Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Ball at Ekeby
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At Ekeby all the lights were out and the guests
departed. The cavaliers stood alone in the
cavaliers’ wing round the last half-emptied
punch-bowl.
Then Gösta tapped on the rim of the bowl, and
made a speech in honor of you—women of the
olden days. To talk of you was to talk of heaven,
he said. You were perfect beauty, perfect light. Ever
youthful, ever beautiful, and mild as the eyes of
a mother when she gazed at her child. As soft as a
little squirrel you hung about man’s neck, and no
one ever heard your voice shake with anger; your
forehead never frowned, your soft hands never grew
hard and rough. You were saints in the temple of
your homes. Men lay at your feet, offering incense
and prayer to you. By your power, love worked its
miracles, and round your head poetry set its
glittering aureola.
And the cavaliers sprang up, wild with wine and
the intoxication of his words—their blood
leaping with joy. Even old Uncle Eberhard and lazy
Cousin Kristoffer did not draw back from the new
project. Quickly they harnessed the horses to the
big sledge and the racing sledges, and off they went
through the cold night to pay homage to those to
whom homage was due—to serenade those whose
bright eyes and rosy cheeks had graced the halls of
Ekeby.
Oh, it must have pleased you greatly, ladies, to
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