She had fair hair and
grey, dark eyes; like a young girl she was. Six years gone, ay, so long it
is ago; would she be greatly changed? Time has had its wear on me; I am
grown dull and faded and indifferent; I look upon a woman now as
literature, no more. It has come to the end. Well, and what then?
Everything comes to an end. When first I entered on this stage I had a
feeling as if I had lost something; as if I had been favoured by the
caresses of a pickpocket. Then I set to and felt myself about, to see if I
could bear myself after this; if I could endure myself as I was now. Oh
well, yes, why not? Not the same as before, of course, but it all passed
off so noiselessly, but peacefully, but surely. Everything comes to an
end.
In old age one takes no real part in life, but keeps oneself on memories.
We are like letters that have been delivered; we are no longer on the way,
we have arrived. It is only a question whether we have whirled up joys and
sorrows out of what was in us, or have made no impression at all.
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