go to sleep, since she must be tired, the while
he continued to hold her hand in his; and she on her part, when she
declared he was disagreeable and wanted to be rid of her, that he
regretted having taken a wife. Then a reconciliation, of course,
followed, and they laughed, and the hour grew late. Finally Thora went
to her room, but Mogens remained sitting in the conservatory, miserable
that she had gone. He drew black imaginings for himself, that she was
dead and gone, and that he was sitting here all alone in the world and
weeping over her, and then he really wept. At length he became angry at
himself and stalked up and down the floor, and wanted to be sensible.
There was a love, pure and noble, without any coarse, earthly passion;
yes, there was, and if there was not, there was going to be one. Passion
spoiled everything, and it was very ugly and unhuman. How he hated
everything in human nature that was not tender and pure, fine and
gentle! He had been subjugated, weighed down, tormented, by this ugly
and powerful force; it had lain in his eyes and ears, it had poisoned
all his thoughts.

He went to his room. He intended to read and took a book; he read, but
had not the slightest notion what--could anything have happened to her!
No, how could it? But nevertheless he was afraid, possibly there might
have--no, he could no longer stand it. He stole softly to her door; no,
everything was still and peaceful. When he listened intently it seemed
as if he could hear her breathing--how his heart throbbed, it seemed, he
could hear it too. He went back to his room and his book. He closed his
eyes; how vividly he saw her; he heard her voice, she bent down toward
him and whispered--how he loved her, loved her, loved her! It was like a
song within him; it seemed as if his thoughts took on rhythmic form,
and how clearly he could see everything of which he thought! Still and
silent she lay and slept, her arm beneath the neck, her hair loosened,
her eyes were closed, she breathed very softly--the air trembled within,
it was red like the reflection of roses. Like a clumsy faun, imitating
the dance of the nymphs, so the bed-cover with its awkward folds
outlined her delicate form. No, no, he did not want to think of her, not
in that way, for nothing in all the world, no; and now it all came back
again, it could not be kept away, but he would keep it away, away! And
it came and went, came and went, until sleep seized him, and the night
p