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senses. Your mother lives in constant fear of her
life. You must go home again, my dearest.”
He had those renunciating words on his lips, but
they remained unuttered. He fell on his knees by
the pillow, and he took her head between his hands
and kissed it, and after that he found no words.
His heart was beating so violently, it threatened to
burst its bonds. The smallpox had gone over the
lovely face. Its complexion was coarsened. Never
again would the red blood show in the fair cheeks,
nor the blue veins line the temples. The eyes lay
heavy under swollen lids, the eyebrows were gone,
and the white of the eyes was tinged with yellow.
All was ruined. The daring curves were lost in
heaviness. There were many who mourned Marienne
Sinclaire’s beauty, now lost. All over Värmland the
people grieved over her lost fairness, her shining
eyes and beautiful hair. Beauty is prized there as
nowhere else, and the people sorrowed as if they
had lost one of the brightest jewels in their crown,
as if the sunniness of life had received a flaw.
But the first man who saw her after she had lost
her beauty did not grieve.
Unutterable feelings filled his soul. The longer
he gazed at her, the happier he grew. His love
increased like a river in spring-time, it swelled from
his heart in waves of fire, it filled all his being, it
rose to his eyes in tears, sighed on his lips, shook in
his hands and in all his being.
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