Say that you love the trumpet-blast, which decoys you into a gallop, even if you also cut your foot to the bone on the steel-link of the tether.
CHAPTER VI
THE BALL AT EKEBY
Ah, women of the olden times!
To speak of you is to speak of the kingdom of heaven; you were all beauties, ever bright, ever young, ever lovely and gentle as a mother’s eyes when she looks down on her child. Soft as young squirrels you hung on your husband’s neck. Your voice never trembled with anger, no frowns ruffled your brow, your white hand was never harsh and hard. You, sweet saints, like adored images stood in the temple of home. Incense and prayers were offered you, through you love worked its wonders, and round your temples poetry wreathed its gold, gleaming glory.
Ah, women of the past, this is the story of how one of you gave Gösta Berling her love.
Two weeks after the ball at Borg there was one at Ekeby.
What a feast it was! Old men and women become young again, smile and rejoice, only in speaking of it.
The pensioners were masters at Ekeby at that time. The major’s wife went about the country with beggar’s wallet and crutch, and the major lived at Sjö. He could not even be present at the ball, for at Sjö small-pox had broken out, and he was afraid to spread the infection.