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Valborg drives in her shining coach, and her lips
smile, but she is as sad as if the horses’ hoofs and
the wheels of her carriage had driven over her life’s
happiness.
Trust not in the dance, they said. Many feet
swing lightly over polished floors, while the mind is
as heavy as lead. Little Kerstin was gay and merry
while she danced away her fair young life.
Trust not in the jest, they said, for many go
to table with jesting lips while ready to die of
sorrow. There sits the youthful Adeline and allows
Duke Frojdenborg to offer his heart to her in jest,
knowing it only requires that to give her strength
to die.
Oh, you old songs, what are we to trust in—in
tears and sorrows?
The sad heart is easily tempted to smiles, but he
who is happy cannot weep.
The old songs believe only in tears, in sadness.
Sorrow is the reality, the imperishable, it is the firm
rock under the shifting sand. One can trust in sorrow
and sorrow’s symbols.
Joy is but sadness in disguise. There is, in fact,
nothing on earth but sorrow.
“Oh, you comfortless songs,” said Marienne,
“your old wisdom runs short before the fulness of
life!”
She went to the window and looked out into
the garden, where her parents were walking. They
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