So she went. She went calmly, leaving terror and dismay behind her. She fell, but she was not without greatness in her fall. She did not lower herself to grieving weakly, but in her old age she still exulted over the love of her youth. She did not lower herself to lamenting and pitiable weeping when she left everything; she did not shrink from wandering about the land with beggar’s bag and crutch. She pitied only the poor peasants and the happy, careless people on the shores of the Löfven, the penniless pensioners,—all those whom she had taken in and cared for. She was abandoned by all, and yet she had strength to turn away her last friend that he should not be a murderer. She was a woman great in strength and love of action. We shall not soon see her like again. The next day Major Samzelius moved from Ekeby to his own farm of Sjö, which lies next to the large estate. In Altringer’s will, by which the major had got the estates, it was clearly stated that none of them should be sold or given away, but that after the death of the major his wife and her heirs should inherit them all. So, as he could not dissipate the hated inheritance, he placed the pensioners to reign over it, thinking that he, by so doing, most injured Ekeby and the other six estates. As no one in all the country round now doubted that the wicked Sintram went on the devil’s errands, and as everything he had promised had been so brilliantly fulfilled the pensioners were quite sure that the contract would be carried out in every point, and they were entirely decided not to do, during the year, anything sensible, or useful, or effeminate, convinced that the major’s wife was an abominable witch who sought their ruin. The old philosopher, Eberhard, ridiculed their belief. But who paid any attention to such a man, who was so obstinate in his unbelief that if he had lain in the midst of the fires of hell and had seen all the devils standing and grinning at him, would still have insisted that they did not exist, because they could not exist?—for Uncle Eberhard was a great philosopher. Gösta Berling told no one what he thought. It is certain that he considered he owed the major’s wife little thanks because she had made him a pensioner at Ekeby; it seemed better to him to be dead than to have on his conscience the guilt of Ebba Dohna’s suicide. He did not lift his hand to be revenged on the major’s wife, but neither did he to help her. He could not. But the pensioners had attained great power and magnificence. Christmas was at hand, with its feasts and pleasures. The hearts of the pensioners were filled with rejoicing; and whatever sorrow weighed on Gösta Berling’s heart he did not show in face or speech. CHAPTER IV GÖSTA BERLING, POET It was Christmas, and there was to be a ball at Borg. At that time, and it is soon sixty years ago, a young Count Dohna lived at Borg; he was newly married, and he had a young, beautiful countess. It was sure to be gay at the old castle.