Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Ball at Ekeby
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to serve me, you have watched for me so many
times, why do you sleep now? Mother, mother,
awake this night also, and I will never cause you
any more sorrow.”
She called and then sank into breathless silence,
to listen for an answer. No one heard her, no one
answered.
She wrung her hands in agony, but no tears
dimmed her eyes.
The long, dark house, with its closed doors and
unlighted windows, lay mysterious, immovable in
the night. What was to become of her without her
home? She was dishonored, branded, as long as the
heavens stand over the earth; and her own father
had set the red iron on her shoulder.
“"Father,” she cried once more, “what will
become of me? People will think the worst of me.”
She wept in anguish, her body was rigid with cold.
Ah, that such trouble can envelop those who have
stood so high. That it is so easy to be cast out into
the deepest misery! Are we not then to fear life?
Who of us sails securely? Round us surges sorrow
like a foaming sea; see how its waves hungrily lick
the sides of the vessel; see how they try to board
her! Oh, there is no sure anchorage, no firm ground,
no trusty ship, as far as the eye can reach, only an
unknown heaven over the sea of trouble.
But silence! At last, at last! Light steps come
through the entrance hall.
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