She rose, pushed me gently before her, and forced me to go to bed.

Then she disappeared for a moment and returned with a small flask,

containing a sleeping draught. She gave me a dose in a spoon.

"Now you are sure to be able to sleep."

I thanked her, and she carefully covered me with the blankets. How well

she understood what she was about! She radiated warmth, that warmth

which a baby seeks in the arms of its mother. Under the gentle touch of

her hands I grew calm, and two minutes later unconsciousness began to

steal over me. I seemed to have become an infant again. I saw my mother

busying herself round my bed and caring for me. Gradually her fading

features mingled and became one with the finely-chiselled face of the

Baroness and the sympathetic expression of the compassionate nurse who

had just left me. In the care of these women, who hovered round my

bed, I faded away like a paling colour, went out like a candle, lost

consciousness.

When I awoke I did not remember any dream, but a fixed idea haunted

me, as if it had been suggested to me during my sleep: I must see the

Baroness again, or I shall go out of my mind!

Shivering with cold, I sprang from my bed; the salt-laden wind,

penetrating through every chink and cranny, had made it damp. When I

stepped out of my cabin the sky was pale grey, like iron. On deck the

great waves washed the tackling, watered the planks and splashed my

face with foam.

I looked at my watch and calculated the distance which the steamer

must have travelled while I slept. In my opinion we were now in the

archipelago of Norrköping; all hope of return was therefore dead.

Everything was strange to me, the scattered islands in the bay, the

rugged coast, the shape of the cottages dotted along the shore, and

the cut of the sails on the fishing-smacks. Amid these unfamiliar

surroundings I felt the first pangs of home-sickness. A sullen wrath

choked me, I felt a wild despair in finding myself packed on this

cargo-boat in spite of myself, in deference to a higher power, in the

imperious name of Honour!

When my wrath had exhausted itself, my strength had come to an end.

Leaning against the rail, I let the waves lash my burning face, while

my eyes greedily devoured the coastline, eager to discover a ray of

hope. And again and again my mind returned to the idea of swimming to

the shore.

For a long time I stood gazing at the swiftly-receding outlines of the

coast. The wind had dropped, and I grew calmer, rays of a tranquil

happiness illuminated my soul; the pressure on my surcharged brain

grew less; pictures of beautiful summer days, memories of my first

youth came into my mind, although I was at a loss to understand why I

should suddenly think of them. The boat was rounding a promontory: the

roofs of red houses with white garlands rose above the Scotch firs; a

flagstaff became visible, the gay patchwork of the gardens, a bridge, a

chapel, a church steeple, a graveyard.... Was it a dream? A delusion?

No, it was the quiet seaside place where I had spent many summers in my

student days. Up there was the tiny house where I had passed a night,

last spring, with her and him, after we had spent the day sailing on

the sea and wandering through the woods. It was there--there--on the

top of that hill, under the ash-trees, on the balcony, where I had seen

her delicate face, illuminated by the sunshine of her golden hair, and

crowned by the little Japanese hat with the blue veil, while her small,

gloved hand had beckoned me to come to dinner.... She was there now,

I could see her plainly, she was waving her handkerchief to me.... I

could hear her melodious voice ... but ... what was happening? The

boat was slowing down, the engine stopped ... the pilot cutter came to

meet us ... in an instant ... a flash of thought--a single, obsessing

thought, moved me with electric force--with the spring of a tiger I

bounded up the stairs which led to the bridge--I stood before the

captain--I shouted--

"Have me put ashore at once--or I shall go mad!"

The captain looked at me sharply, scrutinisingly, and without

vouchsafing a reply, dismayed as if he had looked into the face

of an escaped lunatic, he called to the second officer and said,

imperatively--

"Have this gentleman and his luggage put ashore. He is ill."

Before five minutes had elapsed, I was on board the pilot cutter; they

rowed with such vigour that we landed in a very short time.

I possess the remarkable gift of becoming blind and deaf when it suits

me. I was walking along the road leading to the hotel without having

heard or seen anything hurtful to my vanity; neither a glance from the

pilots, betraying that they guessed my secret, nor a disparaging remark

from the man who was carrying my luggage.

Arrived at the hotel, I asked for a room, ordered an absinthe, lighted

a cigar and began to reflect.

"Had I gone mad? Was I in such imminent peril of insanity that an

immediate landing had been necessary?"

In my present state of mind I was incapable of forming an opinion, for

a madman, according to the verdict of the doctors, is not conscious of

his mental disorder, and the association of his ideas proves nothing

against their irregularity. Like a scientist, I examined similar

occurrences which had happened to me before.

When I was still a boy at college, my nervous excitability, exaggerated

by exasperating events, passion, the suicide of a friend, distrust of

the future, had been increased to such an extent that everything filled

me with apprehension, even in broad daylight. I was afraid to stay in a

room by myself; I was haunted by my own spectre, and my friends took it

in turns to spend the night with me, while the candles burned and the

fire crackled in the stove.

Another time, in an attack of wild despair, following on all sorts of

misfortunes, I ran across country, wandered through the woods, and at

last climbed to the top of a pine tree. There I sat astride on a branch

and made a speech to the Scotch firs which spread out their branches

below me, endeavouring to drown their voices, imagining that I was a

speaker addressing an assembled crowd. It was not so very far from

here, on an island where I had spent many summers, and the headland of

which was plainly visible from where I stood.

Remembering that incident, with all its ridiculous details, I could

not help admitting to myself that, at any rate at times, I was subject

to mental delusions.

What was I to do now? Should I communicate with my friends before the

rumour of my attack had reached the town? But the disgrace and shame

of having to acknowledge that henceforth I was on a level with the

irresponsible! The thought was unbearable.

Lie, then! Double without being able to throw the pursuers off the

scent. It went against the grain. Tormented by doubts, hesitating

between different plans of escape from this maze, I longed to run away

in order to be spared the terrible questions which awaited me. Like

a wild beast which feels the approach of death, I thought of hiding

myself in the wood to die.

With that idea in my mind, I went slowly through the narrow streets.

I climbed over huge rocks, saturated and rendered slippery by the

autumnal rains, crossed a stubble field, reached the little house where

I once had lived. The shutters were tightly closed; the wild vine

which covered the walls up to the roof was stripped of its leaves,

and the green lattice-work was plainly visible. As I stood again upon

that sacred spot, sacred to my heart because it had seen the first

blossoming of our friendship, the sense of my loss, which for a time

had been forced into the background, reasserted itself. Leaning against

one of the supports of the wooden balcony, I wept like a forsaken child.

I remembered having read in the _Thousand and One Nights_ that lovers

fall ill with unsatisfied longing, and that their cure depends entirely

on the possession of the beloved one. Snatches of Swedish folk-songs

came into my mind, about young maidens who, in despair of ever being

united to the object of their affections, waste away, and bid their

mothers prepare their deathbeds for them. I thought of Heine, the old

sceptic, who sings of the tribe of the Asra, "who die when they love."

There could have been no doubt of the genuineness of my passion, for I

had gone back to childhood, obsessed by one thought, one picture, one

single, overpowering sensation, prostrating me and rendering me unable

to do anything but sigh.

To distract my thoughts, I let my eyes travel over the glorious

landscape spread out at my feet. The thousands of islands bristling

with Scotch firs, with here and there a pine tree, which seemed to

swim in the enormous bay, gradually decreased in size and transformed

themselves into reefs, cliffs and sandbanks, until the huge archipelago

terminated at the grey-green line of the Baltic, where the breakers

dashed against the steep bulwarks of the remotest cliffs.

The shadows of the drifting clouds fell in coloured strips on the

surface of the water, passing from dark brown through all the shades

of bottle-green and Prussian blue to the snowy white of the crested

waves. Behind a fortress, situated on a steep cliff, rose a column of

black smoke, ascending without a break from an invisible chimney, to be

blown down again by the wind on to the foaming waves. All of a sudden

the dark hull of the cargo-boat which I had just left came into view.

The sight wrung my heart, for the steamer seemed like a witness of my

disgrace. Like a shying horse, I bolted and fled into the wood.

Underneath the pointed arches of the Scotch firs, through the needles

of which the wind whistled, my anguish increased. Here we had been

walking together when the spring sunshine lay on the tender green,

when the Scotch firs put forth their purple blossoms, which exhale a

perfume like that of the wild strawberry; when the juniper scattered

its yellow pollen into the wind; when the anemones pushed their white

heads through the dead leaves under the hazel bushes. Her little feet

had pressed the soft, brown moss, spread out like a rug, while with

a silvery voice she had sung her Finnish songs. Guided by the clear

light of remembrance, I found again the two gigantic trees, grown

together in an unending embrace; the two trunks were bending to the

violent gusts of the wind, and rubbed against each other with a grating

noise. From here she had taken a little footpath to gather a water-lily

which grew in a swamp.

With the zeal of a setter I tried to discover the trace of her pretty

foot, the imprint of which, however light, I felt sure I could not

miss. With bent shoulders and eyes glued to the ground, I searched

the path without finding anything. The ground was covered with the

foot-prints of the deer, and I might just as well have tried to follow

the trail of a wood nymph, than discover the spot which the dainty shoe

of the adored woman had trod. Nothing but mud-holes, refuse, fungi,

toadstools, puff-balls, decaying and decayed, and the broken stalks of

flowers. Arrived at the edge of the swamp, which was filled with black

water, I found a certain fleeting comfort in the thought that it had

once reflected the sweetest face in all the world. In vain I looked for

the spot where the water lilies grew; it was covered up by dead leaves,

blown down by the wind from the birch trees.

I retraced my footsteps and plunged into the heart of the forest; the

soughing of the wind in the branches deepened with the growing size

of the trees. In the very depth of despair I sobbed aloud, the tears

raining down my cheeks; like a wild stag I trampled on the fungi

and toadstools, tore up the young plants, dashed myself against the

trees. What did I want? I didn't know myself. My pulses throbbed, an

inexpressible longing to see her again came over me. She, whom I loved

too deeply for desire, had taken possession of my soul. And now that

everything was at an end, I longed to die, for life without her was

impossible.

But, with the cunning of a madman, I decided to get some satisfaction

out of my death by contracting pneumonia, or a similar fatal disease;

for in that case, I argued, I should have to be in bed for some time; I

could see her again and could kiss her hand in saying good-bye for ever.

Comforted by this sudden thought, I turned my steps towards the coast;

it was not difficult to find it, I had but to be guided by the roar of

the breakers, which led me across the wood.

The coast was precipitous and the water deep, everything as it should

be. With careful attention, which betrayed nothing of my sinister

purpose, I undressed myself; I hid my clothes in a plantation of alder

trees and pushed my watch into a hole in the rock. The wind was cold;

at this time of the year, in October, the temperature of the water

could be but a few degrees above freezing-point. I took a run over

the rocks and threw myself headlong into the water, aiming at a cleft

between two gigantic waves. I felt as if I had fallen into red-hot

lava. But I rose quickly to the surface, dragging up with me pieces of

seaweed which I had glimpsed at the bottom, and the tiny vesicles of

which were scratching my legs. I swam out into the open sea, breasting

the huge waves, greeted by the laughter of the sea gulls and the cawing

of the crows. When my strength began to fail, I turned and swam back to

the cliff.

Now the moment of greatest importance had arrived. According to all

instructions given to bathers, the real danger consists in remaining

too long out of the water in a state of nudity. I sat down on the rock

which was most fully exposed to the wind, and allowed the October gale

to lash my bare back. My muscles, my chest immediately contracted, as

if the instinct of self-preservation would protect the vital organs at

any price. But I was unable to remain on the same spot, and, seizing

the branch of an alder tree, I climbed to its top. The tree swayed

with the convulsive, uncontrollable movements of my muscles. In this

way I succeeded in remaining in the same place for some time. The icy

air scorched my skin like a red-hot iron.

At last I was convinced that I had attained my end, and hastily dressed

myself.

In the meantime night had fallen. When I re-entered the wood it was

quite dark. Terror seized me; I knocked my head against the lower

branches of the trees, and was obliged to feel my way along. Suddenly,

under the influence of my frantic fear, my senses became so acute

that I could tell the variety of the trees which surrounded me by the

rustling of their branches. What depth there was in the bass of the

Scotch firs, with their firm and closely-set needles, forming, as it

were, gigantic guitars; the tall and more pliable stems of the pines

gave a higher note; their sibilant fife resembled the hissing of a

thousand snakes; the dry rustling of the branches of the birch trees

recalled to me memories of my childhood, with its mingled griefs and

pleasures; the rustling of the dead leaves clinging to the branches

of the oaks sounded like the rustling of paper; the muttering of the

junipers was almost like the whispering voices of women, telling each

other secrets. The gale tore off the branch of an alder tree, and it

crashed to the ground with a hollow thud. I could have distinguished

a pine cone from the cone of a Scotch fir by the sound it made in

falling; my sense of smell detected the proximity of a mushroom, and

the nerves of my large toe seemed to feel whether it trod on soil,

clubmoss or maidenhair.

Guided by the acuteness of my sensations, I came to the enclosure of

the graveyard, and walked up the wooden steps. I felt a momentary

pleasure in the sound of the weeping willow lashing the tombstones

which they overhung. At last, stiff with cold, shaking at every

unexpected noise, I reached the village and walked past the houses,

which shone feebly in the dark, to the hotel.

As soon as I had arrived in my room I sent off a telegram to the Baron,

informing him of my sudden illness and enforced landing. Then I drew

up for him a full statement of my mental condition, mentioning my

former attacks, and asking him to keep the matter quiet. I gave him to

understand that my illness was caused by the conduct of my unfaithful

love, whose publicly announced engagement had robbed me of all hope.

I went to bed exhausted, certain of having contracted a fatal fever.

Then I rang for the servant and asked her to send for a doctor. On

her reply that no doctor was available, I begged her to send for a

clergyman, so that I could make my last wishes known to him.

And from that moment I was prepared to die or go out of my mind.

The clergyman appeared almost immediately. He was a man about thirty,

and looked like a farm laborer in Sunday clothes. Red-haired and

freckled, with a half-vacant look in his eyes, he did not inspire me

with sympathy; for a long time I could find no words, for I did not

know what to say to this man, who possessed neither education, the

wisdom of age, nor a knowledge of the human heart.

He remained standing in the centre of the room, self-conscious, like a

provincial in the presence of the inhabitant of a large city, until I

motioned him to take a chair.

Then he began his cross-examination.

"You have sent for me, sir? You are in trouble?"

"Yes."

"There is no happiness but in Jesus."

Although I was hankering after quite another sort of happiness, I did

not contradict him, and the evangelist rambled on, uninterruptedly,

monotonously, verbosely. The old tenets of the catechism lulled me

gently to sleep, and the presence of a human being entering into

spiritual relationship with my soul gave me new strength.

But the preacher, suddenly doubting my sincerity, interrupted his

discourse with a question--

"Do you hold the true faith?"

"No," I replied, "but go on speaking, your words are doing me good...."

And he returned to his work.

The monotonous sound of his voice, the radiations from his eyes, the

warmth which emanated from his body, affected me like a magnetic fluid.

In half-an-hour's time I was fast asleep.

When I awoke, the mesmerist had gone; the servant brought me a

sleeping-draught, with strict injunctions from the chemist to be

careful, as the bottle contained sufficient poison to kill a man.

Needless to say, as soon as she had turned her back, I drank the whole

contents of the flask at a gulp. Then, firmly determined to die, I

buried myself under the blankets, and sleep was not long in coming.

When I opened my eyes on the following morning I was not in the least

surprised to find my room flooded by the rays of a brilliant sun, for

my sleep had been visited by bright and rosy dreams.

"I dream, therefore I exist," I said to myself. I felt my body all

over, so as to discern the height of the fever, or the presence of any

signs of pneumonia. But, in spite of my firm resolution to bring about

a crisis, my condition was fairly normal. My brain, although a little

stupefied, functioned easily, no longer under the high pressure of the

previous day, and twelve hours' sleep had fully restored the vigor

which, thanks to bodily exercises of all descriptions, practised since

my early youth, I usually enjoyed.

... A telegram was handed me. My friends were informing me that they

would arrive by the two o'clock boat.

I was overwhelmed with shame. What was I to say? What attitude was I to

adopt?... I reflected....

My reawakened manhood rebelled against humiliating resolutions; after

a hasty review of the circumstances, I decided to remain at the hotel

until I had completely recovered, and continue my journey by the next

steamer. In this way honour would be saved, and the visit from my

friends would be but one more leave-taking--the very last.

When I remembered what had occurred on the previous day, I hated

myself. That I, the strong-minded, the sceptic, should have committed

such absurdities! And that clergyman's visit! How was I to explain

that? It was true, I had only sent for him in his official capacity,

and, as far as I was concerned, he had but acted as a hypnotist! But to

outsiders it was bound to look like a conversion. Monstrous confessions

would very likely be hinted at, a criminal's last avowal of his crime

on his deathbed. What a pretty topic for the villagers who stood in

close communication with the town! What a treat for the porters!

A trip abroad, undertaken at once, was the only way out of this

unbearable situation. Like a castaway, I spent the morning in walking

up and down before the verandah, watching the barometer, studying the

time-tables. Time passed fairly rapidly. The steamer appeared at the

mouth of the estuary before I had made up my mind whether to walk to

the landing-stage or remain at the hotel. As I had no desire to be

stared at by an inquisitive crowd, I at last went to my room.

A few minutes later I heard the voice of the Baroness: she was making

inquiries of the landlady about my health. I went out to meet her, and

she almost kissed me before the eyes of all the by-standers. With a

heart full to overflowing, she deplored my illness, which she regarded

as the result of overwork, and advised me to return to town, and put

off my journey until the spring.

She was beautiful to-day. In her closely-fitting fur coat, with its

long and supple hairs, she looked like a llama. The sea-breezes had

brought the blood to her cheeks, and in her eyes, magnified by the

excitement of her visit, I could read an expression of infinite

tenderness. In vain I begged her not to alarm herself on my account,

and assured her that I had almost fully recovered. She found that I

looked like a corpse, declared me unfit for work, and treated me like

a child. And how sweetly she played the part of a mother! The tone of

her voice was a caress; she playfully used terms of endearment; she

wrapped her shawl around me; at table she spread my dinner-napkin over

my knees, poured out some wine for me, looked after me in every way. I

wondered why she did not thus devote herself to her child rather than

to the man who was all the time striving to hide his passion, which

threatened to defy all control.

In this disguise of the sick child, it seemed to me that I was like the

wolf who, after having devoured the grandmother, lies down on her bed

waiting for Little Red Riding-hood, that he may devour her also.

I blushed before this unsophisticated and sincere husband, who

overwhelmed me with kindness, asked for no explanations. And yet I was

not at fault. I obstinately hardened my heart, and received all the

attentions which the Baroness showered on me with an almost insulting

indifference.

At dessert, when the time for the return journey had come, the Baron

proposed that I should return with them. He offered me a room in his

house which, he said, was waiting to receive me. I am glad to say that

my answer was a decided refusal. Terrified at this dangerous playing

with fire, I was firm in my decision. I would stay here for a week to

recover entirely, and then return to town to my old attic.

In spite of all their objections, I persisted. Strange; as soon as I

pulled myself together and made a determined stand, the Baroness became

almost hostile to me. The more I vacillated and humored her whims, the

fonder she seemed of me, the more she praised my wisdom, my amiability.

She swayed and bewildered me, but as soon as I opposed her seriously,

she turned her back on me and treated me with dislike, almost with

rudeness.

While we were discussing the Baron's proposal to live under one roof,

she drew a glowing picture of such an arrangement, dwelling on the

pleasantness of being able to see one another at any time without a

previous invitation.

"But, my dear Baroness," I objected, "what would people say if you were

to receive a bachelor into your young _ménage_?"

"What does it matter what people say?"

"But your mother, your aunt? Moreover, my man's pride rebels against a

measure which is only permissible in the case of a minor."

"Bother your man's pride! Do you think it manly to perish without

opening your lips?"

"Yes, it behooves a man to be strong."

She grew angry, and refused to admit that a man's case differed from

that of a woman. Her woman's logic confused my brain. I turned to the

Baron, whose answering smile showed plainly what a small opinion he had

of female brain-power.

About six o'clock the steamer weighed anchor and bore my friends away.

I returned to the hotel alone.

It was a splendid evening. The sun had set in an orange-coloured sky,

white stripes were lying on the deep blue water, a coppery moon was

rising behind the Scotch firs.

I was sitting at a table in the dining-room, lost in thought, now

mournful, now serene, and did not notice the landlady until she stood

close by me.

"The lady who's just left is your sister, isn't she?" she asked.

"Not at all."

"Isn't she? How strangely you resemble one another! I should have sworn

that you are brother and sister."

I was not in the mood to continue such a conversation, but it left me

in a ferment of thoughts.

Had my constant intercourse with the Baroness affected the expression

of her features? Or had the expression of her face influenced mine

during this six months' union of our souls? Had the instinctive desire

to please one another at any price been the cause of an unconscious

selection of gestures and expressions, suppressing the less pleasing

in favour of the more seductive? It was not at all unthinkable that a

blending of our souls had taken place, and that we no longer belonged

to ourselves. Destiny, or rather instinct, had played its fateful,

inevitable part; the ball had been set rolling, overthrowing and

destroying everything that barred its way: honour, reason, happiness,

loyalty, wisdom, virtue!

... And this guilelessness to propose to receive under her roof an

ardent young man, a man of the age when the passions are so strong

that control is often almost impossible! Was she vicious, or had love

obscured her reason? Vicious! No, a thousand times no! I appreciated

her candid ways, her gaiety, her sincerity, her motherly tenderness.

That she was eccentric, that her mind was badly balanced, she had

herself acknowledged in speaking of her faults--but vicious? No! Even

the little tricks which she occasionally resorted to in order to

cheer me up were much more the tricks of a mature woman who amuses

herself by teasing and bewildering a timid youth, and then laughs at

his confusion, than those of a coquette whose object it is to excite a

man's passions.

But I must exorcise the demon, and continue to mislead my friends.

I sat down at the writing-table and wrote a letter on the hackneyed

subject of my unhappy love affair. I added two impassioned poems

entitled "To Her"--poems which could be understood in two ways. It was

open to the Baroness to be annoyed.

Letter and poems remained unanswered; perhaps the trick had grown

threadbare, perhaps the subject was no longer found interesting.

The calm and tranquil days which followed hastened my recovery. The

surrounding landscape seemed to have adopted the favourite colours of

the adored woman. The wood, in which I had spent hours of purgatory,

now smiled on me. Never in my morning rambles did I find as much as the

shadow even of a painful memory lurking in its deep recesses, where

I had fought with all the demons of the human heart. Her visit, and

the certainty that I should see her again, had given me back life and

reason.

VII

Knowing from experience that nobody who returns unexpectedly is quite

welcome, it was not without a feeling of constraint, not without

misgivings, that I called on the Baroness as soon as I was back in town.

In the front garden everything proclaimed the winter; the trees were

bare, the garden seats had been removed; there were gaps in the fence

where the gates had been; the wind was playing with the withered leaves

on the paths; the cellar holes were stuffed with straw.

I found it difficult to breathe in the close atmosphere of the

drawing-room, heated by a tiled stove. Fixed to the walls, the stoves

had the appearance of sheets suspended from the ceiling, large and

white. The double-windows hung in their hinges, every chink was

pasted over with paper; the space between the inner and outer windows

was filled with snow-white cotton wool, giving the large room the

appearance of a death-chamber. In imagination I endeavoured to strip

it of its semi-fashionable furniture, and recall its former aspect of

rough homeliness. In those days the walls had been bare, the floor

plain deal; the memory of the black dinings table, which could boast of

no cover and with its eight legs resembled a huge spider, called up the

severe faces of my father and stepmother.

The Baroness received me cordially, but her melancholy face betrayed

grief. Both uncle and father-in-law were there, playing cards with the

Baron in an adjoining room. I shook hands with the players, and then

returned with the Baroness into the drawing-room. She sat down in an

arm-chair underneath the lamp and took up some crochet work. Taciturn,

morose, not at all pretty, she left the conversation entirely to me,

and since she made no replies, it soon degenerated into a monologue.

I watched her from my chimney comer as she sat with drooping head,

bending over her work. Profoundly mysterious, lost in thought, she

seemed at times oblivious of my presence. I wondered whether I had

called at an inconvenient time, or whether my return to town had really

created the unfavourable impression which I had half anticipated. All

at once my eyes, travelling round the room, were arrested by a display

of her ankles underneath the tablecloth. I beheld her finely-shaped

calf, clothed in a white stocking; a gaily embroidered garter belted

that charming muscle which turns a man's brain because it stimulates

his imagination and tempts him to the construction of the whole of the

remaining form. Her arched foot with its high instep was dressed in a

Cinderella's slipper.

At the time I took it for an accident, but later on I learned that a

woman is always conscious of being looked at when she exhibits more

than her ankles. Fascinated by the sight I changed the conversation,

and aptly turned it on the subject of my supposed love affair.

She drew herself up, turned towards me, and glanced at me sharply.

"You can at least pride yourself on being a faithful lover!"

My eyes remained riveted on the spot underneath the tablecloth, where

the snowy stocking shone below the cherry-coloured ribbon. With an

effort I pulled myself together; we looked at each other; her pupils

shone large in the lamplight.

"Unfortunately I can!" I replied dryly.

The sound of the falling cards and the exclamations of the players

accompanied this brief passage of arms.

A painful silence ensued. She resumed her crochet work, and with a

quick movement allowed the skirts to drop over her ankles. The spell

was broken. My eyes were gazing at a listless woman, badly dressed.

Before another quarter of an hour had gone by I took my leave,

pretending that I did not feel well.

As soon as I arrived in my attic I brought out my play, which I had

resolved to re-write. Hard work would help me to get over this hopeless

love, otherwise bound to end in a crime from which inclination,

instinct, cowardice and education made me shrink. And once more I

decided to break off these fatal relations.

An unexpected incident came to my assistance: two days later the

cataloguing of a library, belonging to a collector who lived at some

distance from the town, was offered to me.

And thus I came to pitch my tent in a spacious room, lined with books

up to the ceiling, of an old manor house dating from the seventeenth

century. Sitting there, I could let my imagination travel through

all the epochs of my country's history. The whole Swedish literature

was represented, from the old prints of the fifteenth century to

the latest publications. I gave myself up to my work, eager to find

forgetfulness--and I succeeded. A week had elapsed and I had never once

missed my friends. On Saturday, the day on which the Baroness generally

was "at home," an orderly brought me an invitation from the Baron,

full of friendly rebuke for having kept away from them so long. I was

half-pleased, half-sorry to find myself able to send an amiable refusal

in reply, regretting that my time was no longer my own.

When a second week had gone by another orderly, in full dress, brought

me another communication; this time it came from the Baroness. It was

a rather curt request to call and see her husband, who, she said, was

laid up with a cold. She begged me to let them have news of me. It was

impossible to make further excuses, and so I went.

The Baroness did not look well, and the slightly indisposed Baron

seemed bored. He was in bed, and I was asked to go and see him. The

sight of this Holy of Holies, which I had been spared up to now,

excited my instinctive repugnance; this sharing of a common room by a

married couple, this perpetual presence of a witness on the thousand

occasions which demand privacy, revolted me. The large bed which the

Baron occupied, brazenly proclaimed the intimacy of their union; the

heap of pillows, piled up by the side of the sick man, boldly marked

the wife's place. The dressing-table, the wash-stands, the towels,

everything struck me as being unclean, and I had to make myself blind

to overcome my disgust.

After a few words at the foot end of the bed, the Baroness invited me

to take a glass of liqueur in the drawing-room, and, as if she had

divined them, she gave expression to my thoughts as soon as we were

alone. In short, disjointed sentences she poured out her heart to me.

"Isn't it wretched?"

"What?"

"You know what I mean.... A woman's existence: without an object in

life, without a future, without occupation. It's killing me!"

"But your child, Baroness! It will soon be time to begin her

education.... And she may have brothers and sisters...."

"I will have no more children! Am I in the world for the sole purpose

of being a nurse?"

"Not a nurse, but a mother in the highest meaning of the word, equal to

her task."

"Mother or housekeeper! Thank you! One can hire a housekeeper! It's

easier. And then? How am I to occupy myself? I have two maids,

excellent substitutes. No! I want to live...."

"Go on the stage?"

"Yes!"

"But that's out of the question!"

"I know that only too well! And it irritates me, makes me stupid ...

kills me!"

"What about a literary career? It's not in such bad repute as the

stage!"

"The dramatic art is, in my opinion, the highest of all arts. Come

what may, I shall never cease to regret the fact that I have missed my

vocation. And what have I got in exchange?... A disappointment!"

The Baron called to us, and we returned to his bedside.

"What was she talking about?" he asked me.

"We were talking about the theatre," I replied.

"She's crazy!"

"Not as crazy as you think," retorted the Baroness, and left the room,

slamming the door.

"She doesn't sleep at night," began the husband, growing confidential.

"No?"

"She plays the piano, she lies on the sofa, or, rather, she chooses the

hours of the night to do her accounts. For heaven's sake, my dear young

sage, tell me what I'm to do to put an end to this madness!"

"Perhaps if she had a large family?" I ventured.

He pulled a face, then he tried to look unconcerned.

"She was very ill after her first baby was born ... and the doctor has

warned her ... and moreover, children cost so much.... You understand?"

I understood, and I took care not to refer again to the subject. I was

too young at the time to know that it is the patient who orders the

doctor what to prescribe for her.

Presently the Baroness returned with her little girl, and began to put

her to bed in her small iron cot. But the little one refused to be

undressed, and began to scream. After a few futile attempts to calm

her, her mother threatened her with the rod.

I cannot bear to see a child being punished without losing my temper. I

remembered on one such occasion raising my hand against my own father.

I allowed my anger to get the better of me, and interfered.

"Allow me," I said ... "but do you think that a child cries without a

reason?"

"She's naughty."

"Then there's some cause for it. Perhaps she's sleepy, and our presence

and the lamplight irritate her."

She agreed, taken aback, and, perhaps, conscious that her shrewish

conduct had produced an unfavourable impression on me.

This glimpse of her home life cured me for some weeks of my love, and

I must confess that the scene with the rod had contributed more than

anything else to my disillusion.

The autumn dragged on monotonously and Christmas drew near. The arrival

of a newly-married couple from Finland, friends of the Baroness,

brought a little more life in our relationship, which had lost much of

its charm. Thanks to the Baroness, I received numerous invitations, and

presented myself in evening dress at suppers, dinners and occasionally

even at a dance.

While moving in this, her world, which in my opinion lacked dignity,

I could not help noticing that the Baroness, under cover of an

exaggerated candour, paid a great deal of attention to the young men,

watching me furtively all the while, however, to see the effect of her

conduct on me. Irritated and disgusted by her brazen flirtations,

which I considered bad form, I responded by a callouse indifference.

It hurt me that the woman whom I adored should behave like a vulgar

coquette.

She always seemed to be enjoying herself immensely, and prolonged the

parties till the small hours of the morning; I became the more and more

convinced that she was discontented and bored with her home life; that

her longing for an artistic career was dictated by a petty vanity,

a desire to be seen and enjoy herself. Vivacious, full of exuberant

spirits, of a restless disposition, she possessed the art to shine;

she was always the centre of a crowd, more in consequence of a certain

gift to attract people than because of her natural charms. Her great

vitality, her nervous excitability, compelled the most refractory to

listen to her, to pay homage to her. And I also noticed that as soon

as her nervous force was exhausted, the spell was broken, and she was

left sitting alone and unnoticed in a quiet corner. Ambitious, yearning

for power, perhaps heartless, she took care that the men paid her every

attention; the society of women had no attraction for her.

Doubtless, she had made up her mind to see me at her feet, doting,

vanquished, sighing. One day, after an evening of triumph, she told

one of her friends that I was head over ears in love with her. When

I called at her friend's house a short time afterwards, I stupidly

remarked that I had hoped to meet the Baroness.

"Oh, indeed!" laughed the lady of the house, "you haven't come to see

me then! How unkind of you!"

"Well, I haven't. To tell you the truth, I'm here by appointment."

"A tryst, then!"

"You may call it so, if you like! Anyhow, you'll give me credit for

having put in a prompt appearance!"

The meeting had indeed been arranged by the Baroness. I had but carried

out her instructions in calling. She had given me away to save her own

skin.

I paid her out by spoiling a number of parties for her, for my absence

robbed her of the enjoyment which she drew from the contemplation of

my sufferings. But I had to pay a heavy penalty! Watching the houses

to which I knew her to be invited, I plunged the dagger into my heart,

trembling with jealous rage whenever I saw her, in the arms of a

partner, gliding past the windows in her blue silk dress, with her

sunny curls rising and falling in the quick movements of the dance,

with her charming figure, on the tiniest feet in the world.

VIII

We had navigated the cape of the New Year and spring was approaching.

We had spent the winter in gay festivities, in intimate companionship,

the three of us. But it had all been very dreary: we had quarrelled

and become reconciled, fought battles and made armistices, teased one

another and become the best of friends again. I had stayed away and had

come back.

Now March was near, a fateful month in the countries of the north,

because passion becomes all-powerful and the destinies of lovers

are fulfilled: vows are broken, the ties of honour, of family, of

friendship are set side.

The Baron was on duty early in the month, and invited me to spend a day

with him at the guard-house. I accepted his invitation. A son of the

people, a descendant of the middle-classes, cannot but be impressed by

the insignia of the highest power in the land. At the side of my friend

I walked along the passage, continually saluted by passing officers; I

listened to the rattling of the swords; the "Who goes there?" of the

sentinels, the beating of the drums. We arrived at the guard-room. The

military decorations of the room stirred my imagination; the portraits

of the great generals filled me with reverence; the colours taken at

Lützen and Leipzic, the new flags, the bust of the reigning king, the

helmets, the resplendent breast-pieces, the plans of battles, all these

roused in me that feeling of uneasiness which the lower classes feel in

contemplating the symbols of the ruling powers. And in his impressive

surroundings the personality of the captain became more imposing; I

kept close to his side in case any unpleasantness should arise.

As we entered a lieutenant rose and saluted, standing, and I, too, felt

myself the superior of these lieutenants, the sworn foes of the sons of

the people, and the authors' rivals in the favour of the ladies.

A soldier brought us a bowl of punch, and we lighted our cigars. The

Baron, anxious to amuse me, showed me the Golden Book of the regiment,

an artistic collection of sketches, water paintings and drawings, all

of them representing distinguished officers, who had during the last

twenty years belonged to the Royal Guards; portraits of the men who

had been the envy and admiration of my school friends, whom they had

aped in their boyish games. It tickled my middle-class instincts to see

all those favourites of fortune caricatured in this book, and counting

on the applause of the democratic Baron, I indulged in little sallies

at the expense of those disarmed rivals. But the boundary-line of the

Baron's democratic sympathies differed from mine, and he resented my

sallies; the spirit of caste prevailed: he turned the leaves more

quickly, and did not stop until he came to a large drawing representing

the insurrection of 1868.

"Look at this!" he said, with a sarcastic smile, "how we charged into

that mob!"

"Did you take part in it?"

"Didn't I! I was on duty that day, and my orders were to protect the

stand opposite the monument which the mob was attacking. A stone hit

my helmet. I was Serving out the cartridges, when a royal messenger

on horseback arrived and stopped my little band from firing. But I

remained proof-butt and target for the stones thrown by the crowd.

That's all I ever got for my democratic sympathies."

And after a pause he continued, still laughing and trying to catch my

eye--

"You remember the occasion?"

"Perfectly," I said; "I was walking in the procession of the students."

But I did not mention the fact that I was one of that special mob on

which he had been so anxious to fire. My sense of justice had been

outraged because that particular stand had been reserved for a favoured

few and denied to the people on a public festival. I had been on the

side of the attacking party, and had not forgotten the stones which I

had flung at the soldiers.

The moment I heard him pronounce the word "mob" with aristocratic

disdain, I remembered and understood my feeling of discomfort in

entering the enemy's fortress, and the sudden change which had come

over my friend's features at my sarcasms depressed me. The hatred

of race, the hatred of caste, tradition, rose between us like an

insurmountable barrier, and as I regarded him sitting there, the

sword between his knees--a sword of honour, the hilt of which was

ornamented with the name and crown of the royal giver--I felt strongly

that our friendship was but an artificial one, the work of a woman,

who constituted the only link between us. The haughty tone of his

voice, the expression of his face, seemed more and more in harmony

with his surroundings and took him further and further away from me.

To bridge over the gulf which separated us, I changed the conversation

and inquired after his wife and little daughter. Instantly his brow

cleared, his features relaxed and resumed their normal expression of

good-nature. Seeing him look at me with the benevolent eyes of the ogre

caressing Tom Thumb, I made bold to pull three hairs out of the ogre's

beard.

"Cousin Matilda is expected at Easter, isn't she?" I asked.

"She is."

"I shall make love to her."

He emptied his glass. "You can try," he sneered, with a murderous

scowl.

"Try? Is it possible that her affections are otherwise engaged?"

"Not ... that I know of! But ... I think I may say that.... Well, you

can try!"

And with a tone of deepest conviction--

"You may be sure to get your money's worth!"

This sneering remark was an insult, and roused my desire to defy him.

If I made love to that other woman, it might not only save me from my

criminal passion, but it would also give satisfaction to the Baroness,

whose legitimate feelings had been outraged.

It had grown dark. I rose to go home. The captain accompanied me past

the sentinels. We shook hands at the barrier gate, which he slammed

after me as if he wanted to challenge me.

* * * * *

Spring had come. The snow had melted, the streets were free from

ice. Half-starved children were selling little bunches of liverwort

in the streets. The windows of the flower-shops glowed with azaleas,

rhododendron and other early blossoms; golden oranges gleamed in the

greengrocers' shops; lobsters, radishes and cauliflower appeared on

the costers' barrows. Under the North Bridge the waves reflected the

rays of the sun. On the quays the steamers were being newly rigged and

painted in sea-green and scarlet. The men who had grown weak in the

winter darkness, recovered in the sunlight. Woe to the weakling when

love gives free play to the long-restrained passions!

The pretty little she-devil had arrived, and was staying with the

Baroness.

I paid her a great deal of attention. She had apparently been informed

of my designs, and consequently she amused herself with me. We had been

playing a duet, and she was leaning against my left arm with her right

shoulder. The Baroness noticed it and winced. The Baron glared at me

with jealous rage. At one moment he was jealous of his wife, at the

next he accused me of flirting with the cousin. Whenever he left his

wife, to whisper in a corner to Matilda, and I started a conversation

with the Baroness, he lost his temper and interrupted our conversation

with an irrelevant question. I answered him with a sarcastic smile, and

sometimes I took no notice whatever of him.

One evening we were all having supper in the strictest family circle.

The mother of the Baroness was present. She had grown fond of me, and

with the prevision frequently met with in old women, suspected that

something was going on behind the scenes.

Following an impulse of motherly love, dreading some unknown danger,

she seized my hands, and holding me with her eyes said gravely--

"I'm sure that you're a man of honour. I don't know what's going on

in this house. But promise me that you will watch over my daughter,

my only child, and if ever anything should happen ... which must not

happen, promise that you will come to me and tell me everything."

"I promise," I answered, and kissed her hand in the Russian fashion,

for she had been married to a Russian for many years and had been left

a widow not very long ago.

And I shall keep my promise!

We were dancing on the edge of a crater. The Baroness had grown pale,

emaciated, plain. The Baron was jealous, rude and insolent. If I stayed

away for a day or two, he sent for me; received me with open arms and

tried to explain everything by a misunderstanding, while in reality we

understood each other only too well.

The Lord knows what was going on in this house!

One evening the charming Matilda had retired into her bedroom to try

on a ball dress. The Baron quietly disappeared soon after, leaving me

alone with his wife. After half-an-hour had gone by, I asked what had

become of her husband?

"He's playing lady's maid to Matilda," she replied.

I understood. Presently, evidently regretting her words, she added--

"There's no harm in it; they're relations. One shouldn't be too ready

to think evil!"

Then she changed her tone.

"Are you jealous?"

"Are you?"

"Perhaps I shall be by and by."

"God grant that you will be soon! It's the wish of a true friend."

The Baron returned, and with him the girl, dressed in a pale green

evening dress, cut very low.

I pretended to be dazzled by her appearance, and screening my eyes with

both my hands, exclaimed--

"Don't you know that it's dangerous to look at you?"

"Isn't she lovely?" asked the Baroness in a strange voice.

After a short time the couple withdrew, and for the second time we were

left by ourselves.

"Why are you so unkind to me these days?" she asked, with tears in her

voice, gazing at me wistfully, with the eyes of an ill-treated dog.

"I?... I had no idea that...."

"You've changed towards me; I wonder why.... If I'm to blame in any

way...."

She pushed her chair closer to mine, looked at me with luminous eyes,

trembled and ... I jumped up.

"The Baron's absence is really extraordinary, don't you think so? This

confidence on his part is insulting!"

"What d'you mean?"

"It's not right of him to leave his wife alone with a young man and

shut himself up with a girl....

"You're right, it's an insult to me.... But your manners!..."

"Never mind my manners! It's hateful! I shall despise you if you won't

be more jealous of your dignity.... What are those two doing?"

"He's interested in Matilda's ball dress!" she answered, with an

innocent face and a fleeting smile. "What do you want me to do?"

"A man doesn't assist a woman at her toilet unless there are certain

relations between them."

"She is a child, he says, and looks upon him as a father."

"I should never allow any children to play 'papa and mamma,' much less

grown-up people."

The Baroness rose, went out of the room and returned with her husband.

We spent the rest of the evening in making experiments with animal

magnetism. I made a few passes over her forehead, and she acknowledged

that it calmed her nerves. But all of a sudden, just as she was going

into a trance, she shook herself, started to her feet, and looked at me

with troubled eyes.

"Let me go!" she exclaimed; "I won't! You are bewitching me!"

"It's your turn now to try your magnetic powers," I said, and I

submitted to the same treatment to which I had subjected her.

I sat with half-closed eyes; there was deep silence on the other side

of the piano; my glances strayed to the legs and the lyre-shaped pedal

of the instrument and ... I thought I must be dreaming, and sprang

up from my chair. At the same moment the Baron appeared from behind

the piano and offered me a glass of punch. The four of us raised our

glasses. The Baron looked at his wife--

"Drink to your reconciliation with Matilda," he pleaded.

"Your health, little witch!" exclaimed the Baroness with a smile, and

turning to me she added--

"I must tell you we quarrelled about you!"

For a moment I did not know how to reply. Then I asked her to explain

her words.

"No, no! no explanation!" answered a chorus of voices.

"That's a pity," I replied; "in my opinion we've been playing

'hide-and-seek' far too long."

The rest of the evening passed amid general constraint.

"Well, I don't care!" I muttered on my way home, searching my

conscience.

What was the meaning of all this? Was it nothing but the innocent whim

of a fantastic mind? Two women quarrelling over a man! They must be

jealous, then. Was the Baroness mad that she gave herself away in such

a manner? I did not think so. I felt sure there was something else at

the bottom of it.

"What _is_ going on in this house?" I asked myself, brooding over

the strange scene which had startled me in the evening, the very

improbability of which made me hesitate to believe that I had seen

anything really wrong.

This senseless jealousy, the apprehension of the old mother, the love

of the Baroness, stimulated by the spring air, all this confused my

mind, seethed and fermented in my brain, and after spending a sleepless

night, I decided for a second time not to see her again, and so prevent

the threatening calamity.

With this intention I arose in the morning and wrote her a sensible,

candid and humble letter; in carefully chosen language I protested

against an excessive abuse of friendship; firmly, without any

explanation, I asked for forgiveness of my sins, blamed myself for

having caused ill-feeling between relatives, and goodness knows what

else I said!

The result was that I met the Baroness, as if by accident, on leaving

the library at my usual time. She stopped me on the North Bridge, and

we walked together through one of the avenues leading to Charles XII

Square. Almost with tears in her eyes she entreated me to come back,

not to ask for explanations, but just to be one of them again as in the

old days.

She was charming this morning. But I loved her too dearly to compromise

her.

"Leave me! You are ruining your reputation," I said, watching the

passers-by, whose curious glances embarrassed us. "Go home at once, or

I shall leave you standing here!"

She looked at me with eyes so full of misery that I longed to kneel

down before her, kiss her feet and ask her forgiveness.

But instead I turned my back on her and hastily disappeared down a side

street.

After dinner I went home to my attic, glowing with the satisfaction of

a duty done, but with a broken heart. Her eyes haunted me.

A short rest gave me back my determination. I rose and looked at the

almanac which hung on the wall. It was the thirteenth of March. "Beware

the Ides of March!" These famous words, which Shakespeare quotes in his

_Julius Cæsar_, sounded in my ears as the servant entered, bringing me

a note from the Baron.

In it he begged me to spend a lonely evening with him, saying that his

wife was not well and that Matilda was going out.

I had not the nerve to refuse, and so I went.

The Baroness, more dead than alive, met me in the drawing-room, pressed

my hand against her heart and thanked me warmly for having resolved not

to rob her of a friend, a brother, for the sake of a mere nothing, a

misunderstanding.

"I really think she's going out of her mind," laughed the Baron,

releasing me from her hands.

"I _am_ mad, I know, mad with joy that our friend has come back to us

after he had decided to leave us for ever."

And she burst into tears.

"She's been suffering a great deal," explained her husband,

disconcerted by this scene.

And, indeed, she looked as if she were in a high fever. A sombre fire

burned in her eyes, which seemed to take up half of the little face;

her cheeks were of a greenish pallor. The sight of her hurt me. Her

frail body was shaken by fits of coughing.

Her uncle and father-in-law arrived unexpectedly. The fuel in the

great stove was replenished, and we sat down before the fire, without

lighting the lamps, to enjoy the cosy hour of the gathering twilight.

She took a seat by my side, while the three men began to talk politics.

I saw her eyes shine through the dusk, I felt the warmth which radiated

from her body.

Her skirts brushed against me, she leaned over to say something meant

for me alone, and attacked me with a whispered question--

"Do you believe in love?"

"No!"

My "no" struck her like a blow, for I had at the same time jumped up

and changed my seat.

She must be mad, I thought; and afraid of a scene I suggested that we

should have the lamps lighted.

During supper uncle and father-in-law discussed cousin Matilda

to their heart's content, praising her domesticity, her skill in

needlework. The Baron, who had drunk several glasses of punch, burst

out into extravagant eulogies and deplored, with alcoholic tears, the

unkind treatment to which the "dear child" was subjected at home. But

when apparently in the very depth of sympathetic sorrow, he suddenly

pulled out his watch and prepared to leave us, as if called away by the

stern voice of duty.

"You must excuse me, gentlemen," he said, "but I have promised Baby to

meet her and see her home. Don't let me disturb you, I shall be back in

an hour."

The old Baron, his father, vainly tried to detain him; his artful son

insisted on keeping his word and slipped away, after having extracted a

promise from me to await his return.

We remained at table for another quarter of an hour and then went into

the drawing-room; the two old gentlemen soon left us and retired to the

uncle's room, which the nephew had fitted up for him a little while ago.

I cursed fate for having caught me in a trap which I had done my utmost

to avoid. I steeled my throbbing heart; proudly, as a cock raises his

comb, I raised my head; my hair bristled like the hair of a sheep dog,

and I determined to crush at the outset any attempt to create a tearful

or amorous scene.

Leaning against the stove I smoked my cigar, silent, cold and stiff,

awaiting events.

The Baroness was the first to speak.

"Why do you hate me?"

"I don't hate you."

"Remember how you treated me only this morning!"

"Please, don't speak of it!"

The unaccustomed rudeness of my replies, for which there was no

adequate reason, was a strategical error. She saw through me and

changed her tactics.

"You wanted to run away from me," she continued. "Shall I tell you why

I suddenly went to Mariafred?"

"Probably for the same reason for which I decided to go to Paris."

"Then ... it's clear," she said.

"And now?"

I expected a scene. But she remained calm and regarded me mournfully.

I had to break the silence which was fraught with more danger than any

words could possibly contain.

"Now that you know my secret," I said, "let me give you a word of

warning. If you want me to come here occasionally, you mustn't ever

lose your head. My love for you is of such an exalted nature, that I

could live contentedly at your side, without any other wish but to see

you. If you should ever forget your duty, if you should betray by as

much as a look the secret which lies locked in our hearts, then I shall

confess everything to your husband, come what will!"

Carried away by my words, full of enthusiasm, she raised her eyes to

heaven.

"I swear it to you!... How strong and good you are!... How I admire

you! Oh! but I'm ashamed! I should like to surpass your honesty ...

shall I tell Gustav everything?"

"If you like ... but then we shall never meet again. After all, it's

not his business. The feelings which animate my heart are not criminal;

and even if he knew everything, would it be in his power to kill my

love! No! That I love the woman of my choice is my own affair as long

as my passion does not infringe the rights of another. However, do as

you please. I am prepared for anything!"

"No, no! He must know nothing; and since he permits himself every

licence----"

"There I don't agree with you! The cases are not identical. If he

chooses to degrade himself, so much the worse for him. But that's no

reason why----"

"No, no!..."

The ecstasy was over. We had come back to earth.

"No! No!" I repeated. "And don't you agree that it's beautiful, new,

almost unique--to love, to tell one another of it.... Nothing else!"

"It's as beautiful as a romance," she cried, clapping her hands like a

child.

"But it doesn't generally happen like that in fiction!"

"And how good it is to remain honest!"

"The only thing to do!"

"And we shall always meet as before, without fear----"

"And without reproach----"

"And without misunderstandings! And you are sure that Matilda is

nothing----"

"Oh! hush!"

The door opened. How commonplace! The two old gentlemen crossed the

drawing-room carrying a dark lantern.

"Notice how life is a medley of petty troubles and divine moments!" I

said to her; "notice how reality differs from fiction. Could I dare

to draw a scene like this in a novel or a drama without being accused

of being humdrum? Just think--a confession of love without kisses,

genuflexions or protestations, terminated by the appearance of two

old men throwing the light of a dark lantern on the lovers! And yet

therein lies the secret of Shakespeare's greatness, who shows us Julius

Cæsar in dressing-gown and slippers, starting from his sleep at night,

frightened by childish dreams."

The bell rang. The Baron and pretty Matilda were returning home. As

he had a guilty conscience, he overwhelmed us with amiability. And I,

eager to show myself in my new part, told him a barefaced lie.

"I've been quarrelling with the Baroness for the last hour!"

He gave us a scrutinising look, full of vindictiveness, and scenting

the air like a hound, seemed to catch the wrong scent.

IX

What unparalleled guilelessness it argues to believe that there could

be love without passion! There was danger even in the secret which

existed between us. It was like a child conceived in secrecy, it grew

and strove to see the light.

Our longing to meet and compare notes increased; we yearned to live

again through the last year in which we had been trying to deceive

one another. We resorted to all kinds of trickery. I introduced the

Baroness to my sister, who, having married the head-master of a school,

a man with an old, aristocratic name, in a way belonged to her set.

We often met by appointment; our meetings were harmless to begin with,

but after a while passion sprang up and desire awoke.

In the first days following our mutual confession, she gave me a packet

of letters, written partly before, partly after the thirteenth of

March. These letters, into which she had poured all her sorrow, all her

love, had never been intended to reach me.

"_Monday_.

"MY DEAR FRIEND,

"I am longing to see you, to-day as always. I want to thank you

for listening to me yesterday without that sarcastic smile with

which it is now your rule to regard me! I turn to you trustfully,

at a moment when I am in dire need of your friendship, and you

cover your face with a mask. Why? Is it necessary that you should

disguise your feelings? You have yourself admitted in one of your

letters that it is a mask. I hope it is, I can see it is, and yet

it hurts me, for it makes me think that I have committed a fault

of some sort ... and I wonder: What is he thinking of me?

"I am jealous of your friendship; I am afraid that some day you

might despise me. Tell me that it will never happen! You must be

good and loyal to me. You must forget that I am a woman--don't I

only too often forget it myself!

"I was not angry with you for what you said yesterday, but it

surprised and pained me. Do you really believe me capable of

wanting to excite my husband's jealousy for the sake of taking a

mean revenge? Think of the danger to which I should expose myself

if I attempted to win him back through jealousy! What should I

gain? His anger would fall upon your head, and we should for ever

be separated! And what would become of me without you, who are

dearer to me than life!

"I love you with a sister's tenderness, not with the whims of a

coquette.... It is true that I have known moments when I longed,

when it would have been heaven, to take your head into my hands,

to look deep into your dear eyes, so full of wisdom; and I am sure

I should have kissed you on your forehead, but never in your life

would you have received a purer kiss.

"I am not responsible for my affectionate temperament, and if you

were a woman, I should love you just as much, provided that I

could respect a woman as highly as I respect you....

"Your opinion of Matilda makes me very happy. One has to be a

woman to be pleased about such a thing. But what am I to do? Think

of my position in case everybody sided with her! And I am to

blame for whatever happens. I encouraged this flirtation because

I considered it no more serious than a child's game. Feeling

sure of his affection, I allowed my husband perfect liberty. The

consequences have proved my error....

"_Wednesday_.

"He is in love with her and has told me so. The matter has

surpassed all limits, and I have laughed at it. ... Think: after

seeing you to the door, he came back to me, took my hands,

looked into my face--I trembled, for my conscience was not

clear--and said entreatingly: 'Don't be angry with me, Marie! I

love Matilda!' What was I to do? Should I cry or laugh? And he

confessed this to me, to me who am tormented by remorse, forced to

love you from afar, hopelessly! Oh, these stupid ideas of honour!

How senseless they are! Let him indulge his passion! You are my

dear love, and my woman's heart shall never get the better of me

and make me forget my duties as a wife and mother. But ... notice

the conflicting double nature of my feelings ... I love you both,

and I could never live without him, the brave, honest friend of my

heart ... nor without you either."

"_Friday_.

"At last you have lifted the veil which for so long has hidden the

secret of my heart. And you don't despise me! Merciful God! You

even love me. You have spoken the words which you had determined

to leave for ever unspoken. You love me! And I am a guilty woman,

a criminal, because I love you in return. May God forgive me! For

I love him too, and could not bear the thought of leaving him.

"How strange it is!... To be loved! Loved tenderly! By him and

by you! I feel so happy, so calm, that my love cannot possibly

be a crime! Surely I should feel remorse if it were--or am I so

hardened?

"How ashamed I am of myself! It was I who had to speak the first

word of love. My husband is here, he puts his arms round me, and I

let him kiss me. Am I sincere? Yes! Why did he not take care of me

while there was yet time?

"The whole is like a novel. What will be the end? Will the heroine

die? Will the hero marry another? Will they be separated? And will

the end be satisfactory from a moral point of view?

"If I were with you at this moment, I should kiss your brow with

the same devotion with which the devotee kisses the crucifix, and

I should put from me all baseness, all artificiality....

Was this hypocrisy, or did I deceive myself? Were they nothing but

passion, these semi-religious ecstasies? No, not passion only. The

desire of propagation has become more complicated, and even with the

lower animals moral characteristics are transmitted through sexual

love. Therefore love affects both body and soul, and one is nothing

without the other. If it were but passion, why should she prefer a

delicate, nervous, sickly youth to a giant like him? If it were only

the love of the soul, why this longing to kiss me, why this admiration

for my small feet, my well-shaped hands and nails, my intellectual

forehead, my abundant hair? Or were those hallucinations caused by the

intoxication of her senses, excited by her husband's excesses? Or did

she feel instinctively that an ardent youth like me would make her far

more happy than the inert mass which she called her husband? She was

no longer jealous of his body, therefore she had ceased looking upon

him in the light of a lover. But she was jealous of my person, and

therefore she was in love with me!...

One day, when visiting my sister, the Baroness was seized with an

attack of hysterics. She threw herself on the sofa and burst into

tears, infuriated with the disgraceful conduct of her husband, who was

spending the evening with Matilda at a regimental ball.

In a passionate outburst she threw her arms round me and kissed me on

the forehead. I returned kiss for kiss. She called me by endearing

names.

The bond between us was growing stronger and my passion was increasing.

In the course of the evening I recited Longfellow's "Excelsior" to her.

Genuinely touched by this beautiful poem, I fixed my eyes on her, and

as if she were hypnotised, her face reflected every shade of feeling

expressed on my own. She had the appearance of an ecstatic, of a seer.

After supper her maid called for her with a cab to take her home. I

meant to come no further with her than the street, but she insisted on

my getting into the cab, and in spite of my protestations she ordered

her maid to sit on the box, by the side of the driver. As soon as I

was alone with her I took her in my arms, silently, without a word. I

felt her delicate body thrill and yield under my kisses. But I shrank

from crime--and left her at her door, unhurt, ashamed of herself and,

perhaps, also a little angry.

I no longer had any doubts now; I saw clearly. She was trying to tempt

me. It was she who had given the first kiss, she who had taken the

initiative in everything. From this moment I was going to play the part

of the tempter, for, although a man of firm principles on the point of

honour, I was by no means a Joseph.

On the following day we met at the National Museum.

How I adored her as I saw her coming up the marble staircase, under the

gilded ceiling, as I watched her little feet tripping over the flags of

variegated stucco, her aristocratic figure clothed in a black velvet

costume, trimmed with military braid. I hurried to meet her and, like a

page, bent my knees before her. Her beauty, which had blossomed under

my kisses, was striking. The rich blood in her veins shone through her

transparent cheeks: this statue, almost the statue of an old maid,

had quickened under my caresses, and grown warm at the fire of life.

Pygmalion had breathed on the marble and held a goddess in his arms.

We sat down before a statue of Psyche, acquired in the Thirty Years'

War. I kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her lips, and she received my

kisses with a rapturous smile. I played the tempter, employing all the

sophisms of the orator, all the arts of the poet.

"I entreat you," I said, "leave your polluted house; don't consent any

longer to live this life of three--or you'll force me to despise you.

Return to your mother, devote yourself to art; in a year you will be

able to appear before the footlights. Then you will be free to live

your own life."

She added fuel to the fire; I became more and more incensed and warmed

to my subject. I deluged her with a flood of words, the object of which

was to extract a promise from her to tell her husband everything, for

then, I argued, we should no longer be responsible for the consequences.

"But supposing things end badly for us?" she interposed.

"Even if we should lose everything! I could no longer love you if I

could no longer respect both of us. Are you a coward? Do you crave

the reward and refuse to bring the sacrifice? Be as noble as you are

beautiful, dare the fatal leap, even at the risk of perishing! Let

everything be lost save our honour! If we go on like this, we shall

both be guilty in a very short time, for my love is like lightning,

which will strike you! I love you as the sun loves the dew--to drink

it. Therefore, quick to the scaffold! Sacrifice your head so that you

may keep your hands clean! Don't imagine that I could ever debase

myself and be content to share you with a third, never, never!"

She feigned resistance, but in reality she threw a grain of powder into

the open flames. She complained of her husband and hinted at things,

the very thought of which made my blood boil.

He, the numskull, poor as myself, without prospects, indulged in the

luxury of two mistresses, while I, the man of talent, the aristocrat

of the future, sighed and writhed under the torture of my unsatisfied

longings.

But all of a sudden she veered round and tried to calm my excited

nerves by reminding me of our agreement to be brother and sister.

"No, not that dangerous game of brother and sister! Let us be man and

woman, lover and beloved! This alone is worthy of ourselves! I adore

you! I adore everything belonging to you, body and soul, your golden

hair and your straightforwardness, the smallest feet that ever wore

shoes in Sweden, your candour, your eyes which shine in the dusk,

your bewitching smile, your white stocking and your cherry-coloured

garter....

"What?"

"Yes, my lovely princess, I have seen everything! And now I want to

kiss your throat and the dimples on your shoulders; I will smother you

with my kisses, strangle you between my arms as with a necklet. My love

for you fills me with the strength of a god. Did you think me delicate?

I was an imaginary invalid, or, rather, I pretended to be ill! Beware

of the sick lion! Don't come near his den or he will kill you with his

caresses! Down with the dishonest mask! I want you and I will have

you! I've wanted you from the first moment I set eyes on you! The

story of Selma, the Finlander, is nothing but a fairy tale ... the

friendship of our dear Baron a lie ... he loathes me, the man of the

middle-classes, the provincial, the _déclassé_, as I loathe him, the

aristocrat!"

This avalanche of revelations excited her very little, for it told her

nothing new: she had been aware of it without my avowal.

And we separated with the firm resolution not to meet again until she

had told her husband everything.

* * * * *

I spent the evening at home, anxious and uneasy, waiting for telegrams

from the seat of war. To distract my thoughts, I emptied a sack

containing old books and papers on the floor, and sat down among

this litter to examine and classify it. But I found it impossible to

concentrate my thoughts on my task; I stretched myself out at full

length, resting the back of my head on my hands and, my eyes fixed with

a hypnotic stare on the candles burning in the old chandelier, I lost

myself in a reverie. I was longing for her kisses, and thinking out

plans of making her my own. As she was sensitive and strange, I felt

that the utmost delicacy would be necessary, that I must allow matters

to arrange themselves; that a single clumsy movement would spoil

everything.

I lighted a cigarette and imagined that I was lying in a meadow; it

amused me to view my little room from below. Everything seemed new to

me. The sofa, the witness of many pleasant hours, brought me back to my

dreams of love, which, however, were quickly paralysed by the fear that

happiness would be wrecked on the rocks of my uncompromising principles.

Analysing the thought which had checked my ardour, I discovered in it a

great deal of cowardice, fear of the consequences, a little sympathy

with the man who stood in danger of being betrayed, a little disgust

with the unclean pell-mell; a little genuine respect for the woman

whom I could not bear to see degrading herself; a little pity with the

daughter, a mere nothing of compassion with the mother of my beloved,

in case of a scandal; and quite in the background of my miserable heart

a vague presentiment of the difficulty I should find later on, if ever

I should wish to sever our connection.

"No," I said to myself, "all or nothing! She must be mine alone, and

for ever!"

While I was thus musing, there came a gentle tapping at my door, and

almost simultaneously a lovely head appeared in the opening, flooding

my attic with sunshine, and with its roguish smile drawing me away from

my papers into the arms of my beloved. After a hailstorm of kisses on

her lips, which were fresh with the cold outside, I asked--

"Well, what has he decided to do?"

"Nothing! I haven't told him yet!"

"Then you are lost! Flee, unhappy woman!"

And keeping firm hold of her, I took off her close-fitting fur coat,

removed her beaded hat and drew her to the fire. Then she found words.

"I hadn't the courage.... I wanted to see you once again before the

catastrophe, for God knows, he may decide to divorce me...."

I closed her lips with mine, pushed a little table to her seat and

brought from my cupboard a bottle of good wine and two glasses. By

the side of them I set a basket with roses and two lighted candles,

arranging everything in the manner of an altar. For a footstool I gave

her a priceless old edition of Hans Sachs, bound in calf, furnished

with gold locks and ornamented with a portrait of Luther. I had

borrowed the book from the Royal Library.

I poured out some wine. I gathered a rose and fastened it in the golden

thicket of her hair. My lips touched the glass raised to drink to her

health, to our love. I knelt down before her and worshipped her.

"How beautiful you are!"

For the first time she saw me as a lover. She was delighted. She took

my head between her hands, kissed it and smoothed with her fingers the

tangled strains of my unruly hair.

Her beauty filled me with respect. I looked at her with veneration, as

one looks at the statue of a saint. She was enchanted to see me without

the hated mask; my words intoxicated her, and she was filled with

delirious joy when she found that my love for her was at once tender,

respectful and full of ardour.

I kissed her shoes, blackening my lips; I embraced her knees without

touching the hem of her dress; I loved her just as she was, fully

dressed, chaste as an angel, as if she had been born clothed, with

wings outside her dress.

Suddenly the tears came into my eyes, I could not have said why.

"Are you crying?" she asked. "What is the matter?"

"I don't know. I'm too happy, that's all."

"You, capable of tears! You, the man of iron!"

"Alas! I know tears only too well!"

Being a woman of experience, she imagined that she possessed the secret

remedy for my secret sorrow.

She rose from the sofa and pretended to be interested in the papers

scattered about on the floor.

"You seemed to be stretched out on the grass when I came in," she said,

smiling archly. "What fun to make hay in the middle of the winter!"

She sat down on a pile of papers; I threw myself down beside her.

Another hailstorm of kisses, the goddess stooped towards me, ready to

surrender.

Gradually I drew her closer to me, holding her captive with my lips, so

as not to give her time to break the spell my eyes had cast over her,

and free herself. We sat on the "grass" like lovers, yielding to our

passion like fully dressed angels, and rose up content, happy, without

remorse, like angels who have not fallen.

Love is inventive! We had sinned without sinning, yielded without

surrendering. How precious is the love of a woman of experience! She is

merciful to the young apprentice; she finds her pleasure in giving, not

in receiving....

Suddenly she recovered her senses, remembered the claims of reality and

prepared to go.

"Until to-morrow, then!"

"Until to-morrow!"

X

He had been told everything, and she called herself guilty, for he had

wept. He had wept scalding tears! Was it simplicity or artfulness on

his part? Doubtless both. Love and delusion are inseparable, and it is

difficult to know ourselves as we really are.

But he was not angry with us, and did not insist on separating us, on

condition that we should respect his good name.

"He is more noble and generous than we are," she said in her letter,

"and he still loves both of us."

What a milksop! He consented to receive in his house a man who had

kissed his wife; he believed us to be sexless, able to live side by

side, like brother and sister.

It was an insult to my manhood; henceforth he had ceased to exist for

me.

I stayed at home, a prey to the bitterest disappointment. I had tasted

the apple, and it had been snatched from me. My imperious love had

repented; she was suffering from remorse; she overwhelmed me with

reproaches--she, the temptress! A fiendish idea flashed through my

mind. Had I been too reserved? Did she want to break with me because

I had been too timid? Since the thought of the crime from which I

shrank had not seemed to disturb her, her passion must be stronger than

mine.... But come back to me once more, my love, and I will teach you

better.

At ten o'clock I received a letter from the Baron, in which he said

that his wife was seriously ill.

My reply was a request to be left in peace. "I have been long enough

the cause of unpleasantness between you; forget me, as I will forget

you."

Towards noon a second letter arrived:

"Let us once more revive our old friendship. I have always respected

you, and, in spite of your error, I am convinced that you have behaved

like a man of honour. Let us bury the past. Come back to me as a

brother, and the matter will be forgotten."

The pathetic simplicity, the perfect confidence of the man touched me;

in my reply I mentioned my misgivings, and begged him not to play with

fire, but leave me in future unmolested.

At three o'clock in the afternoon I received a last communication: the

Baroness was dying; the doctor had just left her; she had asked for me.

The Baron entreated me not to refuse her request, and I went. Poor me!

I entered. The room smelt of chloroform. The Baron received me with

great agitation and tears in his eyes.

"What's the matter?" I asked, with the calmness of a doctor.

"I don't know. But she has been at death's door."

"And the doctor, what did he say?"

"He shook his head and said it was not a case for him."

"Has he given her a prescription?"

"No."

He took me into the dining-room, which had been transformed into a

sick-room. She was lying on a couch, stiff, haggard; her hair was

falling over her shoulders, her eyes glowed like red-hot coals. She

moved her hand, and her husband put it into mine. Then he returned into

the drawing-room and left us by ourselves. My heart remained unmoved; I

did not trust my eyes; the unusual spectacle roused my suspicions.

"Do you know that I nearly died?"

"Yes."

"And you don't feel sorry?"

"Oh yes!"

"You are not moved, you have no look of sympathy, no look of

commiseration."

"You have your husband!"

"Hasn't he himself brought us together?"

"What are you suffering from?"

"I'm very ill. I shall have to consult a specialist."

"Oh!"

"I'm afraid! It's terrible! If you knew how I have suffered!... Put

your hand on my head ... it does me good.... Now smile at me ... your

smile fills me with new life!..."

"The Baron---"

"You are going? You are leaving me?"

"What can I do for you?"

She began to cry.

"You surely can't want me to play the lover here, close to your child,

your husband?"

"You are a monster! A man without a heart! A----"

"Good-bye, Baroness!"

I went. The Baron accompanied me through the drawing-room, but, quick

though he was, he could not prevent me from catching sight of a woman's

skirt disappearing through one of the other doors.

This awakened the suspicion in me that the whole had been a farce.

The Baron closed the door behind me with a bang which echoed through

the staircase, and gave me the impression that I had been kicked out.

I felt sure that I had not been mistaken. I had assisted at the

_dénoûment_ of a sentimental play with a double plot.

This mysterious illness, what was it? Hysteria? No. Science has given

it the name of "nymphomania"; freely translated it means, the desire

of a woman for children, moderated and disguised by time and the

conventions, but suddenly breaking out with irresistible force.

This woman, always living in a state of semi-celibacy, unwilling to

take upon herself the burden of motherhood, and yet dissatisfied with

the incompleteness of her married life, was driven into the arms of a

lover, to the commission of a crime, and, at the very moment when she

thought that her lover was incontestably hers, he slipped through her

fingers, and he, too, left her unsatisfied.

How miserable a mistake was matrimony! How pitiful a passion was love!

When I had finished my analysis I had come to the conclusion that the

unsatisfactory nature of their relationship had driven both husband and

wife to seek happiness elsewhere. The disappointment at my flight had

brought the Baroness back into the arms of her husband, whose love had

received a fresh stimulus, and who would henceforth strive to make her

more happy.

They were reconciled, and everything was at an end.

Exit the devil.

The curtain falls.

* * * * *

No, it was not at an end.

She visited me again in my room, and I drew from her a full confession,

brutal in its candour.

In the first year of her marriage she knew nothing of the ecstasies of

love. After her baby was born, her husband grew indifferent to her, and

their relations became strained.

"Then you've never been happy with this man with the physique of a

giant?"

"Never ... sometimes perhaps ... hardly ever."

"And now?"

She blushed.

"The doctor has advised him not to go on sinning against nature."

She sank back on the sofa and hid her face in her hands.

Excited by these intimate confessions, I made an attempt to put my

arms round her. She offered no resistance, she trembled and breathed

heavily, but suddenly she felt remorse and repulsed me.

Strange enigma which was beginning to provoke me!

What did she want from me? Everything! But she shrank from the real

crime, the illegitimate child.

I took her in my arms and kissed her, I tried to rouse her passion. She

freed herself and left me, but, I thought, a shade less disappointed

than before.

And now, what?

Confess to the husband? It has been done.

Give him details?... There are no details to give.

* * * * *

She continued to visit me.

And whenever she came, she sat down on the sofa on the plea of fatigue.

I was ashamed of my timidity; furious at my humiliation; afraid

that she might think me a fool; conflicting emotions wore away my

self-control, and the day came when I watched her from my window,

walking away slowly, until she was hidden by the turn of the street. I

sighed heavily.

The son of the people had carried off the white skin, the plebeian had

won the aristocrat, the swineherd had mated with the princess! But he

had paid a heavy price.

* * * * *

A storm was brewing. All sorts of rumours circulated in the town. The

fair fame of the Baroness had suffered.

Her mother asked me to call on her. I went.

"Is it true that you are in love with my daughter?"

"It is true."

"And are you not ashamed?"

"I glory in it."

"She has told me that she loves you."

"I was aware of that.... I am sorry for you. I regret the possible

consequences, but what am I to do? No doubt it is a deplorable

business, but we are not guilty, neither she nor I. When we discovered

our danger, we warned the Baron. Wasn't that acting correctly?"

"I'm not complaining of your conduct now, but I must protect the honour

of my daughter, of her child, of the family! Surely you don't want to

ruin us?"

The poor old woman cried bitterly. She had put all her eggs in one

basket: the aristocratic alliance of her daughter, which was to

rehabilitate her own family. She roused my compassion, and I succumbed

to her sorrow.

"Command me," I said; "I will do whatever you wish."

"Leave this place, go away from here, I implore you."

"I will do so, but on one condition."

"And that is?"

"That you will ask Miss Matilda to return to her family."

"Is that an accusation?"

"More than that, a denunciation. For I believe I'm right in saying that

her presence at the Baron's house is not conducive to happiness."

"I agree with you. Oh, that girl! I shall tell her what I think of her!

But you, you will leave to-morrow?"

"To-night, if you like."

At this stage the Baroness appeared, and unceremoniously interrupted

our conversation.

"You must stay! You shall stay!" she said imperatively. "Matilda must

go!"

"Why?" asked her mother, in amazement.

"Because I mean to have a divorce. Gustav has treated me like an

abandoned woman before Matilda's stepfather. I shall prove to them that

they're mistaken."

What a heartrending scene! Is there a surgical operation so painful as

the tearing asunder of family ties? All passions are let loose, all

uncleanness hidden in the depth of the soul stands revealed.

The Baroness took me apart and repeated to me the contents of a letter

from her husband to Matilda: abuse of us, and an assurance of his

undying love for the girl, in terms which proved that he had deceived

us from the very beginning.

The ball has now gained the volume of a rock; it goes on rolling, and

crushes alike the innocent and the guilty.

* * * * *

In spite of all the coming and going a settlement seemed as far off as

ever.

Fresh misfortunes happened. The bank did not pay the ordinary yearly

dividend; ruin was menacing.

The threatening poverty was made the pretext for the divorce, for the

Baron could no longer maintain his family. For appearances' sake he

asked his colonel whether his wife's proposed theatrical career would

in any way interfere with his own. The colonel gave him to understand

that if his wife went on the stage, he would have to leave the service.

A splendid opportunity for abusing aristocratic prejudices!

During all this time the Baroness, under medical treatment for some

internal trouble, continued to live at her husband's house, although

they were now practically separated. She was always in pain, irritable

and despondent, and I found it impossible to rouse her from her deep

depression; my strenuous effort to inspire her with some of my youthful

confidence was wasted. In vain I drew for her glowing pictures of the

career of an artist, the independent life in a home of her own, a home

like mine, where she would enjoy freedom of body and soul. She listened

to me without replying; the stream of my words seemed to galvanise her

like a magnetic current, without penetrating to her consciousness.

* * * * *

An agreement between the two parties had been arrived at at last. It

was decided that after all legal formalities had been complied with,

the Baroness should proceed to Copenhagen, where an uncle of hers was

living. The Swedish consul at Copenhagen would communicate with her

on her supposed flight from her husband's house, and she would inform

him of her wish to have her marriage annulled. After that she would be

free to make her own plans for the future, and return to Stockholm. Her

dowry would remain in the possession of her husband, as well as all the

furniture, with the exception of a very few things; the little girl

would continue to live with her father, unless the latter contracted a

second marriage, but the Baroness would have the right to see her child

whenever she wished.

The financial question gave rise to a violent scene. To save the

remnants of a fortune which had almost disappeared, the father of the

Baroness had made a will in which he left everything to his daughter.

Her scheming mother had obtained possession of the inheritance, and

was paying her son-in-law a certain percentage. Since such a procedure

was illegal, the Baron insisted that the will should now come into

force. The old mother-in-law, furious at the reduction of her income,

denounced her son-in-law to her brother, Matilda's father, as the

girl's lover. The storm burst. The colonel threatened to cashier the

Baron; a lawsuit was impending.

Now, the Baroness left no stone unturned to save the father of her

child. And to clear him I was made the scapegoat.

I was prevailed upon to write a letter to Matilda's father, in which I

took the sins of everybody and the responsibility for all the mischief

on my own shoulders, called God to witness that the Baron and the girl

were innocent, and asked the offended father to forgive me for all the

crimes I had committed--I, the only penitent one!

It was a beautiful action and a good one, and the Baroness loved me for

it as a woman loves a man who has allowed her to trample on his honour,

his self-respect, his good name.

In spite of my resolution not to be mixed up in these unsavoury family

matters, I had been unable to steer clear of them.

The mother-in-law paid me many visits, and, always appealing to my love

for her daughter, tried to incite me against the Baron, but in vain; I

took my orders from no one but the Baroness. Moreover, on this point I

sided with the father. As he was taking charge of the child, the dowry,

imaginary or otherwise, belonged undoubtedly to him.

Oh, this month of April! What a springtime of love! The beloved woman

on the sick-bed, intolerable meetings at which the two families washed

their dirty linen, which I certainly never had the least desire to come

into contact with; tears; rudeness; a chaos which brought to light

everything base that had hitherto been hidden under the veneer of

education.

That comes of raising a nest of hornets about one's ears!...

No wonder that love suffered under such conditions. Where is the charm

of a woman who is always worn out with contention, whose conversation

bristles with legal terms?

Again and again I attempted to instil into her my thoughts of

consolation and hope, even though they were often anything but

spontaneous, for I had come to the end of my nerve-power; and she

accepted everything, sucked my brain dry, consumed my heart. In

exchange she looked upon me as a dustbin, into which she threw all her

rubbish, all her grief, all her troubles, all her cares.

In this hell I lived my life, dragged on my misery, worked for a

bare sufficiency. When she came to see me of an evening and found me

working, she sulked; and it was not until I had wasted a couple of

hours with tears and kisses that I succeeded in convincing her of my

love.

She conceived love as never-ending admiration, a servile readiness to

please, unceasing sacrifice.

I was crushed down by my heavy responsibility. I could see the moment

not very far off when misery, or the birth of a child, would force

me into a premature marriage. She had claimed but three thousand

francs for one year, with which she intended to defray the costs of

her artistic training. I had no faith in her dramatic career. Her

pronunciation still betrayed her Finnish descent, and her features

were too irregular for the stage. To keep her from brooding I made her

repeat poetry. I constituted myself her teacher. But she was too much

occupied with her disappointments, and when, after a rehearsal, she had

to admit that her progress was very small, she was inconsolable.

How dreary our love was! Instead of being the source from which flowed

strength to cope with our difficulties, it was a prolonged torture.

Joy was no sooner born than it was slain, and we parted, dissatisfied,

robbed of the greatest happiness life has to give. A poor phantom was

our love!

But my monogamic nature recoiled from change. Our love, sad as it was,

was yet the source from which sprang exquisite spiritual joys, and my

inextinguishable longing was the guarantee for its endurance.

XI

It was on the first of May. All the necessary documents had been

signed. Her departure was fixed for the day after to-morrow. She came

to me and threw her arms round me.

"Now I belong to you alone; take me!"

As we had never discussed marriage, I did not quite understand what she

meant, and we sat in my little attic, sad and thoughtful. Everything

was permitted to us now, but temptation had diminished. She accused

me of indifference, and I proved the contrary to her. Thereupon she

accused me of sensuality.

Adoration, incense it was what she wanted!

She had hysterics, and complained that I no longer loved her.

Already!...

After half-an-hour of flattery and blandishments she grew calmer,

but she was not really herself until she had reduced me to tears of

despair. Then she made a fuss of me.

The more humble I was, the more I knelt before her, small and

miserable, the more she loved me. She hated strength and manliness in

me; to win her love I had to pretend to be wretched, so that she could

pose as the stronger, play "little mother" and console me.

We had supper in my room; she laid the table and prepared the meal.

After supper I claimed the rights of a lover, and she made no

resistance.

How wonderful is the rejuvenating power of love! A young girl lay in

my arms, trembling, and brutality was transformed into tenderness.

Surely the animal had no part in this union of souls! Alas! is it ever

possible to say where the spiritual ends and the animal begins?

Reassured on the question of her health, she gave herself to me

whole-heartedly; she was radiant with joy, content and happy; her

beauty shone out; her eyes sparkled. My poor attic had become a temple,

a sumptuous palace; I lighted the broken chandelier, my reading lamp,

all the candles, to illuminate our happiness, the joy of living, the

only thing which makes our miserable lives endurable.

For these moments of rapture accompany us on our thorny pilgrimage

through life; the memory of these fleeting hours helps us to live, and

outlive our former selves.

"Don't speak ill of love," I said to her. "Worship nature in all her

forces; honour God, who compels us to be happy in spite of ourselves!"

She made no reply, for she was happy. Her yearning was stilled; my

kisses had driven the warm blood through her beating heart into her

cheeks; the flame of the candle was mirrored in her eyes moist with

tears; the rainbow tints of her veins appeared more vivid, like the

plumage of the birds in the springtime. She looked like a girl of

sixteen, so delicate, so pure were her contours; the dainty head with

its masses of golden hair, half-buried in the cushions, might have been

a child's.

Thus she reclined on my sofa, like a goddess, allowing me to worship

her, while she regarded me with furtive glances, half shamefaced, half

provoking.

How chaste in her abandonment is the beloved woman when she surrenders

herself to the caresses of her lover! And man, though her superior

mentally, is only happy when he has won the woman who is his true

mate. My former flirtations, my love affairs with women of a lower

class, appeared to me like crimes, like a sin against the race. The

white skin, the perfect feet, the delicate hands, were they signs of

degeneration? Were they not rather on a par with the glossy skin of

the wild beast, its slim, sinewy legs, which show hardly any muscle?

The beauty of a woman is the sum total of characteristics which are

worthy of transmission through the agency of the man who can appreciate

them. This woman had been pushed aside by her husband; therefore she no

longer belonged to him, for she had ceased to please him. He could see

no beauty in her, and it was left to me to achieve the blossoming of a

flower, the rare loveliness of which the seer, the elect only, could

perceive.

Midnight was striking. From the barracks close by came the "Who goes

there?" of the relieving guards. It was time to part.

I accompanied my beloved on her way home, and, as we were walking along

side by side, I tried to kindle in her the fire of my enthusiasm, my

new hopes; I startled her with the plans which her kisses had ripened

in me. She came closer, as if to find strength in contact with me, and

I gave her back tenfold what I had received from her.

When we had arrived at the high railings she noticed that she had

forgotten her key. How annoying! But, bent on showing her my mettle

by penetrating into the lion's den, I climbed the railings, dashed

across the courtyard and knocked at the front door, prepared for a

stormy reception from the Baron. My throbbing heart was thrilled by

the thought of fighting my rival before her eyes. The favoured lover

was transformed into a hero! But, luckily, it was only a servant who

came to open the door, and we said good-night to each other formally,

calmly, with the maid, who had not taken the trouble to respond to our

"Good-evening," looking on in contemptuous silence.

* * * * *

Henceforth she felt sure of my love, and so she abused it.

She came to see me to-day. She could not find words enough to praise

her husband. Deeply affected by Matilda's departure, he had succumbed

to his wife's pressure, and made her a promise to save appearances by

accompanying her to the station, for, she argued, if both he and I were

to see her off, her departure would not have the appearance of flight.

Moreover, she told me that the Baron, no longer angry with me, had

consented to receive me at his house, and, in order to put a stop to

the rumours, show himself during the next few days about the town in my

company.

I appreciated the generosity of this big, ingenuous child, with the

honest heart, and, out of consideration for him, I demurred.

"We're not going to disgrace him like that. Never!"

"Remember that it is a question of my child's honour."

"Doesn't his honour count for something?"

But she laughed at the idea of considering other people's honour.

Looked upon me as eccentric.

"But that beats everything! You're making me a by-word, you're

degrading us all! It's folly! It's unworthy!" I exclaimed.

She cried; and, after she had sobbed for an hour and overwhelmed me

with reproaches, I succumbed to the irresistible weapon of her tears,

and consented to do her bidding. But I cursed the despot, I cursed the

falling crystal drops which increased tenfold the power of her glances.

She was stronger than both her husband and myself. She was leading us

by the nose into disgrace! Why did she want this reconciliation? Was

she afraid of a war to the knife between me and the Baron? Did she

dread possible disclosures?...

... What a punishment she had inflicted on me by compelling me to

revisit this dreary house! But, cruel egoist that she was, she had

no sympathy with another's terrors. I have had to promise her, on my

oath, to deny the whole story of the illicit relationship which existed

between the Baron and her cousin, so as to stop all slander. I went to

this last meeting with slow steps and a sinking heart.

The little garden smiled at me with its blossoming cherry trees, its

sweet-scented daffodils. The shrubbery, where her marvellous beauty had

bewitched me, was bursting into leaf; the turned-up flower-beds looked

like black shrouds spread out on the lawn; I pictured the forsaken

little girl wandering about there alone, looked after by a servant, and

learning her lessons; I pictured her growing up, awakening to the facts

of life, and being told one day that her mother had deserted her.

I mounted the stairs of the fatal house, which was built against a sand

quarry, and called up the memories of my childhood. Friendship, family,

love, all had been jeopardised, and, in spite of our efforts to comply

with the law of the land, crime had stained its threshold.

Who was to blame?

The Baroness opened the folding doors and secretly kissed me between

the wings. I could not suppress a momentary feeling of loathing,

and indignantly pushed her aside. It reminded me of the servants'

flirtations at the back door, and filled me with disgust. Behind the

door! Slut! without pride, without dignity!

She pretended that I was reluctant to enter the drawing-room, and asked

me in a loud voice to come in, at the very moment when, embarrassed by

the humiliating situation in which I found myself, I hesitated, and

was on the point of retracing my footsteps. A flash from her eyes, and

my hesitation was gone; paralysed by her self-command, I gave in.

Everything in the drawing-room pointed to the breaking up of the

household. Underlinen, dresses, petticoats were scattered all over the

furniture. The writing-table was littered with a pile of stockings, a

short time ago the delight of my eyes, to-day an abomination. She came

and went, counted and folded up, brazenly, shamelessly.

"Had I corrupted her in so short a time?" I asked myself, gazing at

this exhibition of a respectable woman's underclothing.

She examined one piece after another, and put on one side everything

which needed repairing; she noticed that on one garment the tapes were

missing; she laid it aside with perfect unconcern.

I seemed to be present at an execution; I felt sick with misery,

while she listened absent-mindedly to my futile conversation about

unimportant details. I was waiting for the Baron, who had locked

himself into the dining-room and was writing letters.

At last the door opened; I started apprehensively, but it was only the

little girl who came in, puzzled to know the reason of all this upset.

She ran up to me, accompanied by her mother's spaniel, and held up

her forehead to be kissed. I blushed. I felt angry, and turned to the

Baroness.

"You might at least have spared me this!"

But she did not understand what I meant.

"Mamma is going away, darling, but she'll soon be back and bring you

lots of toys."

The little dog begged for a caress--he, too!

A little later the Baron appeared.

He walked up to me, broken, crushed, and pressed my hand, unable to

utter a word. I honoured his evident grief by a respectful silence, and

he withdrew again.

The dusk was beginning to gather in the corners of the room. The maid

lighted the lamps without seeming to notice my presence. Supper was

announced. I wanted to go. But the Baron added his pressing invitation

to that of the Baroness, and in so touching and sincere a manner that I

accepted and stayed.

And we sat down to supper, the three of us, as in the old days. It

was a solemn moment. We talked of all that had happened, and with

moist eyes asked one another the question: "Who is to blame?" Nobody,

destiny, a series of incidents, paltry in themselves, a number of

forces. We shook hands, clinked our glasses together and spoke of our

undying friendship exactly as in the days gone by. The Baroness alone

kept up her spirits. She made the programme for the following day: the

meeting at the railway station, the walks through the town, and we

agreed to everything.

At last I rose to go. The Baron accompanied us into the drawing-room.

There he laid the hand of the Baroness into mine and said, with choking

voice--

"Be her friend. My part is played out. Take care of her, guard her from

the wickedness of the world, cultivate her talent: you are better able

to do it than I, a poor soldier. God protect you!"

He left us; the door closed behind him, and we were alone.

Was he sincere at that moment? I thought so at the time, and I should

like to think so still. He was of a sentimental nature, and, in his

way, fond of us; doubtless, the thought of seeing the mother of his

child in the hands of an enemy would have been painful to him.

It is possible that later on, under adverse influence, he boasted of

having fooled us. But such a thing would really have been foreign to

his character--and is it not a well-known fact that no one likes to

admit having been duped?

It was six o'clock at night. I was pacing the large hall of the Central

Station. The train for Copenhagen would leave at six-fifteen, and

neither the Baron nor the Baroness had appeared.

I felt like the spectator of the last act of a terrible tragedy, I was

longing wildly for the end. Another quarter of an hour and there would

be peace. My nerves, disordered by these successive crises, required

rest, and the coming night would restore some of the nerve force which

I had used up and squandered for the love of a woman.

She arrived at the last moment, in a cab, drawn by a mare which the

driver was leading by the bridle.

Always careless and always too late!

She rushed towards me like a lunatic.

"The traitor! He has broken his word! He's not coming!" she exclaimed

so loudly that she attracted the attention of the passers-by.

It was certainly unfortunate, but I could not help respecting him for

it.

"He's quite right. He has common-sense on his side," I said, seized

with a spirit of contradiction.

"Be quick! Take a ticket for Copenhagen, or I shall stay here!" she

ordered.

"No! If I went with you it would look like an elopement. All Stockholm

would talk about it to-morrow."

"I don't care.... Make haste!"

"No! I won't!"

But I could not help pitying her at the moment, and the situation was

becoming unbearable. A quarrel, a lover's quarrel was inevitable.

She knew it instinctively, and, seizing my hands, she implored me

with her eyes; the ice melted; the sorceress won; I wavered ... I

succumbed....

"To Katrineholm then!"

"Very well, if you'd rather."

She was having her luggage registered.

Everything was lost, including honour, and I had before me the prospect

of a painful journey.

The train moved out of the station. We were alone in a first-class

compartment. The Baron's non-appearance had depressed us. It was an

unforeseen danger and a bad omen. An uneasy silence reigned in the

carriage; one of us had to break it. She was the one to speak.

"Axel, you don't love me any more!"

"Perhaps not," I replied, worn out by a month of chaos.

"And I have sacrificed everything to you!"

"Sacrificed everything?... To your love, perhaps, but not to me. And

have I not sacrificed my life to you? You are angry with Gustav and

you're venting your anger on me ... be reasonable."

Tears, tears! What a wedding tour! I steeled my nerves, put on my

armour. I became indifferent, impenetrable.

"Restrain your emotions! From to-day you must use your common-sense.

Weep, weep until the source of your tears is dry, but then lift up

your head. You are a foolish woman, and I have honoured you as a

queen, as a ruler! I have done your bidding because I thought myself

the weaker of the two! Unfortunately! Don't make me despise you. Don't

ever try to blame me alone for what has happened. I admired Gustav's

shrewdness last night. He has realised that the great events in life

have always more than one cause. Who is to blame? You? I? He? She? The

threatening ruin, your passion for the stage, your internal trouble,

the inheritance from your thrice-married grandfather? Your mother's

hatred of bearing children which is the cause of your vacillating

disposition? The idleness of your husband, whose profession left him

too much leisure? My instincts? The instincts of the man who has risen

from the lower classes? My accidental meeting with your Finnish friend

who brought us together? An endless number of motives, a few of which

only are known to us. Don't debase yourself before the mob who will

unanimously condemn you to-morrow; don't believe, like those poor in

spirit, that you can solve such an intricate problem by taking neither

the crime nor the criminal seriously!... And, moreover, have I seduced

you? Be candid with yourself, with me, while we're here alone, without

witnesses."

But she would not be candid.

She could not, for candour is not a woman's characteristic.

She knew herself to be an accomplice in crime; she was tortured by

remorse. She had but one thought, to ease her conscience by throwing

the whole blame on me.

I left her to herself, and wrapped myself in a callous silence.

Night fell. I opened the window and leaned against the door, gazing

at the quickly-passing black Scotch firs, behind which the pale moon

was rising. Then a lake passed, surrounded by birch trees; a brook

bordered by alders; cornfields, meadows, and then Scotch firs again, a

long stretch of them. A mad desire to throw myself out of the carriage

seized me; a desire to escape from this prison where I was watched by

an enemy, kept spell-bound by a witch. But the anxiety for her future

oppressed me like a nightmare; I felt responsible for her, who was a

stranger to me, for her unborn children, for the support of her mother,

her aunt, her whole family, for centuries to come.

I should make it my business to procure for her success on the stage; I

should bear all her sorrows, her disappointments, her failures, so that

one day she could throw me in the dust like a squeezed-out lemon--me,

my whole life, my brain, the marrow of my spine, my life-blood; all

in exchange for the love which I gave her, and which she accepted and

called "sacrificing herself to me." Delusions of love! hypnotism of

passion!

She sat without moving until ten o'clock, sulking. One more hour and we

should have to say good-bye.

All at once, with a word of apology, she put her two feet on the

cushioned seat, pretending to be worn out with fatigue. Her languid

glances, her tears had left me unmoved; I had kept my head, my strength

of purpose in spite of her fallacious logic. Now everything collapsed.

I beheld her adorable boots, a tiny piece of her stocking.

Down on your knees, Sampson! Put your head in her lap, press your

cheeks against her knees, ask her to forgive you for the cruel words

with which you have lashed her--and which she didn't even understand!

Slave! Coward! You lie in the dust before a stocking, you, who thought

yourself strong enough to conquer a world! And she, she only loves you

when you debase yourself; she buys you cheaply at the price of a few

moments of gratified passion, for she has nothing to lose.

The engine whistled; the train glided into the station; I had to leave

her. She kissed me with motherly affection, made the sign of the cross

on my forehead--although she was a Protestant--commended me to the

Lord, begged me to take care of myself, and not to give way to fretting.

The train steamed out into the night, choking me with its bituminous

smoke.

I breathed--at last--the cool evening air, and enjoyed my freedom.

Alas! but for a moment. No sooner had I arrived at the village inn

than I broke down. I loved her, yes, I loved her, just as I had seen

her at the moment of parting; for that moment recalled to me the first

sweet days of our friendship, when she was the lovely, womanly tender

mother, who spoiled and caressed me as if I had been a little child.

And yet I loved her ardently, desired to make this stormy woman my wife.

I asked for writing material, and wrote her a letter in which I told

her that I would pray to God for her happiness.

Her last embrace had led me back to God, and, under the influence of

her parting kiss, still fresh on my lips, I denied the new faith, which

teaches the progress of humanity.

* * * * *

The first stage in the downfall of a man had been reached; the others

were sure to follow--to utter degradation, to the verge of insanity.