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He had not come unscathed from his four or five weeks of
constant intercourse with Marie Grubbe. She had absolutely
bewitched him. He longed only for her, dreamed only of
her; she was his hope and his despair. He had loved before,
but never like this, never so timidly and weakly and
hopelessly. It was not the fact that she was the wife of Ulrik
Frederik, nor that he was married to her sister, which robbed
him of his courage. No, it was in the nature of his love to
be faint-hearted—his calf-love, he called it bitterly. It had
so little desire, so much fear and worship, and yet so much
desire. A wistful, feverish languishing for her, a morbid
longing to live with her in her memories, dream her dreams,
suffer her sorrows, and share her sad thoughts, no more, no
less. How lovely she had been in the dance, but how
distant and unattainable! The round gleaming shoulders, the
full bosom and slender limbs, they took his breath away.
He trembled before that splendor of body, which made her
seem richer and more perfect, and hardly dared to let
himself be drawn under its spell. He feared his own passion and
the fire, hell-deep, heaven-high, that smouldered within
him. That arm around his neck, those lips pressed against
his—it was madness, imbecile dreams of a madman! This
mouth —
“Paragon di dolcezza!
. . . . . . .
… bocca beata,
… bocca gentil, che può ben dirsi
Conca d’ Indo odorata
Di perle orientali e pellegrine:
E la porta, che chiude
Ed apre il bel tesoro,
Con dolcissimo mel porpora mista.”
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