Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Paths of Life
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was a married woman, and must be careful. There
would be so much gossip if she were to do anything
like that. But if she did not do it, what would
happen to him? She must go.
Then she remembered such a drive was impossible.
No horse could cross the ice of the Löfven again
that season. It was melting and already detached
from the shores. It lay free, broken, and fearful to
look at. The water gurgled over and through it;
in some places it had collected in black pools, in
others the ice was shining white. But it was chiefly
grey, dirty from the melting snow, and the roads
wound like long black ribbons over its surface. How
could she think of venturing upon such a journey?
Old Countess Märta, her mother-in-law, would
never allow her. She must sit beside her all the
evening and listen to her stories about the court,
which were the old lady’s delight. Still, night came
at last, her husband was away from home—she was
free.…
She could not drive, she dared not call a servant
to go with her, but her fear drove her out—she
could not help herself.
Dreary are the paths men tread on earth, over
desert and marsh and mountain. But that night’s
path over the melting snow, to what can I compare
it? Was it not the very path the fairies themselves
have to tread, an insecure, swaying, slippery path,
the path of those who would heal the hurt, of those
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