Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Cachucha
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he danced it. What a cavalier was lost to Värmland
when the gout stiffened his legs and great
lumps formed on his joints! And what a gallant
figure he had once been, so lithe, so handsome, so
courtly! “Handsome Örneclou” he was called by
the young girls, who were ready to start a deadly
feud over a dance with him.
Lilliecrona again begins the cachucha, and
Örneclou is carried back to other times.… Here he
stands, there she—Rosalie von Berger! He is a
Spanish lover, she a Spanish maiden. But a
moment ago they were alone in the dressing-room.
He was allowed to kiss her, but lightly, lest his
blackened moustaches print a telltale mark on her
cheek.
Now they dance! As one dances under fig-trees
and plane-trees, so they dance. She draws away, he
follows; he grows bold, she haughty; he is hurt, she
solicitous. When at the end he falls on his knee and
receives her in his outstretched arms, a sigh sweeps
through the ball-room, a sigh of rapture. He was the
Spaniard to the life. At just that stroke of the bow
he had bent so, had put out his arms so, and poised
his foot so, to glide forward on his toes. Such grace!
What a model for a sculptor!
He does not know how it happened, but somehow
he had got his foot over the edge of the bed and
was standing up. Now he bends, raises his arms,
snaps his fingers, and tries to glide across the floor
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