“The same which we have been—dust. That which is burned out can burn no longer; it is dead. We about whom the fire of life flickers are only fuel. Life’s sparks fly from one to another. We are lighted, flame up, and die out. That is life.”
“Oh, Eberhard, is there no life of the spirit?”
“None.”
“No life beyond the grave?”
“None.”
“No good, no evil, no aim, no hope?”
“None.”
The young woman walks over to the window. She looks out at the autumn’s yellowed leaves, at dahlias and asters which hang their heavy heads on broken stalks. She sees the Löfven’s black waves, the autumn’s dark storm-clouds, and for a moment she inclines towards repudiation.
“Uncle Eberhard,” she says, “how ugly and gray the world is; how profitless everything is! I should like to lie down and die.”
But then she hears a murmur in her soul. The vigor of life and its strong emotions cry out for the happiness of living.