"I've only had one: three francs!"
"Riding lessons!"
"Two: five francs."
"Books!"
"Books? Ten francs—together thirty francs; let us say one hundred francs; that leaves five hundred francs for incidental expenses.... Preposterous!"
"Do you mean to say I'm robbing you? You cad!" What could I say? Nothing at all!...
I was a cad, and on the following day all her friends in Sweden were informed of the progress of my insanity.
And gradually the myth grew and developed. The salient characteristics of my personality became more and more unmistakable as time went on, and instead of the harmless poet, a mythological figure was sketched, blackened, touched up until it closely resembled a criminal.
I made an attempt to escape to Italy, where I felt sure of meeting artists and men after my own heart. The attempt was a failure. We returned to the shores of the Lake of Geneva, there to await Marie's confinement.
When the child was a few days old, Marie, the martyr, the oppressed wife, the slave without rights, implored me to have it baptised. She knew very well that in my controversial writings I had fought Christianity tooth and nail, and was therefore strongly opposed to the ritual of the church.