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He paused a moment, took his hat in his hand, and sat
idly running his fingers through the thick plumes.
“But,” he went on in a lower voice as speaking to
himself, “pleasure in beauty, pleasure in pomp and all the
things that can be named, pleasure in secret impulses and
in thoughts that pass the understanding of man—all that
which to the vulgar is but idle pastime or vile revelry—is
to these chosen ones like healing and precious balsam. It
is to them the one honey-filled blossom from which they
suck their daily food, and therefore they seek flowers on
the tree of life where others would never think to look,
under dark leaves and on dry branches. But the mob—what
does it know of pleasure in grief or despair?”
He smiled scornfully and was silent.
“But wherefore,” asked Marie carelessly, looking past
him, “wherefore name them ‘the melancholy company,’
since they think but of pleasure and the joy of life, but
never of what is sad and dreary?”
Sti Högh shrugged his shoulders and seemed about to
rise, as though weary of the theme and anxious to break
off the discussion.
“But wherefore?” repeated Marie.
“Wherefore!” he cried impatiently, and there was a note
of disdain in his voice. “Because all the joys of this earth
are hollow and pass away as shadows. Because every
pleasure, while it bursts into bloom like a flowering rosebush,
in the selfsame hour withers and drops its leaves like a tree
in autumn. Because every delight, though it glow in beauty
and the fullness of fruition, though it clasp you in sound
arms, is that moment poisoned by the cancer of death, and
even while it touches your mouth you feel it quivering in
the throes of corruption. Is it joyful to feel thus? Must it
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