Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Ball at Ekeby
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No, Gösta Berling is not in the mood for lovemaking
to-night. He is angry over the hardness of
hearts. Why should love only be healed by love?
He knows too well the end of these pretty ditties.
No one is constant to him; there is love for him,
but no wife. It is no use trying.
The night goes on, midnight has passed. The
ladies’ cheeks begin to pale, their curls to straighten,
their flounces to look creased. The matrons rise
from the sofa-corners and remark that, as the fête
has continued for twelve hours, it is time to go
home.
And that would have been the end of the great
ball, if Lilliecrona had not taken up his violin and
played a last polka. The horses stood at the door,
the old ladies were putting on their furs and quilted
hoods, and the old gentlemen buttoned up their
greatcoats and tied on their belts, but the young
people could not tear themselves away from the
dancing. They danced in their cloaks; they danced
ring polka, swing polka, and every kind of polka;
it was all one mad whirl. As soon as a man gave
up his partner, another sprang forward and claimed
her.
Even melancholy Gösta was drawn into the vortex.
He meant to dance away his sadness and sense
of degradation, he wanted to feel the wild joy of
life in his veins again—he meant to be gay, he,
as well as the others—and he danced so that the
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