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whether he did not speak more strongly than he felt. A
hopeless passion that did not defiantly close its eyes to its own
hopelessness and storm ahead—she could not understand
it and did not believe in it. She formed a mental picture of
Sti Högh as a morbid nature, everlastingly fingering
himself and hugging the illusion of being richer and bigger
and finer than he really was. Since no reality bore out this
conception of himself, he seemed to feed his imagination
with great feelings and strong passions that were, in truth,
born only in the fantastic pregnancy of his over-busy brain.
His last words to her—for, at her father’s request, she was
returning to Tjele, where he could not follow her—served
to confirm her in the opinion that this mental portrait
resembled him in every feature.
He had bid her good-by and was standing with his hand
on the latch, when he turned back to her, saying: “A black
leaf of my book of life is being turned, now that your Kalö
days are over, madam. I shall think of this time with
longing and anguish, as one who has lost all earthly happiness
and all that was his hope and desire, and yet, madam, if
such a thing should come to pass as that there were reason
to think you loved me, and if I were to believe it, then God
only knows what it might make of me. Perhaps it might
rouse in me those powers which have hitherto failed to
unfold their mighty wings. Then perhaps the part of my
nature that is thirsting after great deeds and burning with
hope might be in the ascendant, and make my name famous
and great. Yet it might as well be that such unutterable
happiness would slacken every high-strung fibre, silence
every crying demand, and dull every hope. Thus the land
of my happiness might be to my gifts and powers a lazy
Capua.…”
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