Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Ball at Ekeby
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she had come to the wrong place—for all the doors
were closed, and all the lights were out—she
wondered if her parents had not yet arrived.
She went forward and knocked loudly at the hall
door. She clutched the latch and shook it till it
resounded all over the house. No one came to open,
but when she dropped the iron latch which she had
held, it tore away the frozen skin from her ringers.
Melchior Sinclaire had gone home to bar the door
against his only daughter.
He was intoxicated with much drinking, wild with
anger. He hated his daughter because she loved
Gösta Berling. Now he had locked the servants into
the kitchen and his wife into her bedroom, and he
swore a solemn oath to them that he would kill any
one who let Marienne in.
They knew he always kept his word. No one had
ever seen him so furious. No such sorrow had ever
touched him. If his daughter had come before him,
it is probable he would have killed her.
He had given her jewels and silken dresses; he
had let her learn all culture and wisdom. She had
been his pride, his honor. He had rejoiced over her
as if she wore a crown. She was his queen, his
goddess, his adored, proud, beautiful Marienne! Had
he ever grudged her anything? Had he not always
felt himself to be too coarse to be her father? Ah,
Marienne!
Ought he not to hate her when she fell in love
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