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not scorned, nor beaten, nor cursed, only shut out
with cold, determined heartlessness.
Think of the frosty, starry night surrounding
her, the great wide night with its desolate fields of
snow, and the silent forests. All slept, all was sunk
in painless sleep, there was only one living point in
all that slumbering whiteness. All sorrow and fear
and horror, which at other times seems spread over
all the world, were concentrated in that one lonely
point. O God! to suffer alone in the midst of that
slumbering, icy world.
For the first time in her life, Marienne knew
hardness and cruelty. Her mother would not leave
her bed to let her in; old servants, who had taught
her to walk, heard her, but would not move a muscle
to save her; and why was she thus punished? Where
was her refuge, if not here? If she had been guilty of
murder, she would have come here believing they
would forgive her. If she had fallen to the greatest
depth of misery, and come here in rags, she would
have approached the door confidently, expecting
a loving welcome. That door was the entrance to
her home, and behind it she could only expect to
find love.
Had her father not tried her sufficiently; would
he never open? Would n’t they open it soon?
“Father, father,” she cried, “let me in. I am
frozen and trembling. It is dreadful out here.”
“Mother, mother, you have taken so many steps
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