PART I

THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL

BY AUGUST STRINDBERG

TRANSLATED BY

ELLIE SCHLEUSSNER

BOSTON

SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY

PUBLISHERS

1913

_Translated from the "Litterarisches Echo,"_

_August 15, 1911_

STRINDBERG'S WORKS

(BY I.E. PORITZKY, BERLIN)

The republication of _The Confession of a Fool_ represents the last

link in the chain of Strindberg's autobiographical novels. A German

version of the book was published as far back as 1893, but it was

mutilated, abbreviated, corrupted, and falsified to such an extent

that the attorney-general, misled by the revolting language, blamed

the author for the misdeeds of the translator and prohibited the sale

of the book. This was a splendid advertisement for this profound work,

but there were many who would have rejoiced if the translation had been

completely ignored. It distorted Strindberg's character and was the

cause of many prejudices which exist to this day.

Schering's new translation is an attempt to make reparation for this

crime. "It is impossible," he says, "that any attorney-general can now

doubt the high morality of this book." Strindberg himself has called

it a _terrible book_, and has regretted that he ever wrote it. He has

never published it in Swedish, his own language, because not only is

it too personal in character, but it also revealed a still bleeding

wound. It contains the relentless description of his first marriage, so

superbly candid an account, that one is reminded of the last testament

of a man for whom death has no longer any terror. We know from his

fascinating novel Separated, how painful the burden was which he had

to bear, and how terribly he suffered during the period of his first

marriage. So much so, indeed, that he had to write this book before he

could face the thought of death with composure. Doubtless, a man for

whom life holds no longer any charm would give us a genuinely truthful

account of his inner life, and there is no denying that a book which

takes its entire matter from the inner life is of vastly greater

importance and on an immeasurably higher level than a million novels,

be they written ever so well. The great importance of _The Confession

of a Fool_ lies in the fact that it depicts the struggle of a highly

intellectual man to free himself from the slavery of sexuality, and

from a woman who is a typical representative of her sex.

Apart from this, it is an intense joy from an artistic point of view to

follow the "confessor" through the book, as he looks at himself from

all sides in order to gain self-knowledge; that he conceals nothing

from us, not even those deep secrets which he would fain keep even in

the face of death. One sees Strindberg brooding over his own soul to

fathom its depths. He plumbs its hidden profoundnesses, he takes to

pieces the inner wheels of his mechanism, so as to know for himself and

to show us how he is made and what is the cause of the instinct which

drives him to confess and to create. He opens wide his heart and lets

us see that he carries in his breast his heaven and also his horrible

hell. We see angels and devils fighting in his soul for supremacy, and

the divine in him stepping between them with its creative Let there be!

THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL

PART I

I

It was on the thirteenth of May, 1875, at Stockholm.

I well remember the large room of the Royal Library which extended

through a whole wing of the Castle, with its beechen wainscoting, brown

with age like the meerschaum of a much-used cigar-holder. The enormous

room, with its rococo headings, garlands, chains and armorial bearings,

round which, at the height of the first floor, ran a gallery supported

by Tuscan columns, was yawning like a great chasm underneath my feet;

with its hundred thousand volumes it resembled a gigantic brain, with

the thoughts of long-forgotten generations neatly arranged on shelves.

A passage running from one end of the room to the other divided the

two principal parts, the walls of which were completely hidden by

shelves fourteen feet high. The golden rays of the spring sun were

falling through the twelve windows, illuminating the volumes of the

Renaissance, bound in white and gold parchment, the black morocco

bindings mounted with silver of the seventeenth century, the red-edged

volumes bound in calf of a hundred years later, the green leather

bindings which were the fashion under the Empire, and the cheap covers

of our own time. Here theologians were on neighbourly terms with

apostles of magic, philosophers hobnobbed with naturalists, poets and

historians dwelt in peace side by side. It reminded one of a geological

stratum of unfathomable depth where, as in a puddingstone, layer was

piled upon layer, marking the successive stages arrived at by human

folly or human genius.

I can see myself now. I had climbed on to the encircling gallery, and

was engaged in arranging a collection of old books which a well-known

collector had just presented to the library. He had been clever

enough to ensure his own immortality by endowing each volume with his

ex-libris bearing the motto "Speravit infestis."

Since I was as superstitious as an atheist, this motto, meeting my

gaze day after day whenever I happened to open a volume, had made an

undeniable impression on me. He was a lucky fellow, this brave man, for

even in misfortune he never abandoned hope.... But for me all hope was

dead. There seemed to be no chance whatever that my drama in five acts,

or six tableaux, with three transformation scenes on the open stage,

would ever see the footlights. Seven men stood between me and promotion

to the post of a librarian--seven men, all in perfect health, and four

with a private income. A man of twenty-six, in receipt of a monthly

salary of twenty crowns, with a drama in five acts stowed away in a

drawer in his attic, is only too much inclined to embrace pessimism,

this apotheosis of scepticism, so comforting to all failures. It

compensates them for unobtainable dinners, enables them to draw

admirable conclusions, which often have to make up for the loss of an

overcoat, pledged before the end of the winter.

Notwithstanding the fact that I was a member of a learned Bohemia,

which had succeeded an older, artistic Bohemia, a contributor to

important newspapers and excellent, but badly paying magazines, a

partner in a society founded for the purpose of translating Hartmann's

_Philosophy of the Unconscious_, a member of a secret federation

for the promotion of free love, the bearer of the empty title of a

"royal secretary," and the author of two one-act plays which had been

performed at the Royal Theatre, I had the greatest difficulty to make

ends meet. I hated life, although the thought of relinquishing it had

never crossed my mind; on the contrary, I had always done my best

to continue not only my own existence but also that of the race. It

cannot be denied that pessimism, misinterpreted by the multitude and

generally confused with hypochondria, is really a quite serene and

even comforting philosophy of life. Since everything is relatively

nothing, why make so much fuss, particularly as truth itself is mutable

and short-lived? Are we not constantly discovering that the truth of

yesterday is the folly of to-morrow? Why, then, waste strength and

youth in discovering fresh fallacies? The only proven fact is that we

have to die. Let us live then! But for whom? For what purpose? Alas!...

When Bernadotte, that converted Jacobite, ascended the throne and all

the rubbish which had been discarded at the end of the last century

was re-introduced, the hopes of the generation of 1860, to which I

belonged, were dashed to the ground with the clamorously advertised

parliamentary reform. The _two houses_, which had taken the place of

the _four estates_, consisted for the greater part of peasants. They

turned Parliament into a sort of town council, where everybody, on the

best of terms with everybody else, looked after his own little affairs,

without paying the least regard to the great problems of life and

progress. Politics were nothing more nor less than a compromise between

public and private interests. The last remnants of faith in what was

then "the ideal" were vanishing in a ferment of bitterness. To this

must be added the religious reaction which marked the period after the

death of Charles XV, and the beginning of the reign of Queen Sophia

of Nassau. There were plenty of reasons, therefore, to account for an

enlightened pessimism, reasons other than personal ones....

The dust caused by the rearrangement of the books was choking me. I

opened the window for a breath of fresh air and a look at the view

beyond. A delicious breeze fanned my face, a breeze laden with the

scent of lilac and the rising sap of the poplars. The lattice-work was

completely hidden beneath the green leaves of the honey-suckle and wild

vine; acacias and plane trees, well acquainted with the fatal whims

of a northern May, were still holding back. It was spring, though the

skeleton of shrub and tree was still plainly visible underneath the

tender young green. Beyond the parapet with its Delft vases bearing

the mark of Charles XII, the masts of the anchored steamers were

rising, gaily decorated with flags in honour of the May-day festival.

Behind them glittered the bottle-green line of the bay, and from

its wooded shores on either side the trees were mounting higher and

higher, gradually, like steps, pines and Scotch firs on one side and

soft green foliage on the other. All the boats lying at anchor were

flying their national colours, more or less symbolic of the different

nations. England with the dripping scarlet of the blood of her famous

cattle; Spain striped red and yellow, like the Venetian blinds of a

Moorish balcony; the United States with their striped bed-tick; the

gay tricolour of France by the side of the gloomy German flag with

its sinister iron cross close to the flagstaff, ever reminiscent of

mourning; the jerkinet of Denmark; the veiled tricolour of Russia. They

were all there, side by side, with outspread wings, under the blue

cover of the northern sky. The noise of carriages, whistles, bells

and cranes lent animation to the picture; the combined odours of oil,

leather, salt herrings and groceries mingled with the scent of the

lilac. An easterly wind blowing from the open sea, cooled by the drift

ice of the Baltic, freshened the atmosphere.

I forgot my books as soon as I turned my back to them and was leaning

out of the window, all my senses taking a delicious bath; below, the

guards were marching past to the strains of the march from Faust.

I was so intoxicated with the music, the flags, the blue sky, the

flowers, that I had not noticed the porter entering my office in the

meantime with the mail. He touched my shoulder, handed me a letter and

disappeared.

Hm!... a letter from a lady.

I hastily opened the envelope, anticipating some delightful adventure

... surely it must be something of that sort ... it was!

"Meet me punctually at five o'clock this afternoon before No. 65

Parliament Street. You will know me by the roll of music in my hand."

A short time ago a little vixen had made a fool of me, and I had sworn

to take advantage of the first favourable opportunity to revenge

myself. Therefore I was willing enough. There was only one thing which

jarred on me; the commanding, dictatorial tone of the note offended my

manly dignity. How could this unknown correspondent dare to attack me

unawares in this manner? What were they thinking of, these women, who

have such a poor opinion of us men? They do not ask, they command their

conquests!

As it happened I had planned an excursion with some of my friends for

this very afternoon. And, moreover, the thought of a flirtation in the

middle of the day in one of the principal streets of the town was not

very alluring.

At two o'clock, however, I went into the chemical laboratory where the

excursionists had arranged to assemble. They were already crowding

the ante-room: doctors and candidates of philosophy and medicine, all

of them anxious to learn the programme of the entertainment in store.

I had made up my mind in the meantime, and with many apologies refused

to be one of the party. They clamoured for my reasons. I produced my

letter and handed it to a zoologist who was looked upon as an expert in

all matters pertaining to love; he shook his head while perusing it.

"No good, that...." he muttered disconnectedly; "wants to be married

... would never sell herself ... family, my dear old chap ... straight

path ... but do what you like. You'll find us in the Park, later on,

if the spirit moves you to join us, and I have been wrong about the

lady...."

At the hour indicated I took up my position near the house mentioned,

and awaited the appearance of the unknown letter-writer.

The roll of music in her hand, what was it but a proposal of marriage?

It differed in no way from the announcements on the fourth page of

certain newspapers. I suddenly felt uneasy; too late--the lady had

arrived and we stood looking at each other.

My first impression--I believe in first impressions--was quite vague.

She was of uncertain age, between twenty-nine and forty, fantastically

dressed. What was she? Artist or blue-stocking? A sheltered woman or

one living a free and independent life? Emancipated or cocotte? I

wondered....

She introduced herself as the fiancée of an old friend of mine, an

opera singer, and said that he wished me to look after her while she

was staying in town. This was untrue, as I found out later on.

She was like a little bird, twittering incessantly. After she had

talked for half-an-hour I knew all about her; I knew all her emotions,

all her thoughts. But I was only half interested, and asked her if I

could do anything for her.

"I take care of a young woman!" I exclaimed, after she had explained

what she wanted. "Don't you know that I am the devil incarnate?"

"You only think you are," she replied; "but I know you thoroughly.

You're unhappy, that's all. You ought to be roused from your gloomy

fancies."

"You know me thoroughly? You really think so? I'm afraid all you know

is the now antiquated opinion your fiancé has of me."

It was no use talking, my "charming friend" was well informed and

knew how to read a man's heart, even from a distance. She was one of

those obstinate creatures who strive to sway the spirits of men by

insinuating themselves into the hidden depths of their souls. She

kept up a large correspondence, bombarded all her acquaintances with

letters, gave advice and warning to young people, and knew no greater

happiness than to direct and guide the destinies of men. Greedy of

power, head of a league for the salvation of souls, patroness of all

the world, she had conceived it her mission to save me!

She was a schemer of the purest water, with little intelligence but a

great deal of female impudence.

I began to tease her by making fun of everything, the world, men,

religion. She told me my ideas were morbid.

"Morbid! My dear lady, my ideas morbid? They are, on the contrary,

most healthy and of the latest date. But what about yours now? They

are relics of a past age, commonplaces of my boyhood, the rubbish of

rubbish, and you think them new? Candidly speaking, what you offer me

as fresh fruit is nothing but preserved stuff in badly soldered tins.

Away with it! It's rotten! You know what I mean."

She left me without a word of good-bye, furious, unable to control

herself.

When she had gone I went to join my friends in the Park, and spent the

evening with them.

I had not quite got over my excitement on the following morning when

I received a communication from her. It was a vainglorious letter

in which she overwhelmed me with reproaches, largely tempered by

forbearance and compassion; she expressed ardent wishes for my mental

health, and concluded by arranging a second meeting, and stating that

we ought to pay a visit to her fiancé's aged mother.

As I rather pride myself on my manners, I resigned myself to my fate;

but, determined to get off as cheaply as possible, I made up my mind to

appear perfectly indifferent to all questions relating to religion, the

world and everything else.

But how wonderful! The lady, dressed in a tightly fitting cloth dress,

trimmed with fur, and wearing a large picture hat, greeted me most

cordially; she was full of the tender solicitude of an elder sister,

avoided all dangerous ground, and was altogether so charming that our

souls, thanks to a mutual desire to please, met in friendly talk, and

before we parted a feeling of genuine sympathy had sprung up between us.

After having paid our call we took advantage of the lovely spring day

and went for a stroll.

I am not sure whether it was from an imperative desire to pay her out,

or whether I felt annoyed at having been made to play the part of a

confidant; whatever it was, the iniquitous idea occurred to me to

tell her, in strict confidence, that I was practically engaged to be

married; this was only half a lie, for I was really paying at that time

a good deal of attention to a certain lady of my acquaintance.

On hearing this, her manner changed. She talked to me like a

grandmother, began to pity the girl, questioned me about her character,

her looks, her social status, her circumstances. I painted a portrait

well calculated to excite her jealousy. Our eager conversation

languished. My guardian angel's interest in me waned when she suspected

a rival who might possibly be equally anxious to save my soul.

We parted, still under the influence of the chill which had gradually

arisen between us.

When we met on the following day we talked exclusively of love and my

supposed fiancée.

But after we had visited theatres and concerts for a week and taken

numerous walks together, she had gained her object. The daily

intercourse with her had become a habit of which I felt unable to break

myself. Conversation with a woman who is above the commonplace has an

almost sensual charm. The souls touch, the spirits embrace each other.

One morning, on meeting her as usual, I found her almost beside

herself. She was full of a letter which she had just received.

Her fiance was furiously jealous. She accused herself of having

been indiscreet; he was recommending her the utmost reserve in her

intercourse with me: he seemed to have a presentiment that the matter

would end badly.

"I can't understand such detestable jealousy," she said, deeply

distressed.

"Because you don't understand the meaning of the word 'love,'" I

answered.

"Love! Ugh!"

"Love, my dear lady, is consciousness of possession in its greatest

intensity. Jealousy is but the fear of losing what one possesses."

"Possesses! Disgusting!"

"Mutually possesses, since each possesses the other."

But she refused to understand love in that sense. In her opinion love

was something disinterested, exalted, chaste, inexplicable.

She did not love her fiancé, but he was head over ears in love with her.

When I said so she lost her temper, and then confessed that she had

never loved him.

"And yet you contemplate marrying him?"

"Because he would be lost if I didn't."

"Always that mania for saving souls!"

She grew more and more angry; she maintained that she was not, and

never had been, really engaged to him. We had caught each other lying;

what prospects!

There remained nothing for me to do now but to make a clean breast

of it, and contradict my previous statement that I was "as good as

engaged." This done, we were at liberty to make use of our freedom.

As she had now no longer any cause for jealousy, the game began afresh,

and this time we played it in deadly earnest. I confessed my love to

her--in writing. She forwarded the letter to her fiancé. He heaped

insults on my head--by post.

I told her that she must choose between him and me. But she carefully

refrained from doing so, for her object was to have me, him, and as

many more as she could get, kneeling at her feet and adoring her. She

was a flirt, a _mangeuse d'hommes_, a chaste polyandrist.

But, perhaps for want of some one better, I had fallen in love with

her, for I loathed casual love-affairs, and the solitude of my attic

bored me.

Towards the end of her stay in town I invited her to pay me a visit at

the library. I wanted to dazzle her, show myself to her in impressive

surroundings, so as to overawe this arrogant little brain.

I dragged her from gallery to gallery, exhibiting all my

bibliographical knowledge. I compelled her to admire the miniatures

of the Middle Ages, the autographs of famous men. I evoked the great

historical memories held captive in old manuscripts and prints. In the

end her insignificance came home to her and she became embarrassed.

"But you are a very learned man!" she exclaimed.

"Of course I am," I laughed.

"Oh, my poor old mummer!" she murmured, alluding to her friend, the

opera singer, her so-called fiancé.

But if I had flattered myself that the mummer was now finally disposed

of, I was mistaken. He was threatening to shoot me--by post; he accused

me of having robbed him of his future bride. I proved to him that he

could not have been robbed, for the simple reason that he had not

possessed anything. After that our correspondence ceased and gave way

to a menacing silence.

Her visit was drawing to an end. On the eve of her departure I received

a jubilant letter from her, telling me of an unexpected piece of good

luck. She had read my play to some people of note who had influence

with stage managers. The play had made such an impression on them that

they were anxious to make my acquaintance. She would tell me all the

details in the afternoon.

At the appointed hour I met her and accompanied her on a shopping

expedition to make a few last purchases. She was talking of nothing but

the sensation my play had created, and when I explained to her that I

hated patronage of any sort, she did her utmost to convert me to her

point of view. I paid little attention to her and went on grumbling.

The idea of ringing at unknown front doors, meeting strangers and

talking to them of everything except that which was nearest to my

heart, was hateful to me; I could not whine like a beggar for favours.

I was fighting her as hard as I could when suddenly she stopped before

a young, aristocratic-looking lady, very well, even elegantly dressed,

with movements full of softness and grace.

The lady, whom she introduced as Baroness X, said a few words to me

which the noise of the crowd rendered all but inaudible. I stammered

a reply, annoyed at having been caught in a trap set for me by a wily

little schemer. For I felt certain the meeting had been premeditated.

A few seconds more and the Baroness had gone, but not without having

personally repeated the invitation which my companion had already

brought me a little earlier in the afternoon.

The girlish appearance and baby face of the Baroness, who must have

been at least twenty-five years of age, surprised me. She looked like

a school-girl; her little face was framed by roguish curls, golden as

a cornfield on which the sun is shining; she had the shoulders of a

princess and a supple, willowy figure; the way in which she bowed her

head expressed at the same time candour, respect and superiority.

And this delicious, girlish mother had read my play without hurt or

injury? Was it possible?

She had married a captain of the Guards, was the mother of a little

girl of three, and took a passionate interest in the theatre, without,

however, having the slightest prospect of ever being able to enter

the profession herself; a sacrifice demanded from her by the rank and

position not only of her husband, but also of her father-in-law, who

had recently received the appointment of a gentleman-in-waiting.

This was the position of affairs when my love-dream melted away. A

steamer was bearing my lady-love into the presence of her mummer. He

would vindicate his rights now and take a delight in making fun of my

letters to her: just retribution for having laughed at his letters in

the company of his inamorata while she was staying here.

On the landing-stage, at the very moment of our affectionate farewell,

she made me promise to call on the Baroness without delay. These were

the last words we exchanged.

The innocent daydreams, so different from the coarse orgies of learned

Bohemia, left a void in my heart which craved to be filled. The

friendly, seemingly harmless intercourse with a gentlewoman, this

intercourse between two people of opposite sexes, had been sweet to

me after my long solitude, for I had quarrelled with my family and

was, therefore, very lonely. The love of home life, which my Bohemian

existence had deadened for a while, was reawakened by my relations

with a very ordinary but respectable member of the other sex. And,

therefore, one evening at six o'clock, I found myself at the entrance

gate of a house in North Avenue.

How ominous! It was the old house which had belonged to my father, the

house in which I had spent the most miserable years of my childhood,

where I had fought through the troubles and storms of adolescence,

where I had been confirmed, where my mother had died, and where a

stepmother had taken her place. I suddenly felt ill at ease, and my

first impulse was one of flight. I was afraid to stir up the memories

of the misery of my youth and early manhood. There was the courtyard

with its tall ash trees; how impatiently I used to wait for the tender

young green on the return of spring; there was the gloomy house, built

against a sand-quarry, the unavoidable collapse of which had lowered

the rents.

But in spite of the feeling of depression caused by so many melancholy

memories, I pulled myself together, entered, walked upstairs and rang

the bell. As I stood listening to the sound echoing through the house,

I had a feeling that my father would presently come and open the door

to me. But a servant appeared and disappeared again to announce me. A

few seconds afterwards I stood face to face with the Baron, who gave me

a hearty welcome. He was a man of about thirty years of age, tall and

strong, with a noble carriage and the perfect manners of a gentleman.

His full, slightly swollen face was animated by a pair of intensely

sad blue eyes. The smile on his lips was for ever giving way to an

expression of extraordinary bitterness, which spoke of disappointments,

plans miscarried, illusions fled.

The drawing-room, once upon a time our dining-room, was not furnished

in any particular style. The Baron, who bore the name of a famous

general, a Turenne or Condé of our country, had filled it with the

portraits of his ancestors, dating back to the Thirty Years' War;

heroes in white cuirasses with wigs of the time of Louis XIV. Amongst

them hung landscapes of the Düsseldorf school of painting. Pieces of

old furniture, restored and gilded, stood side by side with chairs and

easy-chairs of a more modern date. The whole room seemed to breathe an

atmosphere of peace and domestic love.

Presently the Baroness joined us; she was charming, almost cordial,

simple and kind. But there was a certain stiffness in her manner,

a suspicion of embarrassment which chilled me until I discovered a

reason for it in the sound of voices which came from an adjacent room.

I concluded that she had other visitors, and apologised for having

called at an inconvenient time. They were playing whist in the next

room, and I was forthwith introduced to four members of the family: the

gentleman-in-waiting, a retired captain, and the Baroness's mother and

aunt.

As soon as the old people had sat down again to play, we younger ones

began to talk. The Baron mentioned his great love of painting. A

scholarship, granted him by the late King Charles XV, had enabled him

to pursue his studies at Düsseldorf. This fact constituted a point of

contact between us, for I had had a scholarship from the same king,

only in my case it had been granted for literary purposes.

We discussed painting, the theatre, the personality of our patron.

But gradually the flow of conversation ceased, largely checked by the

whist players, who joined in every now and then, laying rude fingers on

sensitive spots, tearing open scarcely healed wounds. I began to feel

ill at ease in this heterogeneous society and rose to go. The Baron and

his wife, who accompanied me to the door, dropped their constrained

manner as soon as they were out of earshot of the old people. They

asked me to a friendly dinner on the following Saturday, and after a

little chat in the passage we parted as old friends.

II

Punctually at three o'clock on the following Saturday I started

for the house in North Avenue. I was received like an old friend

and unhesitatingly admitted to the intimacies of the home. Mutual

confidences added a delightful flavour to the meal. The Baron, who was

dissatisfied with his position, belonged to a group of malcontents

which had arisen under the new rule of King Oscar. Jealous of the great

popularity which his late brother had enjoyed, the new ruler took

pains to neglect all plans fostered by his predecessor. The friends

of the old order, its frank joviality, its toleration and progressive

endeavour, stood aside, therefore, and formed an intellectual

opposition without, however, taking any part in party politics. While

we sat, evoking the ghosts of the past, our hearts were drawn together.

All prejudices nursed in the heart of the commoner against the

aristocracy, which since the parliamentary reform of 1865 had gradually

receded more and more into the background, vanished and gave place to a

feeling of sympathy for the fallen stars.

The Baroness, a native of Finland, was a new-comer in Sweden, and not

sufficiently informed to take part in our conversation. But as soon as

dinner was over she went to the piano and began to sing, and both the

Baron and I discovered that we possessed an hitherto unsuspected talent

for the duets of Wennerberg.

The hours passed rapidly.

We amused ourselves by casting the parts and reading a short play

which had just been played at the Royal Theatre.

But suddenly our spirits flagged and the inevitable pause ensued; that

awkward pause which is sure to occur after exhaustive efforts to shine

and make conquests. Again the memories of the past oppressed me and I

grew silent.

"What's the matter?" asked the Baroness.

"There are ghosts in this house," I replied, trying to account for my

silence. "Ages ago I lived here--yes, yes, ages ago, for I am very old."

"Can't we drive away those ghosts?" she asked, looking at me with a

bewitching expression, full of motherly tenderness.

"I'm afraid we can't; that's the privilege of some one else," laughed

the Baron; "she alone can banish the gloomy thoughts. Come now, you are

engaged to Miss Selma?"

"No, you are mistaken, Baron; it was love's labour lost."

"What! is she bound to some one else?" asked the Baron, scrutinising my

face.

"I think so."

"Oh, I'm sorry! That girl's a treasure. And I'm certain that she is

fond of you."

And forthwith the three of us began to rail against the unfortunate

singer, accusing him of attempting to compel a woman to marry him

against her will. The Baroness tried to comfort me by insisting that

things were bound to come right in the end, and promised to intercede

for me on her next trip to Finland, which was to take place very

shortly.

"No one shall succeed," she assured me, with an angry flash in her

eyes, "in forcing that dear girl into a marriage of which her heart

doesn't approve."

It was seven o'clock as I rose to go. But they pressed me so eagerly to

spend the evening with them that I almost suspected them of being bored

in each other's company, although they had only been married for three

years, and Heaven had blessed their union with a dear little girl. They

told me that they expected a cousin, and were anxious that I should

meet her and tell them what I thought of her.

While we were still talking, a letter was handed to the Baron. He tore

it open, read it hastily, and, with a muttered exclamation, handed it

to his wife.

"Incredible!" she exclaimed, glancing at the contents, and, after a

questioning look at her husband, she continued: "She's my own cousin,

you know, and her parents won't permit her to stay at our house because

people have been gossiping."

"It's preposterous!" exclaimed the Baron. "A mere child, pretty,

innocent, unhappy at home, who likes being with us, her near relatives

... and people gossiping! Bah!"

Did a sceptic smile betray me? His remark was followed by a dead

silence, a certain confusion, badly concealed under an invitation to

take a turn round the garden.

I left after supper, about ten o'clock, and no sooner had I crossed the

threshold than I began to ponder on the happenings of that eventful day.

In spite of every appearance of happiness, and notwithstanding their

evident affection, I felt convinced that my friends harboured a very

formidable skeleton in their cupboard. Their wistful eyes, their fits

of absent-mindedness, something unspoken, but felt, pointed to a hidden

grief, to secrets, the discovery of which I dreaded.

Why in the world, I asked myself, do they live so quietly, voluntary

exiles in a wretched suburb? They were like two shipwrecked people in

their eagerness to pour out their hearts to the first comer.

The Baroness in particular perplexed me. I tried to call up

her picture, but was confused by the wealth of contradictory

characteristics which I had discovered in her, and from which I had to

choose. Kindhearted, amiable, brusque, enthusiastic, communicative and

reserved, cold and excitable, she seemed to be full of whims, brooding

over ambitious dreams. She was neither commonplace nor clever, but she

impressed people. Of Byzantine slenderness, which allowed her dress

to fall in simple, noble folds, like the dress of a St. Cecilia, her

body was of bewitching proportions, her wrists and ankles exquisitely

beautiful. Every now and then the pale, somewhat rigid features of her

little face warmed into life and sparkled with infectious gaiety.

It was difficult to say who was master in the house. He, the soldier,

accustomed to command, but burdened with a weak constitution, seemed

submissive, more, I thought, from indifference than want of will-power.

They were certainly on friendly terms, but there was none of the

ecstasy of young love. When I made their acquaintance they were

delighted to rejuvenate themselves by calling up the memories of the

past before a third person. In studying them more closely, I became

convinced that they lived on relics, bored each other, and the frequent

invitations which I received after my first call proved that my

conclusions were correct.

* * * * *

On the eve of the Baroness's departure for Finland I called on her to

say good-bye. It was a lovely evening in June. The moment I entered the

courtyard I caught sight of her behind the garden railings; she was

standing in a shrubbery of aristolochias, and the transcendent beauty

of her appearance came upon me almost with a shock. She was dressed in

a white _piqué_ dress, richly embroidered, the masterpiece of a Russian

serf; her chain, brooches and bangles of alabaster seemed to throw

a soft light over her, like lamplight falling through an opalescent

globe. The broad green leaves threw death-like hues on her pale face,

with its shining coal-black eyes.

I was shaken, utterly confused, as if I were gazing at a vision. The

instinct of worship, latent in my heart, awoke, and with it the desire

to proclaim my adoration. The void which had once been filled by

religion ached no longer; the yearning to adore had reappeared under

a new form. God was deposed, but His place was taken by woman, woman

who was both virgin and mother; when I looked at the little girl by

her side, I could not understand how that birth had been possible, for

the relationship between her and her husband seemed to put all sexual

intercourse out of the question; their union appeared essentially

spiritual. Henceforth this woman represented to me a soul incarnate, a

soul pure and unapproachable, clothed with one of those radiant bodies

which, according to the Scriptures, clothe the souls of the dead. I

worshipped her--I could not help worshipping her. I worshipped her just

as she was, as she appeared to me at that moment, as mother and wife;

wife of a particular husband, mother of a particular child. Without her

husband my longing to worship could not have been satisfied, for, I

said to myself, she would then be a widow, and should I still worship

her as such? Perhaps if she were mine--my wife?... No! the thought was

unthinkable. And, moreover, married to me, she would no longer be the

wife of this particular man, the mother of this particular child, the

mistress of this particular house. Such as she was I adored her, I

would not have her otherwise.

Was it because of the melancholy recollections which the house always

awakened in me, or was it because of the instincts of the commoner who

never fails to admire the upper classes, the purer blood?--a feeling

which would die on the day on which she stood less high--the adoration

which I had conceived for her resembled in every point the religion

from which I had just emancipated myself. I wanted to adore, I was

longing to sacrifice myself, to suffer without hope of any other reward

but the ecstasies of worship, self-sacrifice and suffering.

I constituted myself her guardian angel. I wanted to watch over her,

lest the power of my love should sweep her off her feet and engulf her.

I carefully avoided being alone with her, so that no familiarity which

her husband might resent should creep in between us.

But to-day, on the eve of her departure, I found her alone in the

shrubbery. We exchanged a few commonplaces. But presently my excitement

rose to such a pitch that it communicated itself to her. Gazing at her

with burning eyes, I saw the desire to confide in me forming itself in

her heart. She told me that the thought of a separation from husband

and child, however short, made her miserable. She implored me to spend

as much of my leisure with them as I could, and not to forget her while

she was looking after my interests in Finland.

"You love her very much--with all your heart, don't you?" she asked,

looking at me steadfastly.

"Can you ask?" I replied, depressed by the painful lie.

For I had no longer any doubt that my May dream had been nothing more

than a fancy, a whim, a mere pastime.

Afraid of polluting her with my passion, fearful of entangling her

against my will in the net of my emotions, intending to protect her

against myself, I dropped the perilous subject and asked after her

husband. She pulled a face, evidently interpreting my somewhat strange

behaviour quite correctly. Perhaps, also--the suspicion rose in my mind

much later--he found pleasure in the thought that her beauty confused

me. Or, maybe, she was conscious at that moment of the terrible power

she had acquired over me, a Joseph whose coldness was only assumed,

whose chastity was enforced.

"I'm boring you," she said smilingly; "I'd better call for

reinforcements."

And with a clear voice she called to her husband, who was in his room

upstairs.

The window was thrown open and the Baron appeared, a friendly smile on

his open countenance. A few minutes later he joined us in the garden.

He was wearing the handsome uniform of the Guards and looked very

distinguished. With his dark-blue tunic, embroidered in yellow and

silver, his tall, well-knit figure, he formed an exquisite contrast

to the slender woman in white who stood at his side. They were really

a strikingly handsome couple; the charms of the one served but to

heighten those of the other. The sight of them was an artistic treat, a

brilliant spectacle.

After dinner the Baron proposed that we should accompany his wife on

the steamer as far as the last customs station. This proposal, to

which I gladly agreed, seemed to give the Baroness a great deal of

pleasure; she was delighted with the prospect of admiring the Stockholm

Archipelago from the deck of a steamer on a beautiful summer night.

At ten o'clock on the following evening we met on board the steamer a

short time before the hour of starting. It was a clear night; the sky

was a blaze of brilliant orange, the sea lay before us, calm and blue.

We slowly steamed past the wooded shores, in a light which was neither

day nor night, but had the qualities of both, and impressed the

beholder as being sunrise and sunset at the same time.

After midnight our enthusiasm, which had been kept alive by the

constantly changing panorama and the memories which it called up,

cooled a little. We were fighting against an overwhelming desire to

sleep. The early dawn found us with pallid faces, shivering in the

morning breeze. We suddenly became sentimental; we swore eternal

friendship; it was fate that had thrown us together--we dimly discerned

that fatal bond which was to connect our lives in the future. I was

beginning to look haggard, for I had not yet regained my strength after

an attack of intermittent fever; they treated me like an ailing child;

the Baroness wrapped her rug round me and made me drink some wine,

all the while talking to me with a mother's tenderness. I let them

have their way. I was almost delirious with want of sleep; my pent-up

feelings overflowed; this womanly tenderness, the secret of which none

but a motherly woman knows, was a new experience to me. I poured out

on her a deluge of respectful homage; over-excited by sleeplessness, I

became lightheaded, and gave the reins to my poetical imagination.

The wild hallucinations of the sleepless night took shape, vague,

mystic, unsubstantial; the power of my suppressed talent revealed

itself in light visions. I spoke for hours, without interruption,

drawing inspiration from two pairs of eyes, which gazed at me

fascinated. I felt as if my frail body was being consumed by the

burning fire of my imagination. I lost all sense of my corporeal

presence.

Suddenly the sun rose, the myriads of islets which seem to be swimming

in the bay appeared enveloped in flames; the branches of the pines

glowed like copper, the slender needles yellow as sulphur; the

window-panes of the cottages, dotted along the shore, sparkled like

golden mirrors; the columns of smoke rising from the chimneys indicated

that breakfasts were being cooked; the fishing-boats were setting

sail to bring in the outspread nets; the seagulls, scenting the small

herring underneath the dark green waves, were screaming themselves

hoarse. But on the steamer absolute silence reigned. The travellers

were still fast asleep in their cabins, we alone were on deck. The

captain, heavy with sleep, was watching us from the bridge, wondering,

no doubt, what we could be talking about.

At three o'clock in the morning the pilot cutter appeared from behind a

neck of land, and parting was imminent.

Only a few of the larger islands now separated us from the open sea;

the swell of the ocean was already distinctly discernible; we could

hear the roar of the huge breakers on the steep cliffs at the extreme

end of the land.

The time to say good-bye had arrived. They kissed one another, he and

she, full of painful agitation. She took my hand in hers and pressed it

passionately, her eyes full of tears; she begged her husband to take

care of me, and implored me to comfort him during her absence.

I bowed, I kissed her hand without a thought of the proprieties,

oblivious of the fact that I was betraying my secret.

The engines stopped, the steamer slowed down, the pilot took up his

position between decks. Two steps towards the accommodation ladder--I

descended, and found myself at the side of the Baron in the pilot

cutter.

The steamer towered above our heads. Leaning against the rail, the

Baroness looked down upon us with a sad smile, her innocent eyes

brimming over with tears. The propeller slowly began to move, the giant

got under way again, her Russian flag fluttering in the breeze. We were

tossing on the rolling waves, waving our handkerchiefs. The little face

grew smaller and smaller, the delicate features were blotted out, two

great eyes only remained gazing at us fixedly, and presently they too

were swallowed up like the rest. Another moment and only a fluttering

bluish veil, attached to a Japanese hat, was visible, and a waving

white handkerchief; then only a white spot, a tiny white dot; now

nothing but the unwieldy giant, wrapped in grey smoke....

We went ashore at the Pilots and Customs Station, a popular summer

resort. The village was still asleep; not a soul was on the

landing-stage, and we turned and watched the steamer altering her

course to starboard, and disappearing behind the rocky island which

formed the last bulwark against the sea.

As the steamer disappeared the Baron leaned against my shoulder, and I

fancied I could hear a sob; thus we stood for a while without speaking

a word.

Was this excessive grief caused by sleeplessness--by the exhaustion

following a long vigil? Had he a presentiment of misfortune, or was it

merely the pain of parting with his wife? I couldn't say.

We went to the village, depressed and taciturn, in the hope of getting

some breakfast. But the inn was not yet astir. We walked through the

street and looked at the closed doors, the drawn blinds. Beyond the

village we came upon an isolated spot with a quiet pool. The water was

clear and transparent, and tempted us to bathe our eyes. I produced

a little case and took from it a clean handkerchief, a toothbrush, a

piece of soap and a bottle of eau de Cologne. The Baron laughed at my

fastidiousness, but, nevertheless, availed himself gratefully of the

chance of a hasty toilet, borrowing from me the necessary implements.

On returning to the village I noticed the smell of coal-smoke coming

from the direction of the alder trees on the shore. I implied by a

gesture that this was a last farewell greeting brought by the wind from

the steamer. But the Baron pretended not to understand my meaning.

He was a distressing sight at breakfast, with his big, sleepy head

sunk on his breast, and his swollen features. Both of us suffered

from self-consciousness; he was in a gloomy mood and kept up an

obstinate silence. Once he seized my hand and apologised for his

absent-mindedness, but almost directly afterwards he relapsed into

gloom. I made every effort to rouse him, but in vain; we were out of

harmony, the tie between us was broken. An expression of coarseness

and vulgarity had stolen into his face, usually so frank and pleasant.

The reflection of the charm, the living beauty of his beloved wife had

vanished; the uncouth man had appeared.

I was unable to guess at his thoughts. Did he suspect my feelings? To

judge from his behaviour he must have been a prey to very conflicting

emotions, for at one minute he pressed my hand, calling me his best,

his only friend, at the next he seemed oblivious of my presence.

I discovered with a feeling of dismay that we only lived in her and for

her. Since our sun had set we seemed to have lost all individuality.

I determined to shake him off as soon as we got back to town, but he

held on to me, entreating me to accompany him to his house.

When we entered the deserted home, we felt as if we had entered a

chamber of death. A moisture came into our eyes.

Full of confusion and embarrassment, I did not know what to do.

"It's too absurd," I said at last, laughing at myself; "here are a

captain of the Guards and a royal secretary whimpering like----

"It's a relief," he interrupted me.

He sent for his little girl, but her presence only aggravated the

bitter feeling of regret at our loss.

It was now nine o'clock in the morning. He had come to the end of his

powers of endurance, and invited me to take a nap on the sofa while he

went to lie down on his bed. He put a cushion under my head, covered

me with his military cloak and wished me a sound sleep, thanking me

cordially for having taken compassion on his loneliness. His brotherly

kindness was like an echo of his wife's tenderness; she seemed to fill

his thoughts completely.

I sank into a deep sleep, dimly aware, at the moment before losing

consciousness, of his huge form stealing to my improvised couch with a

murmured question as to whether I was quite comfortable.

It was noon when I awoke. He was already up. He hated the idea of being

alone, and proposed that we should breakfast together in the Park. I

readily fell in with his suggestion.

We spent the day together, talking about all sorts of things, but every

subject led us back to her on whose life our own lives seemed to have

been grafted.

III

I spent the two following days alone, yearning for the solitude of my

library, the cellars of which, once the sculpture rooms of the museum,

suited my mood. The large room, built in the rococo style and looking

on to the "Lions' Court," contained the manuscripts. I spent a great

deal of time there, reading at haphazard anything which seemed old

enough to draw my attention from recent events. But the more I read,

the more the present melted into the past, and Queen Christine's

letters, yellow with age, whispered into my ears words of love from the

Baroness.

To avoid the company of inquisitive friends, I shunned my usual

restaurant. I could not bear the thought of degrading my tongue by

confessing my new faith before those scoffers; they should never know.

I was jealous of my own personality, which was henceforth consecrated

to her only. As I went through the streets, I had a vision of acolites

walking before me, their tinkling bells announcing to the passers-by

the approach of the Holy of Holies enshrined in the monstrance of my

heart. I imagined myself in mourning, deep mourning for a queen, and

longed to bid the crowd bare their heads at the passing of my stillborn

love, which had no chance of ever quickening into life.

On the third day I was roused from my lethargy, by the rolling of drums

and the mournful strains of Chopin's Funeral March. I rushed to the

window and noticed the captain marching by at the head of his Guards.

He looked up at my window and acknowledged my presence with a nod and a

smile. The band was playing his wife's favourite piece, at his orders,

and the unsuspicious musicians had no inkling that they played it in

her honour for him and for me, and before an even less auspicious

audience.

Half-an-hour later the Baron called for me at the library. I took him

through the passages in the basement, overcrowded with cupboards and

shelves, into the manuscript room. He looked cheerful, and at once

communicated to me the contents of a letter he had received from his

wife. All was going on well. She had enclosed a note for me. I devoured

it with my eyes, trying hard to hide my excitement. She thanked me

frankly and graciously for having looked after "her old man"; she said

she had felt flattered by my evident grief at parting, and added that

she was staying with my "guardian angel," to whom she was getting more

and more attached. She expressed great admiration for her character,

and, in conclusion, held out hopes of a happy ending. That was all.

So she was in love with me, this "guardian angel" of mine! This

monster! The very thought of her now filled me with horror. I was

compelled to act the part of a lover against my will; I was condemned

to play an abominable farce, perhaps all my life long. The truth of the

old adage that one cannot play with fire without burning one's fingers

came home to me with terrible force. Caught in my own trap, I pictured

to myself in my wrath the detestable creature who had forced herself

upon me: she had the eyes of a Mongolian, a sallow face, red arms.

With angry satisfaction I recalled her seductive ways, her suspicious

behaviour, which more than once had set my friends wondering what

species of woman it was with whom I was seen so constantly walking

about the parks and suburbs.

The remembrance of her tricks, her attentions, her flattering tongue,

gave me a kind of vicious pleasure. I remembered a way she had of

pulling out her watch and showing a little bit of dainty underclothing.

I remembered a certain Sunday in the Park. We were strolling along the

broad avenues when she all at once proposed that we should walk through

the shrubbery. Her proposal irritated me, for the shrubbery had an evil

reputation, but she answered all my objections with a short "Bother

propriety!"

She wanted to gather anemones under the hazel bushes. She left me

standing in the avenue and disappeared behind the shrubs. I followed,

confused. She sat down in a sheltered spot under an alder tree,

spreading out her skirts and showing off her feet, which were small

but disfigured by bunions. An uncomfortable silence fell between

us. I thought of the old maids of Corinth.... She looked at me with

an expression of childlike innocence ... she was safe from me, her

very plainness saved her, and, moreover, I took no pleasure in easy

conquests.

Every one of these details, which I had always put away from me as

odious, came into my mind and oppressed me, now that there seemed a

prospect of winning her. I prayed fervently for the comedian's success.

But I had to be patient and hide my feelings.

While I was reading his wife's note, the Baron sat down at the table,

which was littered with old books and documents. He was playing with

his carved ivory baton, absent-mindedly, as if he were conscious of

his inferiority in literary matters. He defeated all my attempts

to interest him in my work with an indifferent, "Yes, yes, very

interesting!"

Abashed by the evidences of his rank, his neckpiece, the sash, the

brilliant uniform, I endeavoured to readjust the balance by showing off

my knowledge. But I only succeeded in making him feel uncomfortable.

The sword versus the pen! Down with the aristocrat, up with the

commoner! Did the woman, when later on she chose the father of

her children from the aristocracy of the brain, see the future,

clairvoyantly, without being conscious of it?

In spite of his constant efforts to treat me as his equal, the Baron,

without admitting it even to himself, was always constrained in my

presence. At times he paid due deference to my superior knowledge,

tacitly acknowledging his inferiority to me in certain respects; at

other times he would ride the high horse; then a word from the Baroness

was sufficient to bring him to his senses. In his wife's eyes the

inherited coat of arms counted for very little, and the dusty coat

of the man of letters completely eclipsed the full-dress uniform of

the captain. Had he not been himself aware of this when he donned a

painter's blouse and entered the studio at Düsseldorf as the least

of all the pupils? In all probability he had, but still there always

remained a certain refinement, an inherited tradition, and he was by no

means free from the jealous hatred which exists between students and

officers.

For the moment I was necessary to him, as I shared his sorrow, and

therefore he invited me to dine with him.

After the coffee he suggested that we should both write to the

Baroness. He brought me paper and pen, and compelled me to write to

her, against my will; I racked my brain for platitudes under which to

hide the thoughts of my heart.

When I had finished my letter I handed it to the Baron and asked him to

read it.

"I never read other people's letters," he answered, with hypocritical

pride.

"And I never write to another man's wife without that man's full

knowledge of the correspondence."

He glanced at my letter, and, with an enigmatical smile, enclosed it in

his own.

I saw nothing of him during the rest of the week, until I met him one

evening at a street corner. He seemed very pleased to see me, and we

went into a café to have a chat.

He had just returned from the country, where he had spent a few days

with his wife's cousin. Without ever having met that charming person, I

was easily able to draw a mental picture of her from the traces of her

influence on the Baron's character. He had lost his haughtiness and his

melancholy. There was a gay, somewhat dissipated look on his face, and

he enriched his vocabulary by a few expressions of doubtful taste; even

the tone of his voice was altered.

"A weak mind," I said to myself, "swayed by every emotion; a blank

slate on which the lightest of women may write sense or folly,

according to her sweet will."

He behaved like the hero in comic opera; he joked, told funny tales

and was in boisterous spirits. His charm was gone with his uniform;

and when, after supper, slightly intoxicated, he suggested that we

should call on certain female friends of his, I thought him positively

repulsive. With the exception of the neckpiece, the sash and the

uniform, he really possessed no attractions whatever.

When his intoxication had reached its climax, he lost all sense

of shame and began to discuss the secrets of his married life. I

interrupted him indignantly and proposed that we should go home. He

assured me that his wife allowed him full license during her absence.

At first I thought this more than human, but later on it confirmed the

opinion I had formed of the Baroness's naturally frigid temperament. We

parted very early, and I returned to my room, my brain on fire with the

indiscreet disclosure which I had been made to listen to.

This woman, although apparently in love with her husband, after a union

of three years not only permitted him every freedom, but did so without

claiming the same right for herself. It was strange, unnatural, like

love without jealousy, light without shade. No! it was impossible;

there must be another cause. He had told me the Baroness was naturally

cold. That, too, seemed strange. Or was she really an embodiment of

the virgin mother, such as I had already dimly divined? And was not

chastity, purity of the soul, so closely linked to refinement of

manners, a characteristic, an attribute of a superior race? I had not

been deceived, then, in my youthful meditations when a young girl

roused my admiration without in the least exciting my senses. Beautiful

childish dreams! Charming ignorance of woman, that problem unspeakably

more complex than a bachelor ever dreams of!

At last the Baroness returned, radiant with health; the memories

awakened by meeting again the friends of her girlhood seemed to have

rejuvenated her.

"Here is the dove with the olive branch," she said, handing me a letter

from my so-called sweetheart.

With anything but genuine enjoyment I waded through the presumptuous

twaddle, the effusions of a heartless blue-stocking, anxious to win

independence by marriage--any marriage, and while I was reading I made

up my mind to put an end to the matter.

"Do you know for certain," I asked the Baroness, "whether the lady is

engaged to the singer or not?"

"Yes and no."

"Has she given him her word?"

"No."

"Does she want to marry him?"

"No."

"Do her parents wish it?"

"No."

"Why is she so determined to marry him, then?"

"Because ... I don't know."

"Is she in love with me?"

"Perhaps she is."

"Then she is simply a husband-hunter. She has but one thought, to make

a bargain with the highest bidder. She doesn't know what love is."

"What is love?"

"A passion stronger than all others, a force of nature absolutely

irresistible, something akin to thunder, to rising floods, a waterfall,

a storm----"

She gazed into my eyes, forgetting the reproaches which, in the

interest of her friend, had risen to the tip of her tongue.

"And is your love for her a force like that?" she asked. I had a strong

impulse to tell her everything.

But, supposing I did?... The bond between us would be broken, and,

without the lie which protected me from my criminal passion, I should

be lost.

Afraid of committing myself, I asked her to drop the subject. I said

that my cruel sweetheart was dead as far as I was concerned, and that

all that remained for me to do was to forget her.

The Baroness did her utmost to comfort me, but she did not cloak the

fact that I had a dangerous rival in the singer, who was on the spot

and in personal contact with his lady-love.

The Baron, evidently bored by our conversation, interrupted us

peevishly, telling us that we should end by burning our fingers.

"This meddling with other people's love affairs is utter folly!" he

exclaimed, almost rudely; the Baroness's face flushed with indignation.

I hastily changed the subject to avoid a scene.

The ball had been set rolling. The lie, originally a mere whim, grew.

Full of apprehension and shame, I told myself fairy tales which I ended

in believing. In them I played the part of the ill-starred lover, a

part which came easy enough, for with the exception of the object of my

tenderness, the fairy tales agreed in every detail with reality.

I was indeed caught in my own net. One day, on returning home, I found

"her" father's card. I returned his call at once. He was a little old

man, unpleasantly like his daughter, the caricature of a caricature.

He treated me in every way as he would his prospective son-in-law. He

inquired about my family, my income, my prospects. It was a regular

cross-examination. The matter threatened to become serious.

What was I to do? Hoping to divert his attention from me, I made myself

as insignificant as possible in his eyes. The reason of his visit to

Stockholm was obvious. Either he wanted to shake off the singer, whom

he disliked, or the lady had made up her mind to honour me with her

hand if an expert should approve of her bargain.

I showed myself from my most unpleasant side, avoided every opportunity

of meeting him, refused even an invitation to dinner from the Baroness;

I tired my unlucky would-be father-in-law out by giving him the slip

again and again, pleading urgent duty at the library, until I had

gained my purpose, and he departed before the appointed time.

Did my rival ever guess to whom he was indebted for his matrimonial

misery when he married his bride-elect? No doubt he never knew, and

proudly imagined that he had ousted me.

An incident which to some extent affected our destiny was the sudden

departure of the Baroness and her little daughter to the country. It

was in the beginning of August. For reasons of health she had chosen

Mariafred, a small village on the Lake of Mälar, where at the moment

the little cousin happened to be staying with her parents.

This hurried departure on the day after her home-coming struck me as

very extraordinary; but, as it was none of my business, I made no

comment. Three days passed, then the Baron wrote asking me to call. He

appeared to be restless, very nervous and strange. He told me that the

Baroness would be back almost immediately.

"Indeed!" I exclaimed, more astonished than I cared to show.

"Yes!... her nerves are upset, the climate doesn't suit her. She has

written me an unintelligible letter which frightens me. I have never

been able to understand her whims ... she gets all sorts of fantastic

ideas into her head. Just at present she imagines that you are angry

with her!"

"I!"

"It's too absurd!" he continued, "but don't take any notice of it

when she returns; she's ashamed of her moods; she's proud, and if she

thought you disapproved of her, she would only commit fresh follies."

"It has come at last," I said to myself; "the catastrophe is imminent!"

And from that moment my thoughts were bent on flight, for I had no

desire to figure as the hero of a romance of passion.

I refused the next invitation, making excuses which were badly invented

and wrongly understood. The result was a call from the Baron; he

asked me what I meant by my unfriendly conduct? I did not know what

explanation to give, and he took advantage of my embarrassment and

exacted a promise from me to join them in an excursion.

I found the Baroness looking ill and worn out; only the black eyes

in the livid face seemed alive and shone with unnatural brilliancy. I

was very reserved, spoke in indifferent tones and said as little as

possible.

On leaving the steamer, we went to a famous hotel where the Baron had

arranged to meet his uncle. The supper, which was served in the open,

was anything but gay. Before us spread the sinister lake, shut in by

gloomy mountains; above our heads waved the branches of the lime trees,

the blackened trunks of which were over a hundred years old.

We talked commonplaces, but our conversation was dull and soon

languished. I fancied that I could feel the after-effects of a quarrel

between my hosts, which had not yet been patched up and was on the

verge of a fresh outbreak. I ardently desired to avoid the storm, but,

unfortunately, uncle and nephew left the table to discuss business

matters. Now the mine would explode!

As soon as we were alone the Baroness leaned toward me and said

excitedly--

"Do you know that Gustav is angry with me for coming back unexpectedly?"

"I know nothing about it."

"Then you don't know that he'd been building on meeting my charming

cousin on his free Sundays?"

"My dear Baroness," I exclaimed, interrupting her, "if you want to

bring charges against your husband, hadn't you better do it in his

presence?"

... What had I done? It was brutal, this harsh, uncompromising rebuke,

flung into the face of a disloyal wife in defence of a member of my own

sex.

"How dare you!" she cried, amazed, changing colour. "You're insulting

me!"

"Yes, Baroness, I am insulting you."

All was over between us, for ever.

As soon as her husband returned she hastened towards him, as if

she were seeking protection from an enemy. The Baron noticed that

something was wrong, but he could not understand her excitement.

I left them at the landing-stage, pretending that I had to pay a visit

at one of the neighbouring villas.

I don't know how I got back to town. My legs seemed to carry a lifeless

body; the vital node was cut, I was a corpse walking along the streets.

Alone! I was alone again, without friends, without a family, without

anything to worship. It was impossible for me to recreate God. The

statue of the Madonna had fallen down; woman had shown herself behind

the beautiful image, woman, treacherous, faithless, with sharp claws!

When she attempted to make me her confidant, she was taking the first

step towards breaking her marriage vows; at that moment the hatred of

her sex was born in me. She had insulted the man and the sex in me, and

I took the part of her husband against her. Not that I flattered myself

with being a virtuous man, but in love man is never a thief, he only

takes what is given to him. It is woman who steals and sells herself.

The only time when she gives unselfishly is when she betrays her

husband. The prostitute sells herself, the young wife sells herself;

the faithless wife only gives to her lover that which she has stolen

from her husband.

But I had not desired this woman in any other way than as a friend.

Protected from me by her child, I had always seen her invested with the

insignia of motherhood. Always seeing her at the side of her husband, I

had never felt the slightest temptation to indulge in pleasures which

are gross in themselves, and ennobled only by entire and exclusive

possession.

I returned to my room annihilated, completely crushed, more lonely than

ever, for I had dropped my Bohemian friends from the very outset of my

relations with the Baroness.

IV

I occupied in those days a fairly large attic with two windows which

looked on the new harbour, the bay and the rocky heights of the

southern suburbs. Before the windows, on the roof, I had managed

to create a garden of tiny dimensions. Bengal roses, azaleas and

geraniums provided me in their turn with flowers for the secret cult

of my Madonna with the child. It had become a daily habit with me to

pull down the blinds towards the evening, arrange my flower-pots in a

semicircle, and place the picture of the Baroness, with the lamplight

full on it, amongst them. She was represented on this portrait as a

young mother, with somewhat severe, but deliciously pure features, her

delicate head crowned with a wealth of golden hair. She wore a light

dress which reached up to her chin and was finished off with a pleated

frill; her little daughter, dressed in white, was standing on a table

by the side of her, gazing at the beholder with pensive eyes. How many

letters "to my friends" had I not written before this portrait and sent

off on the following morning addressed to the Baron! These letters

were at that time the only channel into which I could pour my literary

aspirations, and my inmost soul was laid bare in them.

To open a career for the erratic, artistic soul of the Baroness, I had

tried to encourage her to seek an outlet for her poetic imagination

in literary work. I had provided her with the masterpieces of

all literatures, had taught her the first principles of literary

composition by furnishing endless summaries, commentaries and

analyses, to which I added advice and practical illustrations. She had

been only moderately interested, for she doubted her literary talent

from the outset. I told her that every educated person possessed the

ability to write at least a letter, and was therefore a poet or author

_in posse_. But it was all in vain; the passion for the stage had taken

firm hold of her obstinate brain. She insisted that she was a born

elocutionist, and, because her rank prevented her from following her

inclination and going on the stage (an ardently desired contingency),

she posed as a martyr, heedless of the disastrous consequences which

threatened to overtake her home life. Her husband sympathised with my

benevolent efforts, undertaken in the hope of saving the domestic peace

of the family from shipwreck. He was grateful, although he had not the

courage to take an active and personal interest in the matter. The

Baroness's opposition notwithstanding, I had continued my efforts and

urged her in every letter to break the fateful spell which held her,

and make an effort to write a poem, a drama, or a novel.

"Your life has been an eventful one," I said to her in one of my

letters; "why not make use of your own experience?" And, quoting from

Börne, I added, "Take paper and pen and be candid, and you are bound to

become an authoress."

"It's too painful to live an unhappy life all over again," she had

replied. "I want to find forgetfulness in art; I want to merge my

identity into characters different from my own."

I had never asked myself what it was that she wanted to forget. I knew

nothing of her past life. Did she shrink from allowing me to solve the

riddle? Was she afraid of handing me the key to her character? Was

she anxious to hide her true self behind the personalities of stage

heroines, or did she hope to increase her own magnitude by assuming the

identities of her superiors?

When I had come to the end of my arguments, I suggested that she should

make a start by translating the works of foreign authors; I told her

this would help to form her style and make her known to publishers.

"Is a translator well paid?" she asked.

"Fairly well," I replied, "if she knows her business."

"Perhaps you will think me mercenary," she continued, "but work for its

own sake doesn't attract me."

Like so many women of our time, she was seized with the mania of

earning her own living. The Baron made a grimace plainly indicative of

the fact that he would far rather see her taking an active interest

in the management of her house and servants, than contributing a few

shillings towards the expenses of a neglected home.

Since that day she had given me no peace, begging me to find her a good

book and a publisher.

I had done my utmost, and had succeeded in procuring for her two

quite short articles, destined for "Miscellaneous Items" in one of

the illustrated magazines, which did not, however, remunerate its

contributors. For a whole week I heard nothing of the work, which

could easily have been accomplished in a couple of hours. She lost her

temper when the Baron teasingly called her a sluggard; in fact, she was

so angry that I saw he had touched a very sore spot, and stopped all

further allusions, afraid of making serious mischief between the couple.

This was how matters stood at the time of my rupture with her.

... I sat in my attic with her letters before me on the table. As I

re-read them, one after the other, my heart ached for her. She was a

soul in torment, a power wasted, a voice unable to make itself heard,

just like myself. This was the secret of our mutual sympathy. I

suffered through her as if she were a diseased organ grafted on my

sick soul, which had itself become too blunted and dull to sense the

pleasure of exquisite pain.

And what had she done that I should deprive her of my sympathy? In a

moment of jealousy she had complained to me of her unhappy marriage.

And I had repulsed her, I had spoken harshly to her, when I ought to

have reasoned with her; it would not have been an impossible task, for

hadn't her husband told me that she allowed him every licence?

I was seized with an immense compassion for her; no doubt, in her

soul lay, shrouded in profound mystery, fateful secrets, physical and

psychical aberrations. It seemed to me that I should be guilty of

a terrible wrong if I let her come to ruin. When my depression had

reached its climax I began a letter to her, asking her to forgive me.

I begged her to forget what had happened, and tried to explain the

painful incident by a misunderstanding on my part. But the words would

not come, my pen refused to obey me. Worn out with fatigue, I threw

myself on my bed.

The following morning was warm and cloudy, a typical August morning.

At eight o'clock I went to the library, melancholy and depressed. As I

had a key, I was able to let myself in and spend three hours in perfect

solitude before the general public began to arrive. I wandered through

the passages, between rows of books on either side, in that exquisite

solitude which is not loneliness, in close communion with the great

thinkers of all times. Taking out a volume here and there, I tried to

fix my mind on some definite subject in order to forget the painful

scene of yesterday. But I could not banish the desecrated image of the

fallen Madonna from my mind. When I raised my eyes from the pages,

which I had read without understanding a word, I seemed to see her, as

in a vision, coming down the spiral staircase, which wound in endless

perspective at the back of the galleries. She lifted the straight folds

of her blue dress, showing her perfect feet and slender ankles, looking

at me furtively, with a sidelong glance, tempting me to the betrayal

of her husband, soliciting me with that treacherous and voluptuous

smile which I had yesterday seen for the first time. The apparition

awakened all the sensuality which had lain dormant in my heart for the

last three months, for the pure atmosphere which surrounded her had

kept away from me all lascivious thoughts. Now all the passion which

burnt in me concentrated itself on a single object. I desired her. My

imagination painted for me the exquisite beauty of her white limbs. I

selected a work on art which contained illustrations of all the famous

sculptures in the Italian museums, hoping to discover this woman's

formula by systematic scientific research. I wanted to find out species

and genus to which she belonged. I had plenty to choose from.

Was she Venus, full-bosomed and broad-hipped, the normal woman, who

awaits her lover, sure of her triumphant beauty?

No!

Juno, then, the fertile mother, who keeps her regal charms for the

marriage-bed?

By no means!

Minerva, the blue-stocking, the old maid, who hides her flat bosom

under a coat of mail?

On no account!

Diana then, the pale goddess of night, fearful of the sun, cruel in her

enforced chastity, more boy than girl, modest because she needs must be

so--Diana, who could not forgive Actæon for having watched her while

bathing? Was she Diana? The species, perhaps, but not the genus!

The future will speak the last word! With that delicate body, those

exquisite limbs, that sweet face, that proud smile, that modestly

veiled bosom, could she be yearning for blood and forbidden fruit?

Diana? Yes, unmistakably Diana!

I continued my research; I looked through a number of publications on

art stored up in this incomparable treasure-house of the State, so as

to study the various representations of the chaste goddess.

I compared; like a scientist, I proved my point, again and again

rushing from one end of the huge building to the other to find the

volumes to which I was being referred.

The striking of a clock recalled me from the world of my dreams; my

colleagues were beginning to arrive, and I had to enter on my daily

duties.

I decided to spend the evening at the club with my friends. On entering

the laboratory, I was greeted with deafening acclamations, which raised

my spirits. The centre of the room was occupied by a table dressed

like an altar, in the middle of which stood a skull and a large bottle

of cyanide of potassium. An open Bible, stained with punch spots, lay

beside the skull. Surgical instruments served as bookmarkers. A number

of punch-glasses were arranged in a circle all round. Instead of a

ladle a retort was used for filling the glasses. My friends were on the

verge of intoxication. One of them offered me a glass bowl containing

half-a-pint of the fiery drink, and I emptied it at one gulp. All the

members shouted the customary "Curse it!" I responded by singing the

song of the ne'er-do-wells--

Deep potations

And flirtations

Are life's only end and aim ...

After this prelude an infernal row arose, and, amid shouts of applause,

I delivered myself of a stream of vulgar platitudes, abusing and

insulting women in high-flown verses, mixed with anatomical terms.

Intoxicated with the coarse suggestions, the vulgar profanation, I

surpassed myself in heaping insults on the head of my Madonna. It

was the morbid result of my unsatisfied longing. My hatred for the

treacherous idol broke out with such virulence that it afforded me a

sort of bitter comfort. My messmates, poor devils, acquainted with love

in its lowest aspect only, listened eagerly to my vile denunciations of

a lady of rank, who was utterly beyond their reach.

The drunkenness increased. The sound of men's voices delighted my ears

after I had passed three months amid sentimental whining, mock modesty

and hypocritical innocence. I felt as if I had torn off the mask,

thrown back the veil under which Tartuffe concealed his cupidity. In

imagination I saw the adored woman indulging every whim and caprice,

merely to escape the boredom of a dull existence. All my insults, my

infamous invectives and abuse I addressed to her, furious with the

power in me which successfully strove against my committing a crime.

At this moment the laboratory appeared to me to be a hallucination of

my over-excited brain, the temple of monstrous orgies in which all

the senses participated. The bottles on the shelves gleamed in all

the colours of the rainbow: the deep purple of red lead; the orange

of potash, the yellow of sulphur, the green of verdigris, the blue of

vitriol. The atmosphere was thick with tobacco smoke; the smell of

the lemons, used in brewing the punch, called up visions of happier

countries. The piano, intentionally out of tune and badly treated,

groaned Beethoven's march in a manner which made it unrecognisable. The

pallid faces of the revellers see-sawed in the blue-black smoke which

rose from, the pipes. The lieutenant's sash, the black beard of the

doctor of philosophy, the physician's embroidered shirt front, the

skull with its empty sockets; the noise, the disorder, the abominable

discords, the lewd images evoked, bewildered and confused my maddened

brain, when suddenly, with one accord, there arose a cry uttered by

many voices--

"To the women, you men!"

The whole assembly broke into the song--

Deep potations

And flirtations

Are life's only end and aim ...

Hats and overcoats were donned, and the whole horde trooped out.

Half-an-hour later we had arrived at our destination. The fires in

the huge stoves spluttered and crackled, stout was ordered, and the

saturnalias, which rendered the remainder of the night hideous, began.

V

When I awoke on the following morning in my own bed in broad daylight,

I was surprised to find that I had regained complete mastery over

myself. Every trace of unhealthy sentimentality had disappeared; the

cult of the Madonna had been forgotten in the excesses of the night. I

looked upon my fantastic love as a weakness of the spirit or the flesh,

which at the moment appeared to me to be one and the same thing.

After I had had a cold bath and eaten some breakfast, I returned to my

daily duties, content that the whole matter was at an end. I plunged

into my work, and the hours passed rapidly.

It was half-past twelve when the porter announced the Baron.

"Is it possible?" I said to myself, "and I had been under the

impression that the incident was closed!"

I prepared myself for a scene.

The Baron, radiant with mirth and happiness, squeezed my hand

affectionately. He had come to ask me to join in another excursion

by steamer, and see the amateur theatricals at Södertälje, a small

watering-place.

I declined politely, pleading urgent business.

"My wife," he recommenced, "would be very pleased if you could manage

to come.... Moreover, Baby will be one of the party...." Baby, the

much-discussed cousin....

He went on urging me in a manner at once irresistible and pathetic,

looking at me with eyes so full of melancholy that I felt myself

weakening. But instead of frankly accepting his invitation, I replied

with a question--

"The Baroness is quite well?"

"She wasn't very well yesterday; in fact, she was really ill, but she

is better since this morning. My dear fellow," he added after a slight

pause, "what passed between you the night before last at Nacka? My wife

says that you had a misunderstanding, and that you are angry with her

without any reason."

"Really," I answered, a little taken aback, "I don't know myself.

Perhaps I had a little too much to drink. I forgot myself."

"Let's forget all about it then, will you?" he replied briskly, "and

let us be friends as before. Women are often strangely touchy, as you

know. It's all right, then; you'll come, won't you? To-day at four.

Remember, we are counting on you...."

I had consented!...

Unfathomable enigma! A misunderstanding!... But she had been ill!...

Ill with fear ... with anger ... with....

The fact that the little unknown cousin was about to appear upon the

scene added a new interest, and with a beating heart I went on board

the steamer at four o'clock, as had been arranged.

The Baroness greeted me with sisterly kindness.

"You're not angry with me because of my unkind words?" she began. "I'm

very excitable...."

"Don't let us speak about it," I replied, trying to find her a seat

behind the bridge.

"Mr. Axel ... Miss Baby!..."

The Baron was introducing us. I was looking at a girl of about

eighteen, of the soubrette type, exactly what I had imagined. She

was small, very ordinary-looking, dressed simply, but with a certain

striving after elegance.

But the Baroness! Pale as death, with hollow cheeks, she looked more

fragile than ever. Her bangles jingled at her wrists; her slender neck

rose from her collar, plainly-showing the blue arteries winding towards

the ears which, owing to the careless way in which she had arranged her

hair, stood out from her head more than usual. She was badly dressed,

too. The colours of her frock were crude, and did not blend. I could

not help thinking that she was downright plain, and, as I looked at

her, my heart was filled with compassion, and I cursed my recent

conduct towards her. This woman a coquette? She was a saint, a martyr,

bearing undeserved sorrow.

The steamer started. The lovely August evening on the Lake of Mälar

tempted one to peaceful dreams.

Was it accidental or intended? The little cousin and the Baron were

sitting side by side at a distance sufficiently great to prevent our

overhearing each other. Leaning towards her, he talked and laughed

incessantly, with the gay, rejuvenated face of an accepted lover.

From time to time he looked at us, slyly, and we nodded and smiled back.

"A jolly girl, the little one, isn't she?" remarked the Baroness.

"It seems so," I answered, uncertain how to take her remark.

"She knows how to cheer up my melancholy husband. I don't possess that

gift," she added, with a frank and kindly smile at the group.

And as she spoke the lines of her face betrayed suppressed sorrow,

tears held back, superhuman resignation; across her features glided,

cloud-like, those incomprehensible reflections of kindness, resignation

and self-denial, common to pregnant women and young mothers.

Ashamed of my misinterpretation of her character, tortured by remorse,

nervous, I suppressed with difficulty the tears which I felt rising to

my eyes.

"But aren't you jealous?" I asked, merely for the sake of saying

something.

"Not at all," she answered, quite sincerely and without a trace of

malice. "Perhaps you'll think it strange, but it's true. I love my

husband; he is very kind-hearted; and I appreciate the little one, for

she's a nice girl. And there is really nothing wrong between them.

Shame on jealousy, which makes a woman look plain; at my age one has to

be careful."

And, indeed, she looked so plain at that moment that it wrung my

heart. Acting thoughtlessly, on impulse, I advised her, with fatherly

solicitude, to put a shawl round her shoulders, pretending that I was

afraid of her catching cold. She let me arrange the fleecy fabric round

her face, framing it, and transforming her into a dainty beauty.

How pretty she was when she thanked me smilingly! A look of perfect

happiness had come into her face; she was grateful like a child begging

for caresses.

"My poor husband! How glad I am to see him a little more cheerful! He

is full of trouble!... If you only knew!"

"If I'm not indiscreet," I ventured, "then, for Heaven's sake, tell

me what it is that makes you so unhappy. I feel that there is a great

sorrow in your life. I have nothing to offer you but advice; but, if I

can in any way serve you, I entreat you to make use of my friendship."

My poor friends were in financial difficulties: the phantom of

ruin--that ghastly nightmare!--was threatening them. Up to now the

Baron's inadequate income had been supplemented by his wife's dowry.

But they had recently discovered that the dowry existed on paper only,

it being invested in worthless shares. The Baron was on the point of

sending in his papers, and looking out for a cashier's billet in a bank.

"That's the reason," she concluded, "why I want to make use of the

talent I possess, for then I could contribute my share to the necessary

expenses of the household. It's all my fault, don't you see? I'm to

blame for the difficulties in which he finds himself; I've ruined his

career...."

What could I say or do in such a sad case which went far beyond my

power of assistance? I attempted to smooth away her difficulties, to

deceive myself about them.

I assured her that things would come all right, and, in order to

allay her fears, I painted for her the picture of a future without

cares, full of bright prospects. I quoted the statistics of national

economy to prove that better times were coming in which her shares

would improve; I invented the most extraordinary remedies; I conjured

up a new army organization which would bring in its train unexpected

promotion for her husband.

It was all pure invention, but, thanks to my power of imagination,

courage and hope returned to her, and her spirits rose.

After landing, and while we were waiting for the commencement of the

play, we went for a walk in the Park. I had not, as yet, exchanged

one word with the cousin. The Baron never left her side. He carried

her cloak, devoured her with his eyes, bathed her in a flood of

words, warmed her with his breath, while she remained callous and

self-possessed, with vacant eyes and hard features. From time to

time, without apparently moving a muscle of her face, she seemed to

say things to which the Baron replied with shrieks of laughter, and,

judging from his animated face, she must have been indulging pretty

freely in repartee, innuendoes and double-entendres.

At last the doors opened, and we went in to take our seats, which had

not been reserved.

The curtain rose. The Baroness was blissfully happy to see the stage,

smell the mingled odours of painted canvas, raw wood, rouge and

perspiration.

They played _A Whim_. A sudden indisposition seized me, the result

of the distressing memories of my vain efforts to conquer the stage,

and also, perhaps, the consequence of the excesses of the previous

night. When the curtain fell, I left my seat and made my way to the

restaurant, where I refreshed myself with a double-absinthe, and

remained until the performance was over.

My friends met me after the play, and we went to have supper together.

They seemed tired, and unable to hide their annoyance at my flight.

Nobody spoke a word while the table was being laid. A desultory

conversation was started with the greatest difficulty. The cousin

remained mute, haughty, reserved.

We discussed the menu. After consulting with me, the Baroness ordered

_hors d'oeuvres_. Roughly--too roughly for my unstrung nerves, the

Baron countermanded the order. Lost in gloomy thoughts, I pretended not

to hear him, and called out "_Hors d'oeuvres_ for two!" for her and for

me, as she had originally ordered.

The Baron grew pale with anger. There was thunder in the air, but not

another word was spoken.

I inwardly admired my courage in thus answering a rudeness with an

insult, bound to have serious consequences in any civilised country.

The Baroness, encouraged by the way in which I had stood up for her,

began teasing me in order to make me laugh. But in vain. Conversation

was impossible; nobody had anything to say, and the Baron and I

exchanged angry glances. In the end my opponent whispered a remark in

his neighbour's ear; in reply she made a grimace, nodded, pronounced a

few syllables without moving her lips, and regarded me scornfully.

I felt the blood rising to my head, and the storm would have burst

there and then if an unexpected incident had not served as a lightning

conductor.

In an adjacent room a boisterous party had been strumming the piano

for the last half-hour; now they began singing a vulgar song, with the

doors standing wide open.

The Baron turned to the waiter: "Shut that door," he said curtly.

The door had hardly been closed when it was again burst open. The

singers repeated the chorus, and challenged us with impertinent remarks.

The moment for an explosion had arrived.

I jumped up from my chair; with two strides I was at the door and

banged it in the faces of the noisy crew. Fire in a powder-barrel could

not have had a more rousing effect than my determined stand against the

enemy.

A short struggle ensued, during which I kept hold of the door-handle.

But the door yielded to the vigorous pull from the other side, and I

was dragged towards the howling mob, who threw themselves upon me,

eager for a hand-to-hand tussle.

At that moment I felt a touch on my shoulder, and heard an indignant

voice asking "these gentlemen whether they had no sense of honour, that

they attacked in a body one single opponent?"...

It was the Baroness who, under the stress of a strong emotion,

forgetting the dictates of convention and good manners, betrayed warmer

feelings than she probably was aware of.

The fight was over. The Baroness regarded me with searching eyes.

"You're a brave little hero," she said. "I was trembling for you."

The Baron called for the bill, asked to see the landlord and requested

him to send for the police.

After this incident perfect harmony reigned amongst us. We vied in

expressions of indignation about the rudeness of the natives. All the

suppressed wrath of jealousy and wounded vanity was poured on the heads

of those uncouth louts.

And later on, as we sat drinking punch in one of our own rooms, our old

friendship burst into fresh flames; we forgot all about the police,

who, moreover, had failed to put in an appearance.

On the following morning we met in the coffee-room, full of high

spirits, and in our inmost hearts glad to have done with a disagreeable

business, the consequences of which it would have been difficult to

foretell.

After the first breakfast we went for a walk on the banks of the canal,

in couples, and with a fair distance between us. When we had arrived at

a lock where the canal made a strong curve, the Baron waited and turned

to his wife with an affectionate, almost amorous smile.

"D'you remember this place, Marie?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, my dear, I remember," she answered, with a mingled

expression of passion and sadness.

Later on she explained his question to me.

"It was here where he first told me of his love ... one evening, under

this very birch-tree, while a brilliant shooting-star flashed across

the sky."

"That was three years ago," I completed her explanation, "and you are

reviving old memories already. You live in the past because the present

doesn't satisfy you."

"Oh, stop!" she exclaimed; "you've taken leave of your senses.... I

loathe the past, and I am grateful to my husband for having delivered

me from a vain mother whose doting tyranny was ruining me. No, I adore

my husband, he's a loyal friend to me...."

"As you like, Baroness; I'll agree with anything, to please you."

At the stated hour we went on board to return to town, and after a

delightful passage across the blue sea, with its thousands of green

islands, we arrived in Stockholm, where we parted.

I had made up my mind to return to work, determined to tear this love

out of my heart, but I soon found that I had reckoned without forces

much stronger than myself. On the day after our excursion I received

an invitation to dinner from the Baroness; it was the anniversary of

her wedding-day. I could not think of a plausible excuse, and, although

I was afraid of straining our friendship, I accepted the invitation.

To my great disappointment, I found the house turned upside down,

undergoing the process of a general cleaning; the Baron was in a bad

temper, and the Baroness sent her apologies for the delayed dinner. I

walked up and down the garden with her irritable, hungry husband, who

seemed unable to control his impatience. After half-an-hour's strenuous

effort my powers of entertaining him were exhausted, and conversation

ceased. He took me into the dining-room.

Dinner was laid, and the appetisers[1] had been put on the table, but

the mistress of the house was still invisible.

"If we took a snack standing," said the Baron, "we should be able to

wait."

Afraid of offending the Baroness, I did my utmost to dissuade him, but

he remained obstinate, and being, as it were, between two fires, I was

compelled to acquiesce in his proposal.

At last the Baroness entered: radiant, young, pretty; she was dressed

in a diaphanous silk frock, yellow, like ripe corn, with a mauve

stripe, reminiscent of pansies; this was her favourite combination of

colours. The well-cut dress suited her girlish figure to perfection,

and emphasised the beautiful contour of the shoulders and the curve of

the exquisitely modelled arms.

I handed her my bunch of roses, wishing her many happy returns of the

day; I also took good care to put all the blame for our rude impatience

on the Baron.

When her eyes fell on the disordered table, she pursed up her lips

and addressed a remark to her husband which was more stinging than

humorous; he was not slow to reply to the undeserved rebuke. I threw

myself into the breach by recalling the incidents of the previous day

which I had already discussed with the Baron.

"And what d'you think of my charming cousin?" asked the Baroness.

"She's very amiable," I replied.

"Don't you agree with me, my dear fellow, that the child is a perfect

treasure?" exclaimed the Baron, in a voice which expressed parental

solicitude, sincere devotion and pity for this imp of Satan, supposed

to be martyred by imaginary tyrants.

But in spite of the stress laid by her husband on the word "child," the

Baroness continued mercilessly--

"Just look how that dear Baby has changed the style in which my husband

does his hair!"

The parting which the Baron had been accustomed to wear had indeed

disappeared. Instead of it, his hair was dressed in the manner of the

young students, his moustache waxed--a style which did not suit him.

Through an association of ideas, my attention was drawn to the fact

--which, however, I kept to myself--that the Baroness, too, had adopted

from the charming cousin certain details of dressing her hair, of

wearing her clothes, of manner even. It made me think of the elective

affinities of the chemists, in this case acting on living beings.

The dinner dragged on, slowly and heavily, like a cart which has lost

its fourth wheel, and wearily lumbers along on the three remaining

ones. But the cousin, henceforth the indispensable complement of our

quartet, which, without her, was beginning to be out of harmony, was

expected to come later on and take coffee with us.

At dessert I proposed a toast to the married couple, in conventional

terms, without spirit or wit, like champagne which has grown flat.

Husband and wife, animated by the memories of the past, kissed

tenderly, and, in mimicking their former fond ways, became

affectionate, amorous even, just as an actor will feel genuinely

depressed when he has been feigning tears.

Or was it that the fire was still smouldering underneath the ashes,

ready to burst into fresh flames if fanned by a skilful hand? It was

impossible to guess how matters stood.

After dinner we went into the garden and sat in the summer-house, the

window of which looked on to the street. Digestive processes did not

favour conversation. The Baron stood at the window, absent-mindedly

watching the street, in the hope of catching a glimpse of the cousin.

Suddenly he darted off like an arrow, evidently with the intention of

going to meet the expected guest.

Left alone with the Baroness, I at once became embarrassed; I was not

naturally self-conscious, but she had a queer way of looking at me and

paying me compliments on certain details of my appearance. After a

long, almost painful silence, she burst out laughing, and pointing in

the direction in which the Baron had disappeared, she exclaimed--

"Dear old Gustav, he is head-over-ears in love!"

"It looks like it," I replied. "And you are really not jealous?"

"Not at all," she assured me. "I'm in love myself with the pretty

little cat. And you?"

"Oh, I'm all right. I don't want to be rude, but I shall never feel in

the least in sympathy with your cousin."

And this was true. From the first moment I had taken a dislike to

this young woman, who, like myself, was of middle-class origin. She

saw in me the odious witness, or rather the dangerous rival, hunting

in the preserves which she had reserved for herself, and from which

she hoped to force her way into society. Her keen grey eyes had at

once recognised in me an acquaintance of whom she could make no

use; her plebeian instinct scented an adventurer in me. And up to a

certain point she was right, for I had entered the Baron's house in

the hope of finding a patron for my unfortunate drama; unluckily, the

relations between my friends and the stage were non-existent, a mere

fabrication of my friend from Finland, and, with the exception of a few

compliments, my play had never been mentioned.

It was also undeniable that there was a marked difference in the

Baron's manner whenever his charmer was present. He was fickle and

easily impressed, and evidently beginning to regard me with the eyes of

the sorceress.

We had not long to wait; the pair appeared at the garden gate, merrily

talking and laughing.

The girl was brimming over with fun and merriment; she used bad

language, a little too freely perhaps, but with excellent taste; she

uttered double-entendres with such an appearance of perfect innocence

that it was impossible to credit her with the knowledge of the meaning

of her ambiguous words. She smoked and drank without forgetting for one

single moment that she was a woman, and, what is more, a young woman.

There was nothing masculine about her, nothing emancipated, nor was

she in the least prudish. She was certainly amusing, and time passed

quickly.

But what surprised me most and ought to have been a warning to me,

was the excessive mirth with which the Baroness greeted any doubtful

remark which fell from the girl's lips. Then a wild laugh, a cynical

expression would flit over her countenance, giving evidence that she

was deeply versed in the secrets of excess.

While we were thus amusing ourselves, the Baron's uncle joined our

little party. A retired captain, a widower of many years' standing,

very chivalrous, of pleasing manners, a little daring in his

old-fashioned courteousness, he was, thanks to his connection with the

family, the declared favourite of these ladies, whose affections he had

succeeded in winning.

He looked upon it as his right to fondle them, kiss their hands, pat

their cheeks. As he came in, both of them fell on his neck with little

exclamations of pleasure.

"Take care, my little ones! Two at a time is too much for an old fellow

like me. Take care! You are burning yourselves. Quick, down with your

hands, or I won't be responsible for anything."

The Baroness held her cigarette, poised between her lips, towards him.

"A little fire, please, uncle!"

"Fire! Fire! I'm sorry I can't oblige you, my child, my fire has gone

out," he answered slyly.

"Has it?"

She boxed his ears with her finger-tips. The old man seized her arm,

held it between his hands and felt it up to her shoulder.

"You're not as thin as you look, my darling," he said, stroking her

soft flesh through her sleeve.

The Baroness did not object. The compliment seemed to please

her. Playfully, smilingly, she pushed up her sleeve, exposing a

beautifully-modelled arm, daintily rounded and white as milk. Almost

immediately, however, remembering my presence, she hastily pulled it

down again; but I had seen a spark of the consuming fire which burned

in her eyes, an expression which comes into the face of a woman in the

transports of love.

The burning match which I held between my fingers, with the intention

of lighting a cigarette, accidentally dropped between my coat and

waistcoat.

With a terrified scream, the Baroness rushed at me and tried to

extinguish the flame between her fingers.

"Fire! Fire!" she shrieked, her cheeks scarlet with excitement.

Losing my self-control, I started back and pressed her hand against

my breast, as if to smother the smouldering fire; then, shamefacedly

releasing myself and pretending that I had escaped a very real danger,

I thanked the Baroness, who was still unable to control her agitation.

We talked till supper-time. The sun had set, and the moon rose behind

the cupola of the Observatory, illuminating the apple trees in the

orchard. We amused ourselves by trying to differentiate between the

apples suspended from the branches and half-hidden by the leaves,

which looked sedge-green in the pale moonlight. The ordinary blood-red

Calville seemed but a yellow spot; the greyish Astrachan apple had

turned green, the Rennet a dark, brownish red, and the others had

changed colour in proportion. The same thing had happened with the

flowers.

The dahlias presented to our eyes unknown tints, the stocks shone in

the colours of another planet, the hues of the Chinese asters were

indefinable.

"There, you see, Baroness," I said, commenting on the phenomenon, "how

everything in the world is imaginary. Colour does not exist in the

abstract; everything depends on the nature of the light. Everything is

illusion."

"Everything?" she said softly, remaining standing before me and gazing

at me with eyes magnified by the darkness.

"Everything, Baroness!" I lied, confused by this living apparition of

flesh and blood, which at the moment terrified me by its unearthly

loveliness.

The dishevelled golden hair formed a luminous aureole round her pale,

moonlit face; her exquisitely proportionate figure rose by my side,

tall and straight and more slender than ever in the striped dress, the

colours of which had changed to black and white.

The stocks breathed their voluptuous perfumes, the crickets chirped

in the grass, wet with the falling dew, a gentle breeze rustled in

the trees, twilight wrapped us round with its soft mantle; everything

invited to love; nothing but the cowardice of respectability kept back

the avowal which trembled on my lips.

Suddenly an apple dropped from a wind-shaken bough and fell at our

feet. The Baroness stooped, picked it up and gave it to me, with a

significant gesture.

"Forbidden fruit!" I murmured. "No, thank you." And to efface the

impression of this blunder, which I had committed against my will, I

hastened to improvise a satisfactory explanation of my words, hinting

at the parsimony of the owner. "What would the owner say if he saw me?"

"That you are at least a knight without reproach," she replied

disapprovingly, glancing at the shrubbery which effectively screened

the Baron and her cousin from indiscreet observers.

When we rose from the supper-table the Baron proposed that we should

accompany "the dear child" home. At the front door he offered her his

arm, and then turned to me.

"Look after my wife, old man," he said, "and prove to her that you

really are the perfect cavalier I know you to be." His voice was full

of tender solicitude.

I felt ill at ease. As the evening was warm the Baroness, leaning

lightly on me, was carrying her scarf in her hand, and from her arm,

the graceful outline of which was plainly perceptible through the thin

silk, emanated a magnetic current which excited in me an extraordinary

sensitiveness. I imagined that I could detect, at the height of my

deltoid muscle, the exact spot where the sleeve of her under-garment

ended. My sensitiveness was intensified to such a degree that I could

have traced the whole anatomy of that adorable arm. Her biceps, the

great elevator which plays the principal part when two people embrace

each other, pressed mine, flesh against flesh, in supple rhythms. In

walking along, side by side, I could distinguish the curve of her hips

through the skirts which brushed against my legs.

"You walk splendidly, you must be a perfect dancer," she said, as if to

encourage me to break an embarrassing silence.

And after a few moments, during which she must have felt the quivering

of my overstrung nerves, she asked, a little sarcastically, with the

superiority of a woman of the world--

"Are you shivering?"

"Yes, I'm cold."

"Then why not put on your overcoat?"

Her voice was soft and velvety, like a caress.

I put on my coat, a veritable straight jacket, and so was better

protected against the warmth which flowed from her body into mine.

The sound of her little feet, keeping time with my footsteps, drew our

nervous systems so closely together that I felt almost as if I were

walking on four feet, like a quadruped.

In the course of that fateful walk a pruning occurred of the kind which

gardeners call "ablactation," and which is brought about by bringing

two boughs into the closest proximity.

From that day I no longer belonged to myself. She had inoculated me

with her blood; our nerves were in a state of high tension; the unborn

lives within her yearned for the quickening fiat which would call them

into existence; her soul craved for union with my spirit, and my spirit

longed to pour itself into this delicate vessel. Had all this happened

to us without our knowledge? Impossible to say.

Once more back in my room, I determinately faced the question of the

future. Should I flee from danger and forget, should I try to make

my fortune abroad? The idea flashed through my mind to go to Paris,

the centre of civilisation. Once there, I would bury myself in the

libraries, be lost in the museums. In Paris I should produce a great

work.

No sooner had I conceived this plan, than I took the necessary steps to

carry it out. After a month had elapsed I was in a position to pay my

farewell visits.

An unexpected incident which happened very opportunely served as a

convenient pretext with which to cloak my flight. Selma, my whilom

Finnish friend, was having her banns published. I was, therefore, so to

speak, compelled to seek forgetfulness and healing for my wounded heart

in distant countries. Anyhow, it was as good an excuse as any I could

think of.

My departure was delayed for a few weeks in deference to the entreaties

of my friends, who were dreading the equinoctial gales; I had decided

to go by steamer to Havre.

Furthermore, my sister's wedding was to take place early in October,

and this necessitated a further postponement of my project.

During this time I received frequent invitations from the Baroness.

The cousin had returned to her parents, and the three of us generally

spent the evenings together. The Baron, unconsciously influenced by the

strong will of his wife, seemed more favourably disposed towards me;

moreover, my impending departure had reassured him completely, and he

treated me with his former friendliness.

One evening the Baroness's mother was entertaining a small circle of

intimate friends, when the Baroness, stretched out listlessly on the

sofa, suddenly put her head on her mother's lap and loudly confessed

her intense admiration for a well-known actor. Did she want to torture

me, to see the effect which such a confession would have on me? I don't

know. But the old lady, tenderly stroking her daughter's hair, looked

at me.

"If ever you write a novel," she said, "let me draw your attention to

this particular type of passionate womanhood. It's an extraordinary

type! She's never happy unless she is in love with some one else beside

her husband."

"It's quite true what mamma says," agreed the Baroness, "and just at

present I'm in love with that man! He's irresistible!"

"She's mad," laughed the Baron, wincing, yet anxiously trying to appear

unconcerned.

Passionate womanhood! The words sank into my heart, for, jesting apart,

those words spoken by an old woman, and that old woman her own mother,

must have contained more than a grain of truth.

[1] Note of the translator: It is customary in Sweden to begin dinner

with savoury sandwiches, which are usually placed on a side-table.

These sandwiches are intended to excite the appetite of the diners, and

are called "appetisers."

VI

My departure was imminent. On the eve of my leaving I invited the Baron

and his wife to a bachelor's dinner in my attic. To hide the meanness

of the furniture, my little home was wearing its Sunday clothes, and

had the appearance of a sacred temple. My damaged wicker sofa was

pushed against the wall between the two window recesses, one of which

was filled by my writing-table and the improvised garden, the other by

my book-shelves; an imitation tiger-skin was thrown over it, and held

in its place by invisible tacks.

The left was taken up by my large bed-sofa, with its gaudy tick cover.

Above it, on the side wall, hung a vividly-coloured map of the world.

On the right-hand side stood my chest of drawers with its swing glass,

both in the Empire style and decorated with brass ornaments; a wardrobe

with a bust of plaster of Paris and a wash-stand, for the moment

banished behind the window curtains, completed the furniture. The

walls, with their decorations of framed sketches, made a gay and varied

show.

A china chandelier, of the shape which is occasionally met with in

churches and which I had discovered at an antiquary's, was suspended

from the ceiling. The cracks were skilfully concealed by a wreath of

artificial ivy which I had found some little time ago at my sister's.

Beneath the three-armed chandelier stood the dining-table. A basket

filled with Bengal roses, which glowed red among the dark foliage, was

placed on the white damask tablecloth, and the roses, reaching up to

and mingling with the drooping ivy shoots, gave the whole the effect

of a flower show. Round the basket which held the roses stood an array

of wine glasses, red, green and opal, which I had bought cheaply, at a

sale, for each of them had a flaw. The same thing applied to the dinner

service: plates, salt-cellars and sugar-bowl of Chinese, Japanese and

Swedish porcelain.

I had but a dozen cold dishes to offer to my friends, most of them

chosen more with an eye to their decorative value than because they

were good to eat, for the meal was to consist principally of oysters.

My landlady had good-naturedly lent me the indispensable articles for

the banquet, an unprecedented event in my attic.... At last everything

was satisfactorily arranged, and I could not help admiring the setting:

these mingled touches betrayed on a small scale the inspiration of a

poet, the research of a scientist, the good taste of an artist. The

fondness for dainty food, the love of flowers, suggested the love of

women. If the table had not been laid for three, one might have guessed

at an intimate feast for two, the first delights of a love-adventure,

instead of a feast of reconciliation which it actually was. My room had

not seen a female visitor since that horrible woman whose boots had

left ineradicable traces on the woodwork of my sofa. The looking-glass

on the chest of drawers had reflected no female figure since then.

And now a woman of blameless life, a mother, a lady of education and

refinement, was coming to consecrate this place which had seen so

much work, misery and pain. And, I thought in a transport of poetic

inspiration, it is indeed a sacred festival, since I am prepared to

sacrifice my heart, my peace, perhaps my life, to ensure the happiness

of my friends.

Everything was ready when I heard footsteps on the fourth floor

landing. I hastily lit the candles, for the last time straightened the

basket containing the roses, and a moment later my guests, exhausted

with having climbed four flights of stairs, stood panting before my

door.

I opened. The Baroness, dazzled by the lights, clapped her hands as if

she were admiring a successful stage setting.

"Bravo!" she exclaimed, "you are a first-class stage manager."

"Yes," I replied, "I occasionally amuse myself with play-acting, for

the sake of discipline and patience."

I took off her cloak, bade her be welcome, and made her sit down on the

sofa. But she could not keep still. With the curiosity of a woman who

has never been in a bachelor's chambers, but has gone straight from her

father's house to that of her husband, she began to examine the room.

She seized my penholder, handled my blotter, searched about as if she

were determined to discover a secret. Strolling to my book-shelves,

she glanced curiously at the back of the volumes. In passing the

looking-glass she stopped for a few seconds to arrange her hair and

push the end of a piece of lace into the opening of her blouse. She

examined the furniture, piece by piece, and smelt the flowers, all the

time uttering little cries of delight.

When she had finished her voyage of discovery round my room, she asked

me, naively, without any _arrière-pensée_, seeking with her eyes a

piece of furniture which appeared to be missing--

"But where do you sleep?"

"On the sofa."

"Oh, how jolly a bachelor's life must be!"

And the forgotten dreams of her girlhood awoke in her brain.

"It's often very dull," I replied.

"Dull to be one's own master, have one's own home, be free from all

supervision! Oh, what would I not give to be independent! Matrimony is

abominable! Isn't it so, darling?" She turned towards the Baron, who

had been listening to her good-naturedly.

"Yes, it _is_ dull," he agreed, smilingly.

Dinner was ready and the banquet began. The first glass of wine made

us feel merry, but all of a sudden, remembering the occasion for our

unceremonious meeting, a feeling of sadness mingled with our enjoyment.

We began to talk of the pleasant days we had spent together. In

imagination we again passed through all the little adventures of our

excursions. And our eyes shone, our hearts beat more quickly, we shook

hands and clinked glasses with one another.

The hours passed rapidly, and we realised with growing distress that

the moment of parting was approaching. At a sign from his wife the

Baron produced an opal ring from his pocket and held it out to me.

"Here, my dear old fellow," he said, "take this little keepsake as a

token of our gratitude for the friendship which you have shown us. May

fate give you your heart's desire! This is my sincerest wish, for I

love you as a brother and respect you as a man of honour! A pleasant

journey! We will not say 'farewell,' but 'to the day of our next

meeting.'"

As a man of honour? Had he guessed my motive? Read my conscience? Not

at all!... For in well-chosen words, anxious to explain his little

speech, he burst out into a string of abuse of poor Selma; he accused

her of having broken her word, of having sold herself to a man who ...

well, to a man whom she did not love, a man who owed his happiness

merely to my extraordinary decency.

My extraordinary decency! I felt ashamed, but, carried away by the

sincerity of this simple heart, which judged a little too hastily,

perhaps, I suddenly felt very unhappy, inconsolably unhappy, and I kept

up the lie dressed in the outer semblance of truth.

The Baroness, deceived by my clever acting, misled by my assumed

indifference, believed me to be in earnest, and with motherly

tenderness tried to comfort me.

"Have done with her!" she urged; "forget all about her. There are

plenty of girls, far better than she is. Don't fret, she's not worth

crying for, since she couldn't even wait for you. Besides, I may tell

you now--I've heard things about her...."

And with a pleasure which she was quite unable to conceal, she

proceeded to disgust me still further with my supposed idol.

"Just think," she exclaimed, "she practically proposed to an officer of

good family, and she made herself out to be ever so much younger than

she is ... she's nothing but a common flirt, take my word for it."

A disapproving gesture from the Baron made her realise her mistake; she

pressed my hand and apologised, looking at me with eyes so wistful and

tender that I felt as if I should die of grief. The Baron, slightly

intoxicated, made sentimental speeches, took me into his confidence,

overwhelmed me with brotherly love, attacked me with endless toasts,

which seemed to lose themselves in infinity. His swollen face beamed

benevolently. He looked at me with his caressing, melancholy eyes;

their glance dissipated every shadow of doubt of the sincerity of his

friendship which I might have entertained. Surely he was nothing but a

big, good-natured child, of unquestionable integrity; and I made a vow

to behave honourably towards him, even if it should kill me.

We rose from the table to say good-bye, perhaps for ever. The Baroness

burst out sobbing, and hid her face on her husband's shoulder.

"I must be mad," she exclaimed, "to be so fond of this dear boy that

his going away almost breaks my heart!"

And with an outburst of affection, at once pure and impure, interested

and disinterested, passionate and full of angelic tenderness, she put

her arms round my neck and kissed me in her husband's presence; then

she made the sign of the cross over me and turned to go.

My old charwoman, who was waiting on the threshold, wiped her eyes, and

we all shed tears. It was a solemn moment, never to be forgotten. The

sacrifice had been made.

* * * * *

I went to bed at one o'clock in the morning, but I was unable to sleep;

fear of missing the steamer kept me awake. Worn out by the farewell

parties which had been following one on the top of the other for a

week, my nerves unhinged from too much drinking, stupid from idleness,

overwrought by the excitement of the evening, I tossed between the

sheets until the day broke. Knowing that my will-power was temporarily

enfeebled, and loathing railway journeys, because the shaking and

jolting is injurious to the spine, I had elected to travel by steamer;

moreover, this would prevent any attempt on my part to draw back. The

boat was to start at six o'clock in the morning, and the cab called for

me at five. I started on my way alone.

It was a windy October morning, foggy and cold. The branches of the

trees were covered with hoar frost. When I arrived on the North Bridge,

I imagined for a second that I was the victim of an hallucination:

there was the Baron, walking in the same direction as my cab.

Contrary to our agreement, he had risen early, and had come to see me

off. Deeply touched by this unexpected proof of friendship, I felt

altogether unworthy of his affection, and full of remorse for ever

having thought evil of him.

We arrived at the landing-stage. He accompanied me on board, examined

my cabin, introduced himself to the captain, and recommended me to his

special attention. He behaved like an elder brother, a devoted friend,

and we said good-bye to each other, deeply moved.

"Take care of yourself, old man," he said. "You are not looking well."

I really felt quite ill, but I pulled myself together until the mooring

ropes were cast adrift.

Then a sudden terror of this long and senseless journey seized me, a

frantic desire to throw myself into the water and swim to the shore.

But I had not the strength to yield to my impulse, and remained

standing on deck, undecided what to do, waving my handkerchief in

response to my friend's greeting until he disappeared, blotted out by

the vessels which rode at anchor in the roads.

The boat was a heavily loaded cargo steamer, with but one cabin on the

main deck. I went to my berth, stretched myself on the mattress and

pulled the blankets over me, determined to sleep through the first

twenty-four hours, so as to prevent any attempt at escape on my part.

I must have been unconscious for half-an-hour, when I suddenly started

from my sleep as if I had received an electric shock, a very ordinary

result of dissipation and sleeplessness.

In a second the whole dreary reality had flashed into my mind. I

went on deck to exercise my stiff limbs. I watched the barren brown

shores receding before my eyes, the trees stripped of their leaves,

the yellowish-grey meadows; in the hollows of the rocks snow was

already lying. The water looked grey with sepia-coloured spots;

the sky was leaden and full of gloom; the dirty deck, the uncouth

sailors--everything contributed to deepen my depression. I felt an

unspeakable longing for human companionship, but there did not appear

to be a single passenger--not one! I climbed on the bridge to look for

the captain. I found him a bear of the worst description, absolutely

unapproachable. I was a prisoner for ten days, solitary, cast away

among people without understanding, without feeling. It was torture.

I resumed my walk on deck, up and down, in all directions, as if my

restless movements could increase the speed of the boat. My burning

brain worked under high pressure; a thousand ideas flashed into my mind

in a second; the suppressed memories rose, pushing and chasing each

other. A pain like toothache began to torment me, but in my confusion I

could neither describe nor locate it. The further the steamer advanced

into the open sea, the greater became the strain. I felt as if the bond

which bound me to my native country, to my family, to her, was tearing

asunder. Deserted by everybody, tossing on the high seas between heaven

and earth, I seemed to be losing all foothold, and in my loneliness I

felt afraid of everything and everybody. It was, doubtless, a sign of

constitutional weakness, for I remembered that as a boy I had cried

bitter tears on a pleasure trip, at the sudden thought of my mother;

I was twelve years old then, but, bodily, I was developed far in

advance of my years. The reason, in my opinion, was that I had been

born prematurely, or perhaps even attempts had been made to suppress

life before it could properly be said to have come into existence. Such

things happen only too frequently in large families. At any rate, I

felt sure that this was the cause of the despondency which invariably

overcame me when I was about to make a change in my surroundings. Now,

in tearing myself away from my familiar environment, I was tormented

with dread of the future, the unknown country, the ship's crew.

Impressionable, like every prematurely born child, whose exposed nerves

are waiting for the still bleeding skin; defenceless like a crab which,

having cast its shell, seeks protection underneath the stones, and

feels every change of the sinking barometer, I wandered about, trying

to find a soul stronger than mine, take hold of a firm hand, feel the

warmth of a human presence, look into a friendly eye. Like a squirrel

in its cage, I ran round the upper deck, picturing to myself the ten

days of suffering which awaited me. I remembered that I had only been

on board for an hour! A long hour, more like a day of agony ... and

not a glimmer of hope at the end of this accursed journey! I tried to

reason with myself, and all the time rebelled against reason.

Who compelled me to go? Who had a right to blame me if I returned?...

Nobody! And yet!... Shame, the fear of making myself a laughing-stock,

honour! No! No! I must abandon all hope. Moreover, the boat would not

call anywhere on her way to Havre. Forward then, and courage!

But courage depends on strength of body and mind, and at the moment I

lacked both. Haunted by my dreary thoughts, I turned towards the lower

deck, for by now I knew the upper deck down to its smallest details,

and the sight of its rails, rigging and tackling bored me like a book

read until one knows it by heart. On my way I almost tumbled over a

person seeking shelter from the wind behind the cabin. It was an old

lady, dressed in black, with grey hair and a careworn face.

She gazed at me attentively, with sympathetic eyes. I walked up to

her and spoke to her. She answered me in French, and we soon became

acquainted.

After the exchange of a few commonplaces, we confided to each other

the purpose of our journey. She was not travelling for pleasure. The

widow of a timber-merchant, she had been staying with a relative in

Stockholm, and was now on her way to visit her insane son, confined in

a lunatic asylum at Havre.

Her account was so simple and yet so heartrending that it affected me

strongly, and probably her story, impressing itself on the cells of my

already overwrought brain, led up to what followed.

All of a sudden the lady ceased talking, and, gazing at me with a look

of dismay, exclaimed, sympathetically--

"Are you ill?"

"I?"

"Yes, you look ill. You should try and get some sleep."

"To tell you the truth, I never closed my eyes last night, and I am

over-tired. I've been suffering from sleeplessness for some time, and

nothing seems to be able to procure me the much-needed rest."

"Let me try. Go to bed at once. I will give you a draught that will

send you to sleep standing."