come,” he muttered to himself. “Nothing shall stop me now. To-day we must arrive at an understanding. She must know that, much as I love her, nothing will induce me to strive after the worldly advantages which she seeks. I must serve my God. I cannot do otherwise; rather would I tear her from my heart.”

He felt proudly confident. Now, as never before, he had at his command words that would crush, stir, convince. His strong agitation had set up an inner shaking and thrown open the door to a chamber in his mind of which he had not, till then, been aware.

The walls of this room were covered with rich clusters and beautiful blooming vines. The clusters and vines were words—luscious, glorious, consummate words. He had only to come forth and take possession. All this wealth—an inconceivable wealth of words—was his.

He laughed at himself as he thought how he had had to cudgel his brains for ideas, in making up his sermons, and dig for words; yet all the while this “wealth” had been within him.

As far as Charlotte was concerned, things would be quite different after this. She had tried to lord it over him; but now all that was changed. He would talk and she listen; he would lead and she follow. Hereafter she should hang upon his words as did that poor wife of the organist. It meant strife, but he would never give in to her. Sooner than that, he would tear her out of his heart; yes, tear her out of his heart!

Just as he reached the deanery, the gates swung open, and an elegant carriage, drawn by four black horses, came rolling out.

He understood, of course, that Ironmaster Schagerström had been calling at the house, and it put him in mind of the remark Charlotte had let drop at the coffee party. It struck him in a flash that Schagerström had proposed to his fiancée. He dismissed the thought at once as utterly absurd, but all the same his heart contracted.

Was it not a most peculiar look the rich man had given him in passing? Was there not a sinister curiosity and, at the same time, compassion in that look?

Without doubt, he had guessed rightly. His heart stood still, everything went black to his eyes; he could barely drag himself up to the gatepost.

Charlotte had answered Yes. He would lose her and die of despair. While in the throes of an overwhelming anguish, he saw his fiancée come out of the house and hasten toward him. He noted the high colour in her cheeks, the bright look of her eyes, and the expression of triumph about her mouth. She was coming to tell him that she was to marry the richest man in the parish.

Such shamelessness! He clenched his fists, stamped his foot, and shouted out: “Don’t come near me!”

She stopped short. Was she really surprised, or only shamming?

“What is the matter with you?” she asked him coolly.

He quickly summoned his strength, and roared at her: “You know well enough! What was Schagerström doing here?”

When Charlotte grasped the fact that he had guessed Schagerström’s errand, she went right up to him and raised her hand as if she could have struck him in the face.

“So you, too, think I would break my word for a bit of gold and goods!” She gave him a look of contempt, then turned and walked away.

Anyhow, her words had allayed his worst suspicions. His heart gave a bound, and he felt his strength returning; he was able to follow after her.

“But he has proposed to you, hasn’t he?” he said.

She scorned to make reply. Now she squared her shoulders and held her head stiffly erect, as she walked on, past the house, down a narrow path which led to the garden.

Karl Arthur knew she had reason to be offended. If she had rejected Schagerström, she had done a splendid thing. He attempted to justify himself.

“You should have seen the face he put up as he drove past me. He didn’t look as though he had been repulsed.”

She held her proud head higher still, and quickened her steps. She did not have to speak, her bearing told him plainly enough that his company was not desired; that she was going this way because she wished to be alone.

He perceived more clearly now the devotion and self-sacrifice in her act, and so he continued to follow her.

“Charlotte!” he cried. “Darling Charlotte!”

She showed no sign of weakening, but swept on, down the garden path.

Alas, this garden, this deanery garden! Charlotte could not have directed her steps to a spot more rich in memories precious to both of them.

It was a garden laid out in the old French manner, with many intersecting walks bordered by thick, man-high hedges of lilac. Here and there in the hedge was a narrow opening, through which one passed either into a small bower containing a homely, moss-grown seat, or out upon an even grass plot encircling a solitary rose tree. Though not a spacious garden, nor perhaps a beautiful one, it was an ideal trysting place for lovers.

As Karl Arthur hastened on in the footsteps of Charlotte, who would not so much as give him a glance, poignant memories awoke in him—memories of the many happy hours she had walked here with him as his loving sweetheart.

“Charlotte!” he cried out again.

There was a note of anguish in his voice that made her stop. She did not turn around, but the tautness in her bearing vanished perceptibly. She bent backward, toward him, so that he almost saw her face. He sprang to her side, caught her in his arms, and kissed her. Then, drawing her into a bower, he went down on his knees before her, and poured himself out in rhapsodic praises of her love, her constancy, her heroic courage.

His sudden fervour of enthusiasm was so surprising that she listened almost with distrust. And he knew why. There had always been a certain restraint in his attitude toward her. To him, she had represented the world and its allurements, against which he must be ever on his guard.

But in that blessed moment, when he knew how she had withstood the temptation of great riches, he could give rein to his feelings. She tried to tell him about Schagerström’s wooing, but he interrupted her continually with his kisses. When she had told him everything, he had to kiss her again, repeatedly. At last they sat in a long embrace.

Where were the strong, imperious words he had meant to say to her? Gone from the mind; swept out of memory. They were no longer necessary, now that he felt this dear girl could never be a menace to him. She was no slave of Mammon, she who on this day had scorned wealth to remain true to him.

As she rested in his arms, a sweet smile trembled on her lips. She looked happy, more happy than ever he had seen her. Of what was she thinking? Perhaps at that moment she was saying to herself that his love was the only thing that mattered? Perhaps she had given up all thought of the headmastership, which had come so near to parting them?

She did not speak; he was listening to her thoughts: “Let us soon be united. I make no conditions. I ask for nothing but your love.”

But, should he allow her to outdo him in generosity? Ah, he would make her supremely happy; he would whisper to her, now that he understood her disposition, and dared, that he would find a proper living for them.

How blissful this stillness! Perhaps she heard what he said to himself—heard the promise he made her? He tried to put his thoughts into words.

“Ah, Charlotte,” he said, “how can I ever repay you for what you have sacrificed to-day for my sake!”

She sat with her head resting against his shoulder, and he could not see her face.

“My love,” he heard her say, “I have no fear but that you will compensate me richly.”

“Compensate”—what did she mean? Did she mean that his love was the only compensation she desired, or had she something else in mind? Why was she holding her head down? Why didn’t she look him in the eyes? Did she think him such a poor catch that he needs must pay her for being faithful to him? But he was a clergyman and a Doctor of Philosophy—a man of good family. He had always tried to fulfil his duties, and was beginning to gain recognition as a preacher, and he had lived an exemplary life. Did she really think it a great sacrifice on her part to reject Schagerström?

No, no, she meant nothing of the sort. He must be calm; he must probe her thoughts with gentleness and patience.

“Just what do you mean by compensation? I have nothing whatever to offer you.”

She moved closer and whispered into his ear:

“You think too poorly of yourself, my friend. You can become both provost and bishop.”

He drew away from her so quickly she came near falling.

“Then it was because you hoped I would become a provost and a bishop that you rejected Schagerström!”

She stared at him—bewildered—as one who has just come out of a dream. Yes, of course she had been dreaming. She had talked in her sleep and revealed her secret thoughts.

Why was she silent? Did she think his question called for no answer?

“I ask you again, was it because you thought I would become a provost and a bishop that you rejected Schagerström?”

The colour mounted to her cheeks. The Löwensköld blood was surging in her veins, yet she held her peace.

Ah, but he must, he must have an answer! “Didn’t you hear me ask you if it was because you expect me to become a provost and a bishop that you said No to Schagerström?”

She flung her head back and her eyes flashed fire.

“Oh, certainly!” she threw at him in a tone of utter contempt.

He rose to his feet, not wishing to sit beside her any longer. Her answer pained him exceedingly, but he would not admit it before a creature like Charlotte. However, as he did not wish to have anything to reproach himself for, he again tried to speak gently, and in all kindness, to this lost child of the world.

“My dear Charlotte,” he said, “I cannot thank you enough for being so honest with me. I understand now that to you externals are everything. A blameless life, a constant striving to follow in the footsteps of Christ, my Master, mean nothing to you.” He waited in suspense for her answer.

“My dear Karl Arthur,” she said, “I think I know your worth, although I do not fawn upon you like the ladies of the church town.”

Her reply seemed to him a positive vulgarity. The unmasked woman was venting her chagrin.

Charlotte rose to go, but Karl Arthur seized her by the arm and made her stay. This talk had to be carried on to a conclusion. That about the ladies of the church town had put him in mind of Fru Sundler. Remembering what she had told him, his ire began to rise; he was fairly boiling inside. The pressure forced the door to the room in his mind which held the vines and clusters of strong, eloquent words. Now he took a stern, admonitory tone; he upbraided her for her love of the world; her pride; her vanity.

Charlotte did not listen long to such talk.

“Bad as I am,” she reminded him, “I have nevertheless said No this day to Schagerström.”

“Good God!” he exclaimed, “what is the woman made of? She has but just confessed to giving Schagerström No merely because she preferred a bishop to an ironmaster.”

Through it all spoke a still, small voice in his heart. It told him to have a care. Had he not marked that Charlotte Löwensköld disdained to defend herself? If anyone thought ill of her, she never tried to disabuse him of his evil suspicions.

He did not listen to the small warning voice; he had no faith in it. Charlotte’s every utterance only revealed to him new depths of depravity. And now he heard her say:

“My dear Karl Arthur, don’t attach so much importance to what I said as to your attaining such high distinction. It was all a joke. I don’t believe you can ever become either a provost or a bishop.”

He was already overwrought and sorely offended, but after this fresh onslaught the still, small voice within was mute. The blood surged in his ears and his hands shook. The wretched woman had robbed him of his self-control and was driving him mad.

He was conscious of jumping up and down in front of her, of raising his voice to a shriek. He knew that his jaw was shaking and his hands were beating the air. His loathing of her was unspeakable; it could not be interpreted in words, but had to express itself in motions.

“All your vileness is plain to me now,” he shouted. “I see you now as you are. Never, never will I marry a woman like you. You would be my destruction.”

“Anyhow,” said Charlotte, “I have been of some slight service to you. It is thanks to me, is it not, that you are now a licentiate and a doctor of philosophy?”

After that it was not he, himself, who spoke to her. He heard the things that fell from his lips, and approved them; but the words came as a surprise; they seemed to be put into his mouth by another.

“You see!” cried the voice. “Now she reminds me that she has waited for me five years and, consequently, I am compelled to marry her. But I shall marry only whom God chooses for me.”

“Don’t speak of God!” she said.

He turned his face upward and began to study the clouds.

“Yes, yes, yes, I shall let God choose for me. The first woman that crosses my path shall be my wife.”

Charlotte gave a cry and sprang to his side.

“Oh, Karl Arthur, Karl Arthur!” She tried to draw down one of his uplifted arms.

“Don’t touch me!” he yelled savagely.

She put her arms around his neck, not realizing the extent of his fury.

A howl of hate broke from his throat, he caught her arms in an iron grip and flung her back on to the bench, then fled from her sight.