Full resolution (TIFF) - On this page / på denna sida - Upsala.
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She sat still in a corner by the window,
wrapped up in herself, and staring before her,
as if she were a figure that had flown out
of the frame around the dark, mouldy
canvas, which had once shown a picture on
the wall.
Here, in the room, in this impure atmosphere,
the old man lived happily, and reached
his seventieth year, occupied with the translation
of travels in Africa. This tainted atmosphere,
in which he lay, became, to his conceit, the
dromedary’s high back, which lifted him aloft
in the burning sun; the long, hanging-down
cobwebs were the palm-trees’ waving banners,
and the caravan went over rivers to the wild
bushmen. Old Œdmann was with the hunters,
chasing the elephants in the midst of the thick
reeds; the agile tiger-cat sprang past, and the
serpents shone like garlands around the boughs
of the trees: there was excitement, there was
danger – and yet he lay so comfortably in his
good and beloved bed in Upsala.
One winter’s day, it happened that a
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