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its beauty that drew attention to this mouth; it was rather
the strange, melancholy smile of the voluptuary, a smile
made up of passionate desire and weary disdain, at once
tender as sweet music and bloodthirsty as the low, satisfied
growl in the throat of the beast of prey when its teeth tear
the quivering flesh of its victim.
Such was Sti Högh—then.
“Madam,” said he, “have you never wished that you
were sitting safe in the shelter of convent walls, such as
they have them in Italy and other countries?”
“Mercy, no! How should I have such mad fancies!”
“Then, my dear kinswoman, you are perfectly happy?
Your cup of life is clear and fresh, it is sweet to your tongue,
warms your blood, and quickens your thoughts? Is it, in
truth, never bitter as lees, flat and stale? Never fouled by
adders and serpents that crawl and mumble? If so, your
eyes have deceived me.”
“Ah, you would fain bring me to confession!” laughed
Marie in his face.
Sti Högh smiled and led her to a little grass mound,
where they sat down. He looked searchingly at her.
“Know you not,” he began slowly and seeming to
hesitate whether to speak or be silent, “know you not, madam,
that there is in the world a secret society which I might call
‘the melancholy company’? It is composed of people who
at birth have been given a different nature and constitution
from others, who yearn more and covet more, whose
passions are stronger, and whose desires burn more wildly than
those of the vulgar mob. They are like Sunday children,
with eyes wider open and senses more subtle. They drink
with the very roots of their hearts that delight and joy of
life which others can only grasp between coarse hands.”
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