My little one is as jealous as a lover about my thoughts; she seems to watch for the exact opportunity to destroy a carefully-woven web of thought with her prattle—but no, it is not she who does it; she is only an instrument, but I seem to be the object of deliberate attacks by a poor little innocent. I go on with slow steps; I don't seek to escape any more, but my soul is a prisoner, and my brain exhausted by the effort of continually having to descend to a child's level. What, however, pains me intensely is the deep, reproachful look she casts at me when she thinks I find her a nuisance, and imagines that I love her no longer. Then her open joyous little face falls, her looks are averted, her heart is closed to me, and I feel myself bereft of the light which this child had brought into my dark soul. I kiss her, take her on my arm, look for flowers and pretty pebbles for her, cut a switch for her, and pretend to be a cow which she is driving to the meadow. She is contented and happy, and life smiles at me again.
I have sacrificed my morning hour. So do I atone for the evil which in a moment of madness I had wished to conjure down on this angel's head. What a penance—to be loved! Truly the powers are not so cruel as we are!
[1] The title of Strindberg's first autobiography.
[IX]
EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF A DAMNED SOUL
October, November, 1896
The Brahmin has fulfilled his duty as regards life when he has begotten a child. Then he goes into the desert, to dedicate himself to solitude and asceticism.
My mother-in-law.—"What have you done in your former human existence that Fate deals so hardly with you?"