ted me
severely, precisely in the instances in which I approached him nearest.
He has flung from him the devotion which I cherished for him. I will
tell you the whole truth, Leonore, and how this has happened between us.
You know that in the University, about three years ago, a sort of
literary society of young men gathered themselves about me. Perhaps they
esteemed my literary talents too highly, and might mislead me--I could
almost believe so myself, but I was the favourite of the day in the
circle in which my life moved; perhaps, on that account, I became
presumptuous; perhaps a tone of pretension betrayed itself in me, and a
false, one-sided direction was visible in the poems which I then
published: nevertheless, these poems made some little noise in the
world. Shortly, however, after their appearance a criticism on them came
out, which made a yet greater noise, on account of its power, its
severity, and also its satirical wit. Its acrimony spared neither my
work nor my character as a poet, and it produced almost universally a
re-action against me. It appeared to me severe and one-sided; and even
now, at this moment, it appears to me not otherwise, although I can now
see its justice much better than at the time.

"The anonymous author of the critique upon me was Stjernhoek, and he did
not in the slightest deny it. He considered it as being much less
directed against me personally, than against the increasing influence of
the party of which I was a sort of chief. Even before this I had begun
to withdraw myself from his power, which I always felt to be oppressive;
and this new blow did not, by any means, tend to reunite us. His severe
criticism had made me observant of my faults; but yet I do not know
whether it would have produced any other effect than pain, had I not at
this time returned home to you; and at home, through the beneficial
influence of my own family, a new strength and a purer direction had
been aroused in me. That was the time in which my father, with
indescribable goodness, and in complot with you all, sold the half of
his library to furnish me with the means of foreign travel. Yes, you
have called forth a new being in me; and all my poems, and all my
writings, are now designed to prove to you that I am not unworthy of
you. Ah, yes! I love you warmly and deeply--but it is all over with
Stjernhoek; the love which I cherished for him has changed itself into
bitterness."

"Ah, Henrik, Henrik, do not l