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self-analysis within her. She felt his eyes follow every step,
every word of hers. Her life had become a play, at
which she was the only spectator. She was no longer
a human being—she was neither wearied, nor did
she rejoice, nor could she love. She played the part
of the beautiful Marienne Sinclaire, and the spirit
of self-analysis sat with staring eyes and busy
fingers and watched her acting. She felt herself divided
into two, and half of her being—pale, unfeeling,
and scornful—watched the other half’s transactions;
and the spirit which thus plucked her asunder had
never a word of kindness or sympathy for her.
But where had he been, the pale watcher beside
the springs of impulse, on the night she had learned
to feel life’s fulness? Where was he, when she, the
wise Marienne, kissed Gösta Berling before the eyes
of two hundred people, and when she threw herself
into the snowdrift to die in despair? The icy
eyes were blinded, and the sneer was paralyzed, for
passion had swept through her soul. The wild wave
of adventure had thundered in her ears. She had
been a whole being during that one awful night.
Oh, god of self-scorn, when Marienne lifted at
last her frozen arms to Gösta’s neck, then, like old
Beerencreutz, thou wert compelled to turn thy eyes
from earth and look at the stars! That night thou
hadst no power. Thou wast dead while she sang
her love hymns, dead when she hurried to Sjö for
the Major, dead when she saw the flames
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