ould have denied it for her and his own sake. And yet he
had only danced "_moulinet des dames_" because absorbed in her
presence. And what did it matter? Perhaps they would stop laughing some
time. Had not a magazine a short while before accepted one of his
poems, though it was discontinued before the poem could appear? The day
would come when he would be famous, when everything he wrote would be
printed, and then it was to be seen whether that wouldn't make an
impression on Inga Holm ... But it wouldn't make any impression, no,
that was just the trouble. On Magdalen Vermehren, who was always
falling down, yes, on her it would. But never on Inga Holm, never on
the blue-eyed, merry Inga. And so was it not in vain?

Tonio Kroeger's heart contracted with pain at this thought. To feel how
wonderful sportive and melancholy powers are stirring in you, and to
know at the same time that those to whom your longing draws you are
gaily inaccessible to them, that hurts grievously. But although he
stood lonely, shut out, and without hope before closed blinds,
pretending in his distress that he could look through them, he was
none the less happy. For in those days his heart lived. Warmly and
sadly it beat for you, Ingeborg Holm, and his soul embraced your
blond, bright, and saucily ordinary little personality in blissful
self-abnegation.

More than once he stood with heated face in lonely spots but faintly
reached by music, the scent of flowers, and the clink of glasses,
seeking to distinguish your ringing voice in the distant hum of the
festive throng; grieving for you he stood, and still was happy. More
than once it pained him that he could talk to Magdalen Vermehren, who
was always falling down, that she understood him and was merry or grave
with him, whereas fair-haired Inga, even though he sat beside her,
seemed distant and strange and estranged, for his language was not
hers; and still he was happy. For happiness, he told himself, is not
being loved; that is satisfied vanity mingled with repugnance.
Happiness consists in loving and snatching up perhaps tiny, deceptive
approaches to the loved object. And he noted down this idea inwardly,
thought it out in its entirety, and tasted it to the lees.

"Faithfulness!" thought Tonio Kroeger. "I will be faithful and love you,
Ingeborg, as long as I live." So good were his intentions. And yet a
secret fear and sadness whispered: "You know you have forgotten Hans
Hansen altogether, alt