had reached the goal at last. Through a whole world, through an eternity he had to go, through nights of waking and debauchery, through a whole river of tears, and through many sighs that path had led—and now he had reached the goal at last. And now he seemed on a bed of roses, and to hear the song of the nightingale. And it was all Krista.
His heart now beat so audibly that he fancied every one heard it, that even Krista heard it. But no one heard it, all eyes were turned to her, and Krista never heard it: at least she never thought of running to his side.
When her song was at an end they clapped and shouted; Venik did not clap nor applaud, but he was greatly delighted. If he had clapped, perhaps he would have called attention to himself; if he had shouted, perhaps he would have shouted Krista. He felt delight—unembittered delight.
Then the delight began to be embittered. A singer stepped forward, and here Krista was already not alone upon the stage. This singer pledged his love to her, and she pledged her love to him. Then they embraced and kissed each other. Already Venik was pretty well awakened from his dreaming and wellnigh stricken to the ground. Here already he was not on a bed of roses, here he began to feel only its thorns. Here his heart began to beat differently, but his face grew pale and wan. Then they sang together, the singer and Krista, and they sang about their love, continually about their love; when people after this again clapped and shouted, Venik neither clapped nor shouted, then if he had wished to shout he would have called out “a theatrical princess”. And after that he would have burst into a mocking laugh.
It was Krista. And now began to drum in his head the words, “It is not Krista, that being yonder was, it is she no more.” The path to her had taken three years to traverse, it went through sorrow, tears, and sighs, and now that he had reached the goal at last, he said to himself, “I have found her and it is not she.”
It was Krista and it was not.
When the opera was concluded, he heard voices round him saying, “They drag her home again.” He ran out of the theatre and looked for the carriage in which they were going to drag her home. He saw a carriage, it was chock-full of the garlands which were flung to her in the theatre, and young men were detaching the horses, and yoking themselves to the carriage in place of them. It appeared to him past all conception loathsome—but it was
