By Hjalmar Soderberg, Eva Claeson
Sweden on the flip of the former century. Arvid, an bold and well-educated younger guy, meets Lydia, the daughter of a panorama painter, in the course of an idyllic summer time holiday and falls in love. Lydia, notwithstanding, has different suitors, and Astrid is scared of being tied down by means of his feelings. Trapped inside of loveless marriages of comfort, they fight in later years to re-ignite the promise in their romance with sour and tragic results.
Hjalmar Soderberg, born in Stockholm, in 1869, used to be one Scandinavia's best modernist writers. The critical Game is Sweden's such a lot celebrated and enduring love story.
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Chartres, June 1994 Translated from the French by Ken Hollings PART I ‘I can’t bear the idea of someone waiting for me…’ As usual, Lydia went swimming alone. She liked it best that way. Besides, she had no one to go swimming with that summer. She had no need to worry: her father, who always sat on a nearby rock painting his ‘Coastal Motif’, kept a close eye on her and saw to it that no stranger came too near. She waded out until the water reached a little above her waist, then waited with raised arms, her hands clasped behind her head, until the rings in the water smoothed out again and reflected her eighteen-year-old body in the shallow waves.
He asked. ‘Oh, yes,’ she answered. ’ ‘I suppose so. He’s fun to listen to. ’ ‘No, on the contrary…’ They stood close together, swaying back and forth and looking up at the stars. Then he said: ‘But it’s because of you that his voice cracks when his feelings get the better of him and it’s for your sake as well that Freutiger sits there and tells his lies. They are – both of them – in love with you. Now you know. ’ He laughed a little. She kissed his forehead, then whispered, as though to herself: ‘Who knows what’s inside there…’ ‘Not anything very remarkable,’ he answered.
Quite true,’ he said. ‘They may be higher than those here, but we don’t have any real mountains. And I don’t like mountains – that is, I like to climb them, but I don’t like to live shut in by them. People talk about mountain landscapes, but I think they should be called valley landscapes. You live down in the valleys, not on the tops of the mountains. And the mountains get in the way of the sun the same as houses do in narrow alleys. As a result, it’s ice-cold dusk almost the whole of the afternoon where I come from.