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should I not love thee as men love those proud,
beautiful women whose love is hard to win, but
burns steadier than that of others?”
It was thus he played, the poor old mystic. He
sat there, glowing with enthusiasm and emotion,
hearing the most wonderful tones, certain that Gösta
heard them too and was feeling comforted.
Gösta sat and looked at him. At first he was
furious at the mockery, but by and by his anger
vanished. The old man was irresistible as he sat
there enjoying his Beethoven.
And Gösta remembered, too, that the man who
now was so gentle and happy had been overwhelmed
by sorrow—that he, too, had lost the woman he
had loved. And there he sat now, beaming with
happiness, over his wooden keyboard. It required,
then, no more than that to make a man’s happiness.
He felt himself humbled.
“What, Gösta,” he said to himself, “can you no
longer endure? You have been hardened in poverty
all your life; you have heard every tree in the
forest, every tuft in the meadows preach to you of
sacrifice and patience. You, brought up in a
country where the winter is severe, and the summer joy
is very short, have you forgotten the art of bearing
your trials?
“Oh, Gösta, a man must bear all that life gives
him with a courageous heart and a smile on his lips,
else he is no man. Sorrow as much as you will. If
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