THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL

BY

AUGUST STRINDBERG

TRANSLATED BY ELLIE SCHLEUSSNER

BOSTON

SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY

PUBLISHERS

1913

[Contents]

Translated from the "Litterarisches Echo,"

August 15, 1911

STRINDBERG'S WORKS

(BY I.E. PORITZKY, BERLIN)

The republication of The Confession of a Fool represents the last link in the chain of Strindberg's autobiographical novels. A German version of the book was published as far back as 1893, but it was mutilated, abbreviated, corrupted, and falsified to such an extent that the attorney-general, misled by the revolting language, blamed the author for the misdeeds of the translator and prohibited the sale of the book. This was a splendid advertisement for this profound work, but there were many who would have rejoiced if the translation had been completely ignored. It distorted Strindberg's character and was the cause of many prejudices which exist to this day.

Schering's new translation is an attempt to make reparation for this crime. "It is impossible," he says, "that any attorney-general can now doubt the high morality of this book." Strindberg himself has called it a terrible book, and has regretted that he ever wrote it. He has never published it in Swedish, his own language, because not only is it too personal in character, but it also revealed a still bleeding wound. It contains the relentless description of his first marriage, so superbly candid an account, that one is reminded of the last testament of a man for whom death has no longer any terror. We know from his fascinating novel Separated, how painful the burden was which he had to bear, and how terribly he suffered during the period of his first marriage. So much so, indeed, that he had to write this book before he could face the thought of death with composure. Doubtless, a man for whom life holds no longer any charm would give us a genuinely truthful account of his inner life, and there is no denying that a book which takes its entire matter from the inner life is of vastly greater importance and on an immeasurably higher level than a million novels, be they written ever so well. The great importance of The Confession of a Fool lies in the fact that it depicts the struggle of a highly intellectual man to free himself from the slavery of sexuality, and from a woman who is a typical representative of her sex.

Apart from this, it is an intense joy from an artistic point of view to follow the "confessor" through the book, as he looks at himself from all sides in order to gain self-knowledge; that he conceals nothing from us, not even those deep secrets which he would fain keep even in the face of death. One sees Strindberg brooding over his own soul to fathom its depths. He plumbs its hidden profoundnesses, he takes to pieces the inner wheels of his mechanism, so as to know for himself and to show us how he is made and what is the cause of the instinct which drives him to confess and to create. He opens wide his heart and lets us see that he carries in his breast his heaven and also his horrible hell. We see angels and devils fighting in his soul for supremacy, and the divine in him stepping between them with its creative Let there be!

THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL

[PART I]

I

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

I well remember the large room of the Royal Library which extended through a whole wing of the Castle, with its beechen wainscoting, brown with age like the meerschaum of a much-used cigar-holder. The enormous room, with its rococo headings, garlands, chains and armorial bearings, round which, at the height of the first floor, ran a gallery supported by Tuscan columns, was yawning like a great chasm underneath my feet; with its hundred thousand volumes it resembled a gigantic brain, with the thoughts of long-forgotten generations neatly arranged on shelves.

A passage running from one end of the room to the other divided the two principal parts, the walls of which were completely hidden by shelves fourteen feet high. The golden rays of the spring sun were falling through the twelve windows, illuminating the volumes of the Renaissance, bound in white and gold parchment, the black morocco bindings mounted with silver of the seventeenth century, the red-edged volumes bound in calf of a hundred years later, the green leather bindings which were the fashion under the Empire, and the cheap covers of our own time. Here theologians were on neighbourly terms with apostles of magic, philosophers hobnobbed with naturalists, poets and historians dwelt in peace side by side. It reminded one of a geological stratum of unfathomable depth where, as in a puddingstone, layer was piled upon layer, marking the successive stages arrived at by human folly or human genius.

I can see myself now. I had climbed on to the encircling gallery, and was engaged in arranging a collection of old books which a well-known collector had just presented to the library. He had been clever enough to ensure his own immortality by endowing each volume with his ex-libris bearing the motto "Speravit infestis."

Since I was as superstitious as an atheist, this motto, meeting my gaze day after day whenever I happened to open a volume, had made an undeniable impression on me. He was a lucky fellow, this brave man, for even in misfortune he never abandoned hope.... But for me all hope was dead. There seemed to be no chance whatever that my drama in five acts, or six tableaux, with three transformation scenes on the open stage, would ever see the footlights. Seven men stood between me and promotion to the post of a librarian—seven men, all in perfect health, and four with a private income. A man of twenty-six, in receipt of a monthly salary of twenty crowns, with a drama in five acts stowed away in a drawer in his attic, is only too much inclined to embrace pessimism, this apotheosis of scepticism, so comforting to all failures. It compensates them for unobtainable dinners, enables them to draw admirable conclusions, which often have to make up for the loss of an overcoat, pledged before the end of the winter.

Notwithstanding the fact that I was a member of a learned Bohemia, which had succeeded an older, artistic Bohemia, a contributor to important newspapers and excellent, but badly paying magazines, a partner in a society founded for the purpose of translating Hartmann's Philosophy of the Unconscious, a member of a secret federation for the promotion of free love, the bearer of the empty title of a "royal secretary," and the author of two one-act plays which had been performed at the Royal Theatre, I had the greatest difficulty to make ends meet. I hated life, although the thought of relinquishing it had never crossed my mind; on the contrary, I had always done my best to continue not only my own existence but also that of the race. It cannot be denied that pessimism, misinterpreted by the multitude and generally confused with hypochondria, is really a quite serene and even comforting philosophy of life. Since everything is relatively nothing, why make so much fuss, particularly as truth itself is mutable and short-lived? Are we not constantly discovering that the truth of yesterday is the folly of to-morrow? Why, then, waste strength and youth in discovering fresh fallacies? The only proven fact is that we have to die. Let us live then! But for whom? For what purpose? Alas!...

When Bernadotte, that converted Jacobite, ascended the throne and all the rubbish which had been discarded at the end of the last century was re-introduced, the hopes of the generation of 1860, to which I belonged, were dashed to the ground with the clamorously advertised parliamentary reform. The two houses, which had taken the place of the four estates, consisted for the greater part of peasants. They turned Parliament into a sort of town council, where everybody, on the best of terms with everybody else, looked after his own little affairs, without paying the least regard to the great problems of life and progress. Politics were nothing more nor less than a compromise between public and private interests. The last remnants of faith in what was then "the ideal" were vanishing in a ferment of bitterness. To this must be added the religious reaction which marked the period after the death of Charles XV, and the beginning of the reign of Queen Sophia of Nassau. There were plenty of reasons, therefore, to account for an enlightened pessimism, reasons other than personal ones....

The dust caused by the rearrangement of the books was choking me. I opened the window for a breath of fresh air and a look at the view beyond. A delicious breeze fanned my face, a breeze laden with the scent of lilac and the rising sap of the poplars. The lattice-work was completely hidden beneath the green leaves of the honey-suckle and wild vine; acacias and plane trees, well acquainted with the fatal whims of a northern May, were still holding back. It was spring, though the skeleton of shrub and tree was still plainly visible underneath the tender young green. Beyond the parapet with its Delft vases bearing the mark of Charles XII, the masts of the anchored steamers were rising, gaily decorated with flags in honour of the May-day festival. Behind them glittered the bottle-green line of the bay, and from its wooded shores on either side the trees were mounting higher and higher, gradually, like steps, pines and Scotch firs on one side and soft green foliage on the other. All the boats lying at anchor were flying their national colours, more or less symbolic of the different nations. England with the dripping scarlet of the blood of her famous cattle; Spain striped red and yellow, like the Venetian blinds of a Moorish balcony; the United States with their striped bed-tick; the gay tricolour of France by the side of the gloomy German flag with its sinister iron cross close to the flagstaff, ever reminiscent of mourning; the jerkinet of Denmark; the veiled tricolour of Russia. They were all there, side by side, with outspread wings, under the blue cover of the northern sky. The noise of carriages, whistles, bells and cranes lent animation to the picture; the combined odours of oil, leather, salt herrings and groceries mingled with the scent of the lilac. An easterly wind blowing from the open sea, cooled by the drift ice of the Baltic, freshened the atmosphere.

I forgot my books as soon as I turned my back to them and was leaning out of the window, all my senses taking a delicious bath; below, the guards were marching past to the strains of the march from Faust. I was so intoxicated with the music, the flags, the blue sky, the flowers, that I had not noticed the porter entering my office in the meantime with the mail. He touched my shoulder, handed me a letter and disappeared.

Hm!... a letter from a lady.

I hastily opened the envelope, anticipating some delightful adventure ... surely it must be something of that sort ... it was!

"Meet me punctually at five o'clock this afternoon before No. 65 Parliament Street. You will know me by the roll of music in my hand."

A short time ago a little vixen had made a fool of me, and I had sworn to take advantage of the first favourable opportunity to revenge myself. Therefore I was willing enough. There was only one thing which jarred on me; the commanding, dictatorial tone of the note offended my manly dignity. How could this unknown correspondent dare to attack me unawares in this manner? What were they thinking of, these women, who have such a poor opinion of us men? They do not ask, they command their conquests!

As it happened I had planned an excursion with some of my friends for this very afternoon. And, moreover, the thought of a flirtation in the middle of the day in one of the principal streets of the town was not very alluring.

At two o'clock, however, I went into the chemical laboratory where the excursionists had arranged to assemble. They were already crowding the ante-room: doctors and candidates of philosophy and medicine, all of them anxious to learn the programme of the entertainment in store. I had made up my mind in the meantime, and with many apologies refused to be one of the party. They clamoured for my reasons. I produced my letter and handed it to a zoologist who was looked upon as an expert in all matters pertaining to love; he shook his head while perusing it.

"No good, that...." he muttered disconnectedly; "wants to be married ... would never sell herself ... family, my dear old chap ... straight path ... but do what you like. You'll find us in the Park, later on, if the spirit moves you to join us, and I have been wrong about the lady...."

At the hour indicated I took up my position near the house mentioned, and awaited the appearance of the unknown letter-writer.

The roll of music in her hand, what was it but a proposal of marriage? It differed in no way from the announcements on the fourth page of certain newspapers. I suddenly felt uneasy; too late—the lady had arrived and we stood looking at each other.

My first impression—I believe in first impressions—was quite vague. She was of uncertain age, between twenty-nine and forty, fantastically dressed. What was she? Artist or blue-stocking? A sheltered woman or one living a free and independent life? Emancipated or cocotte? I wondered....

She introduced herself as the fiancée of an old friend of mine, an opera singer, and said that he wished me to look after her while she was staying in town. This was untrue, as I found out later on.

She was like a little bird, twittering incessantly. After she had talked for half-an-hour I knew all about her; I knew all her emotions, all her thoughts. But I was only half interested, and asked her if I could do anything for her.

"I take care of a young woman!" I exclaimed, after she had explained what she wanted. "Don't you know that I am the devil incarnate?"

"You only think you are," she replied; "but I know you thoroughly. You're unhappy, that's all. You ought to be roused from your gloomy fancies."

"You know me thoroughly? You really think so? I'm afraid all you know is the now antiquated opinion your fiancé has of me."

It was no use talking, my "charming friend" was well informed and knew how to read a man's heart, even from a distance. She was one of those obstinate creatures who strive to sway the spirits of men by insinuating themselves into the hidden depths of their souls. She kept up a large correspondence, bombarded all her acquaintances with letters, gave advice and warning to young people, and knew no greater happiness than to direct and guide the destinies of men. Greedy of power, head of a league for the salvation of souls, patroness of all the world, she had conceived it her mission to save me!

She was a schemer of the purest water, with little intelligence but a great deal of female impudence.

I began to tease her by making fun of everything, the world, men, religion. She told me my ideas were morbid.

"Morbid! My dear lady, my ideas morbid? They are, on the contrary, most healthy and of the latest date. But what about yours now? They are relics of a past age, commonplaces of my boyhood, the rubbish of rubbish, and you think them new? Candidly speaking, what you offer me as fresh fruit is nothing but preserved stuff in badly soldered tins. Away with it! It's rotten! You know what I mean."

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

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

I had not quite got over my excitement on the following morning when I received a communication from her. It was a vainglorious letter in which she overwhelmed me with reproaches, largely tempered by forbearance and compassion; she expressed ardent wishes for my mental health, and concluded by arranging a second meeting, and stating that we ought to pay a visit to her fiancé's aged mother.

As I rather pride myself on my manners, I resigned myself to my fate; but, determined to get off as cheaply as possible, I made up my mind to appear perfectly indifferent to all questions relating to religion, the world and everything else.

But how wonderful! The lady, dressed in a tightly fitting cloth dress, trimmed with fur, and wearing a large picture hat, greeted me most cordially; she was full of the tender solicitude of an elder sister, avoided all dangerous ground, and was altogether so charming that our souls, thanks to a mutual desire to please, met in friendly talk, and before we parted a feeling of genuine sympathy had sprung up between us.

After having paid our call we took advantage of the lovely spring day and went for a stroll.

I am not sure whether it was from an imperative desire to pay her out, or whether I felt annoyed at having been made to play the part of a confidant; whatever it was, the iniquitous idea occurred to me to tell her, in strict confidence, that I was practically engaged to be married; this was only half a lie, for I was really paying at that time a good deal of attention to a certain lady of my acquaintance.

On hearing this, her manner changed. She talked to me like a grandmother, began to pity the girl, questioned me about her character, her looks, her social status, her circumstances. I painted a portrait well calculated to excite her jealousy. Our eager conversation languished. My guardian angel's interest in me waned when she suspected a rival who might possibly be equally anxious to save my soul.

We parted, still under the influence of the chill which had gradually arisen between us.

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

But after we had visited theatres and concerts for a week and taken numerous walks together, she had gained her object. The daily intercourse with her had become a habit of which I felt unable to break myself. Conversation with a woman who is above the commonplace has an almost sensual charm. The souls touch, the spirits embrace each other.

One morning, on meeting her as usual, I found her almost beside herself. She was full of a letter which she had just received. Her fiance was furiously jealous. She accused herself of having been indiscreet; he was recommending her the utmost reserve in her intercourse with me: he seemed to have a presentiment that the matter would end badly.

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

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

"Love! Ugh!"

"Love, my dear lady, is consciousness of possession in its greatest intensity. Jealousy is but the fear of losing what one possesses."

"Possesses! Disgusting!"

"Mutually possesses, since each possesses the other."

But she refused to understand love in that sense. In her opinion love was something disinterested, exalted, chaste, inexplicable.

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

When I said so she lost her temper, and then confessed that she had never loved him.

"And yet you contemplate marrying him?"

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

"Always that mania for saving souls!"

She grew more and more angry; she maintained that she was not, and never had been, really engaged to him. We had caught each other lying; what prospects!

There remained nothing for me to do now but to make a clean breast of it, and contradict my previous statement that I was "as good as engaged." This done, we were at liberty to make use of our freedom.

As she had now no longer any cause for jealousy, the game began afresh, and this time we played it in deadly earnest. I confessed my love to her—in writing. She forwarded the letter to her fiancé. He heaped insults on my head—by post.

I told her that she must choose between him and me. But she carefully refrained from doing so, for her object was to have me, him, and as many more as she could get, kneeling at her feet and adoring her. She was a flirt, a mangeuse d'hommes, a chaste polyandrist.

But, perhaps for want of some one better, I had fallen in love with her, for I loathed casual love-affairs, and the solitude of my attic bored me.

Towards the end of her stay in town I invited her to pay me a visit at the library. I wanted to dazzle her, show myself to her in impressive surroundings, so as to overawe this arrogant little brain.

I dragged her from gallery to gallery, exhibiting all my bibliographical knowledge. I compelled her to admire the miniatures of the Middle Ages, the autographs of famous men. I evoked the great historical memories held captive in old manuscripts and prints. In the end her insignificance came home to her and she became embarrassed.

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

"Of course I am," I laughed.

"Oh, my poor old mummer!" she murmured, alluding to her friend, the opera singer, her so-called fiancé.

But if I had flattered myself that the mummer was now finally disposed of, I was mistaken. He was threatening to shoot me—by post; he accused me of having robbed him of his future bride. I proved to him that he could not have been robbed, for the simple reason that he had not possessed anything. After that our correspondence ceased and gave way to a menacing silence.

Her visit was drawing to an end. On the eve of her departure I received a jubilant letter from her, telling me of an unexpected piece of good luck. She had read my play to some people of note who had influence with stage managers. The play had made such an impression on them that they were anxious to make my acquaintance. She would tell me all the details in the afternoon.

At the appointed hour I met her and accompanied her on a shopping expedition to make a few last purchases. She was talking of nothing but the sensation my play had created, and when I explained to her that I hated patronage of any sort, she did her utmost to convert me to her point of view. I paid little attention to her and went on grumbling. The idea of ringing at unknown front doors, meeting strangers and talking to them of everything except that which was nearest to my heart, was hateful to me; I could not whine like a beggar for favours. I was fighting her as hard as I could when suddenly she stopped before a young, aristocratic-looking lady, very well, even elegantly dressed, with movements full of softness and grace.

The lady, whom she introduced as Baroness X, said a few words to me which the noise of the crowd rendered all but inaudible. I stammered a reply, annoyed at having been caught in a trap set for me by a wily little schemer. For I felt certain the meeting had been premeditated.

A few seconds more and the Baroness had gone, but not without having personally repeated the invitation which my companion had already brought me a little earlier in the afternoon.

The girlish appearance and baby face of the Baroness, who must have been at least twenty-five years of age, surprised me. She looked like a school-girl; her little face was framed by roguish curls, golden as a cornfield on which the sun is shining; she had the shoulders of a princess and a supple, willowy figure; the way in which she bowed her head expressed at the same time candour, respect and superiority.

And this delicious, girlish mother had read my play without hurt or injury? Was it possible?

She had married a captain of the Guards, was the mother of a little girl of three, and took a passionate interest in the theatre, without, however, having the slightest prospect of ever being able to enter the profession herself; a sacrifice demanded from her by the rank and position not only of her husband, but also of her father-in-law, who had recently received the appointment of a gentleman-in-waiting.

This was the position of affairs when my love-dream melted away. A steamer was bearing my lady-love into the presence of her mummer. He would vindicate his rights now and take a delight in making fun of my letters to her: just retribution for having laughed at his letters in the company of his inamorata while she was staying here.

On the landing-stage, at the very moment of our affectionate farewell, she made me promise to call on the Baroness without delay. These were the last words we exchanged.

The innocent daydreams, so different from the coarse orgies of learned Bohemia, left a void in my heart which craved to be filled. The friendly, seemingly harmless intercourse with a gentlewoman, this intercourse between two people of opposite sexes, had been sweet to me after my long solitude, for I had quarrelled with my family and was, therefore, very lonely. The love of home life, which my Bohemian existence had deadened for a while, was reawakened by my relations with a very ordinary but respectable member of the other sex. And, therefore, one evening at six o'clock, I found myself at the entrance gate of a house in North Avenue.

How ominous! It was the old house which had belonged to my father, the house in which I had spent the most miserable years of my childhood, where I had fought through the troubles and storms of adolescence, where I had been confirmed, where my mother had died, and where a stepmother had taken her place. I suddenly felt ill at ease, and my first impulse was one of flight. I was afraid to stir up the memories of the misery of my youth and early manhood. There was the courtyard with its tall ash trees; how impatiently I used to wait for the tender young green on the return of spring; there was the gloomy house, built against a sand-quarry, the unavoidable collapse of which had lowered the rents.

But in spite of the feeling of depression caused by so many melancholy memories, I pulled myself together, entered, walked upstairs and rang the bell. As I stood listening to the sound echoing through the house, I had a feeling that my father would presently come and open the door to me. But a servant appeared and disappeared again to announce me. A few seconds afterwards I stood face to face with the Baron, who gave me a hearty welcome. He was a man of about thirty years of age, tall and strong, with a noble carriage and the perfect manners of a gentleman. His full, slightly swollen face was animated by a pair of intensely sad blue eyes. The smile on his lips was for ever giving way to an expression of extraordinary bitterness, which spoke of disappointments, plans miscarried, illusions fled.

The drawing-room, once upon a time our dining-room, was not furnished in any particular style. The Baron, who bore the name of a famous general, a Turenne or Condé of our country, had filled it with the portraits of his ancestors, dating back to the Thirty Years' War; heroes in white cuirasses with wigs of the time of Louis XIV. Amongst them hung landscapes of the Düsseldorf school of painting. Pieces of old furniture, restored and gilded, stood side by side with chairs and easy-chairs of a more modern date. The whole room seemed to breathe an atmosphere of peace and domestic love.

Presently the Baroness joined us; she was charming, almost cordial, simple and kind. But there was a certain stiffness in her manner, a suspicion of embarrassment which chilled me until I discovered a reason for it in the sound of voices which came from an adjacent room. I concluded that she had other visitors, and apologised for having called at an inconvenient time. They were playing whist in the next room, and I was forthwith introduced to four members of the family: the gentleman-in-waiting, a retired captain, and the Baroness's mother and aunt.

As soon as the old people had sat down again to play, we younger ones began to talk. The Baron mentioned his great love of painting. A scholarship, granted him by the late King Charles XV, had enabled him to pursue his studies at Düsseldorf. This fact constituted a point of contact between us, for I had had a scholarship from the same king, only in my case it had been granted for literary purposes.

We discussed painting, the theatre, the personality of our patron. But gradually the flow of conversation ceased, largely checked by the whist players, who joined in every now and then, laying rude fingers on sensitive spots, tearing open scarcely healed wounds. I began to feel ill at ease in this heterogeneous society and rose to go. The Baron and his wife, who accompanied me to the door, dropped their constrained manner as soon as they were out of earshot of the old people. They asked me to a friendly dinner on the following Saturday, and after a little chat in the passage we parted as old friends.

[II]

Punctually at three o'clock on the following Saturday I started for the house in North Avenue. I was received like an old friend and unhesitatingly admitted to the intimacies of the home. Mutual confidences added a delightful flavour to the meal. The Baron, who was dissatisfied with his position, belonged to a group of malcontents which had arisen under the new rule of King Oscar. Jealous of the great popularity which his late brother had enjoyed, the new ruler took pains to neglect all plans fostered by his predecessor. The friends of the old order, its frank joviality, its toleration and progressive endeavour, stood aside, therefore, and formed an intellectual opposition without, however, taking any part in party politics. While we sat, evoking the ghosts of the past, our hearts were drawn together. All prejudices nursed in the heart of the commoner against the aristocracy, which since the parliamentary reform of 1865 had gradually receded more and more into the background, vanished and gave place to a feeling of sympathy for the fallen stars.

The Baroness, a native of Finland, was a new-comer in Sweden, and not sufficiently informed to take part in our conversation. But as soon as dinner was over she went to the piano and began to sing, and both the Baron and I discovered that we possessed an hitherto unsuspected talent for the duets of Wennerberg.

The hours passed rapidly.

We amused ourselves by casting the parts and reading a short play which had just been played at the Royal Theatre.

But suddenly our spirits flagged and the inevitable pause ensued; that awkward pause which is sure to occur after exhaustive efforts to shine and make conquests. Again the memories of the past oppressed me and I grew silent.

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

"There are ghosts in this house," I replied, trying to account for my silence. "Ages ago I lived here—yes, yes, ages ago, for I am very old."

"Can't we drive away those ghosts?" she asked, looking at me with a bewitching expression, full of motherly tenderness.

"I'm afraid we can't; that's the privilege of some one else," laughed the Baron; "she alone can banish the gloomy thoughts. Come now, you are engaged to Miss Selma?"

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

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

"I think so."

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

And forthwith the three of us began to rail against the unfortunate singer, accusing him of attempting to compel a woman to marry him against her will. The Baroness tried to comfort me by insisting that things were bound to come right in the end, and promised to intercede for me on her next trip to Finland, which was to take place very shortly.

"No one shall succeed," she assured me, with an angry flash in her eyes, "in forcing that dear girl into a marriage of which her heart doesn't approve."

It was seven o'clock as I rose to go. But they pressed me so eagerly to spend the evening with them that I almost suspected them of being bored in each other's company, although they had only been married for three years, and Heaven had blessed their union with a dear little girl. They told me that they expected a cousin, and were anxious that I should meet her and tell them what I thought of her.

While we were still talking, a letter was handed to the Baron. He tore it open, read it hastily, and, with a muttered exclamation, handed it to his wife.

"Incredible!" she exclaimed, glancing at the contents, and, after a questioning look at her husband, she continued: "She's my own cousin, you know, and her parents won't permit her to stay at our house because people have been gossiping."

"It's preposterous!" exclaimed the Baron. "A mere child, pretty, innocent, unhappy at home, who likes being with us, her near relatives ... and people gossiping! Bah!"

Did a sceptic smile betray me? His remark was followed by a dead silence, a certain confusion, badly concealed under an invitation to take a turn round the garden.

I left after supper, about ten o'clock, and no sooner had I crossed the threshold than I began to ponder on the happenings of that eventful day.

In spite of every appearance of happiness, and notwithstanding their evident affection, I felt convinced that my friends harboured a very formidable skeleton in their cupboard. Their wistful eyes, their fits of absent-mindedness, something unspoken, but felt, pointed to a hidden grief, to secrets, the discovery of which I dreaded.

Why in the world, I asked myself, do they live so quietly, voluntary exiles in a wretched suburb? They were like two shipwrecked people in their eagerness to pour out their hearts to the first comer.

The Baroness in particular perplexed me. I tried to call up her picture, but was confused by the wealth of contradictory characteristics which I had discovered in her, and from which I had to choose. Kindhearted, amiable, brusque, enthusiastic, communicative and reserved, cold and excitable, she seemed to be full of whims, brooding over ambitious dreams. She was neither commonplace nor clever, but she impressed people. Of Byzantine slenderness, which allowed her dress to fall in simple, noble folds, like the dress of a St. Cecilia, her body was of bewitching proportions, her wrists and ankles exquisitely beautiful. Every now and then the pale, somewhat rigid features of her little face warmed into life and sparkled with infectious gaiety.

It was difficult to say who was master in the house. He, the soldier, accustomed to command, but burdened with a weak constitution, seemed submissive, more, I thought, from indifference than want of will-power. They were certainly on friendly terms, but there was none of the ecstasy of young love. When I made their acquaintance they were delighted to rejuvenate themselves by calling up the memories of the past before a third person. In studying them more closely, I became convinced that they lived on relics, bored each other, and the frequent invitations which I received after my first call proved that my conclusions were correct.

On the eve of the Baroness's departure for Finland I called on her to say good-bye. It was a lovely evening in June. The moment I entered the courtyard I caught sight of her behind the garden railings; she was standing in a shrubbery of aristolochias, and the transcendent beauty of her appearance came upon me almost with a shock. She was dressed in a white piqué dress, richly embroidered, the masterpiece of a Russian serf; her chain, brooches and bangles of alabaster seemed to throw a soft light over her, like lamplight falling through an opalescent globe. The broad green leaves threw death-like hues on her pale face, with its shining coal-black eyes.

I was shaken, utterly confused, as if I were gazing at a vision. The instinct of worship, latent in my heart, awoke, and with it the desire to proclaim my adoration. The void which had once been filled by religion ached no longer; the yearning to adore had reappeared under a new form. God was deposed, but His place was taken by woman, woman who was both virgin and mother; when I looked at the little girl by her side, I could not understand how that birth had been possible, for the relationship between her and her husband seemed to put all sexual intercourse out of the question; their union appeared essentially spiritual. Henceforth this woman represented to me a soul incarnate, a soul pure and unapproachable, clothed with one of those radiant bodies which, according to the Scriptures, clothe the souls of the dead. I worshipped her—I could not help worshipping her. I worshipped her just as she was, as she appeared to me at that moment, as mother and wife; wife of a particular husband, mother of a particular child. Without her husband my longing to worship could not have been satisfied, for, I said to myself, she would then be a widow, and should I still worship her as such? Perhaps if she were mine—my wife?... No! the thought was unthinkable. And, moreover, married to me, she would no longer be the wife of this particular man, the mother of this particular child, the mistress of this particular house. Such as she was I adored her, I would not have her otherwise.

Was it because of the melancholy recollections which the house always awakened in me, or was it because of the instincts of the commoner who never fails to admire the upper classes, the purer blood?—a feeling which would die on the day on which she stood less high—the adoration which I had conceived for her resembled in every point the religion from which I had just emancipated myself. I wanted to adore, I was longing to sacrifice myself, to suffer without hope of any other reward but the ecstasies of worship, self-sacrifice and suffering.

I constituted myself her guardian angel. I wanted to watch over her, lest the power of my love should sweep her off her feet and engulf her. I carefully avoided being alone with her, so that no familiarity which her husband might resent should creep in between us.

But to-day, on the eve of her departure, I found her alone in the shrubbery. We exchanged a few commonplaces. But presently my excitement rose to such a pitch that it communicated itself to her. Gazing at her with burning eyes, I saw the desire to confide in me forming itself in her heart. She told me that the thought of a separation from husband and child, however short, made her miserable. She implored me to spend as much of my leisure with them as I could, and not to forget her while she was looking after my interests in Finland.

"You love her very much—with all your heart, don't you?" she asked, looking at me steadfastly.

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

For I had no longer any doubt that my May dream had been nothing more than a fancy, a whim, a mere pastime.

Afraid of polluting her with my passion, fearful of entangling her against my will in the net of my emotions, intending to protect her against myself, I dropped the perilous subject and asked after her husband. She pulled a face, evidently interpreting my somewhat strange behaviour quite correctly. Perhaps, also—the suspicion rose in my mind much later—he found pleasure in the thought that her beauty confused me. Or, maybe, she was conscious at that moment of the terrible power she had acquired over me, a Joseph whose coldness was only assumed, whose chastity was enforced.

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

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

The window was thrown open and the Baron appeared, a friendly smile on his open countenance. A few minutes later he joined us in the garden. He was wearing the handsome uniform of the Guards and looked very distinguished. With his dark-blue tunic, embroidered in yellow and silver, his tall, well-knit figure, he formed an exquisite contrast to the slender woman in white who stood at his side. They were really a strikingly handsome couple; the charms of the one served but to heighten those of the other. The sight of them was an artistic treat, a brilliant spectacle.

After dinner the Baron proposed that we should accompany his wife on the steamer as far as the last customs station. This proposal, to which I gladly agreed, seemed to give the Baroness a great deal of pleasure; she was delighted with the prospect of admiring the Stockholm Archipelago from the deck of a steamer on a beautiful summer night.

At ten o'clock on the following evening we met on board the steamer a short time before the hour of starting. It was a clear night; the sky was a blaze of brilliant orange, the sea lay before us, calm and blue.

We slowly steamed past the wooded shores, in a light which was neither day nor night, but had the qualities of both, and impressed the beholder as being sunrise and sunset at the same time.

After midnight our enthusiasm, which had been kept alive by the constantly changing panorama and the memories which it called up, cooled a little. We were fighting against an overwhelming desire to sleep. The early dawn found us with pallid faces, shivering in the morning breeze. We suddenly became sentimental; we swore eternal friendship; it was fate that had thrown us together—we dimly discerned that fatal bond which was to connect our lives in the future. I was beginning to look haggard, for I had not yet regained my strength after an attack of intermittent fever; they treated me like an ailing child; the Baroness wrapped her rug round me and made me drink some wine, all the while talking to me with a mother's tenderness. I let them have their way. I was almost delirious with want of sleep; my pent-up feelings overflowed; this womanly tenderness, the secret of which none but a motherly woman knows, was a new experience to me. I poured out on her a deluge of respectful homage; over-excited by sleeplessness, I became lightheaded, and gave the reins to my poetical imagination.

The wild hallucinations of the sleepless night took shape, vague, mystic, unsubstantial; the power of my suppressed talent revealed itself in light visions. I spoke for hours, without interruption, drawing inspiration from two pairs of eyes, which gazed at me fascinated. I felt as if my frail body was being consumed by the burning fire of my imagination. I lost all sense of my corporeal presence.

Suddenly the sun rose, the myriads of islets which seem to be swimming in the bay appeared enveloped in flames; the branches of the pines glowed like copper, the slender needles yellow as sulphur; the window-panes of the cottages, dotted along the shore, sparkled like golden mirrors; the columns of smoke rising from the chimneys indicated that breakfasts were being cooked; the fishing-boats were setting sail to bring in the outspread nets; the seagulls, scenting the small herring underneath the dark green waves, were screaming themselves hoarse. But on the steamer absolute silence reigned. The travellers were still fast asleep in their cabins, we alone were on deck. The captain, heavy with sleep, was watching us from the bridge, wondering, no doubt, what we could be talking about.

At three o'clock in the morning the pilot cutter appeared from behind a neck of land, and parting was imminent.

Only a few of the larger islands now separated us from the open sea; the swell of the ocean was already distinctly discernible; we could hear the roar of the huge breakers on the steep cliffs at the extreme end of the land.

The time to say good-bye had arrived. They kissed one another, he and she, full of painful agitation. She took my hand in hers and pressed it passionately, her eyes full of tears; she begged her husband to take care of me, and implored me to comfort him during her absence.

I bowed, I kissed her hand without a thought of the proprieties, oblivious of the fact that I was betraying my secret.

The engines stopped, the steamer slowed down, the pilot took up his position between decks. Two steps towards the accommodation ladder—I descended, and found myself at the side of the Baron in the pilot cutter.

The steamer towered above our heads. Leaning against the rail, the Baroness looked down upon us with a sad smile, her innocent eyes brimming over with tears. The propeller slowly began to move, the giant got under way again, her Russian flag fluttering in the breeze. We were tossing on the rolling waves, waving our handkerchiefs. The little face grew smaller and smaller, the delicate features were blotted out, two great eyes only remained gazing at us fixedly, and presently they too were swallowed up like the rest. Another moment and only a fluttering bluish veil, attached to a Japanese hat, was visible, and a waving white handkerchief; then only a white spot, a tiny white dot; now nothing but the unwieldy giant, wrapped in grey smoke....

We went ashore at the Pilots and Customs Station, a popular summer resort. The village was still asleep; not a soul was on the landing-stage, and we turned and watched the steamer altering her course to starboard, and disappearing behind the rocky island which formed the last bulwark against the sea.

As the steamer disappeared the Baron leaned against my shoulder, and I fancied I could hear a sob; thus we stood for a while without speaking a word.

Was this excessive grief caused by sleeplessness—by the exhaustion following a long vigil? Had he a presentiment of misfortune, or was it merely the pain of parting with his wife? I couldn't say.

We went to the village, depressed and taciturn, in the hope of getting some breakfast. But the inn was not yet astir. We walked through the street and looked at the closed doors, the drawn blinds. Beyond the village we came upon an isolated spot with a quiet pool. The water was clear and transparent, and tempted us to bathe our eyes. I produced a little case and took from it a clean handkerchief, a toothbrush, a piece of soap and a bottle of eau de Cologne. The Baron laughed at my fastidiousness, but, nevertheless, availed himself gratefully of the chance of a hasty toilet, borrowing from me the necessary implements.

On returning to the village I noticed the smell of coal-smoke coming from the direction of the alder trees on the shore. I implied by a gesture that this was a last farewell greeting brought by the wind from the steamer. But the Baron pretended not to understand my meaning.

He was a distressing sight at breakfast, with his big, sleepy head sunk on his breast, and his swollen features. Both of us suffered from self-consciousness; he was in a gloomy mood and kept up an obstinate silence. Once he seized my hand and apologised for his absent-mindedness, but almost directly afterwards he relapsed into gloom. I made every effort to rouse him, but in vain; we were out of harmony, the tie between us was broken. An expression of coarseness and vulgarity had stolen into his face, usually so frank and pleasant. The reflection of the charm, the living beauty of his beloved wife had vanished; the uncouth man had appeared.

I was unable to guess at his thoughts. Did he suspect my feelings? To judge from his behaviour he must have been a prey to very conflicting emotions, for at one minute he pressed my hand, calling me his best, his only friend, at the next he seemed oblivious of my presence.

I discovered with a feeling of dismay that we only lived in her and for her. Since our sun had set we seemed to have lost all individuality.

I determined to shake him off as soon as we got back to town, but he held on to me, entreating me to accompany him to his house.

When we entered the deserted home, we felt as if we had entered a chamber of death. A moisture came into our eyes.

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

"It's too absurd," I said at last, laughing at myself; "here are a captain of the Guards and a royal secretary whimpering like——

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

He sent for his little girl, but her presence only aggravated the bitter feeling of regret at our loss.

It was now nine o'clock in the morning. He had come to the end of his powers of endurance, and invited me to take a nap on the sofa while he went to lie down on his bed. He put a cushion under my head, covered me with his military cloak and wished me a sound sleep, thanking me cordially for having taken compassion on his loneliness. His brotherly kindness was like an echo of his wife's tenderness; she seemed to fill his thoughts completely.

I sank into a deep sleep, dimly aware, at the moment before losing consciousness, of his huge form stealing to my improvised couch with a murmured question as to whether I was quite comfortable.

It was noon when I awoke. He was already up. He hated the idea of being alone, and proposed that we should breakfast together in the Park. I readily fell in with his suggestion.

We spent the day together, talking about all sorts of things, but every subject led us back to her on whose life our own lives seemed to have been grafted.

[III]

I spent the two following days alone, yearning for the solitude of my library, the cellars of which, once the sculpture rooms of the museum, suited my mood. The large room, built in the rococo style and looking on to the "Lions' Court," contained the manuscripts. I spent a great deal of time there, reading at haphazard anything which seemed old enough to draw my attention from recent events. But the more I read, the more the present melted into the past, and Queen Christine's letters, yellow with age, whispered into my ears words of love from the Baroness.

To avoid the company of inquisitive friends, I shunned my usual restaurant. I could not bear the thought of degrading my tongue by confessing my new faith before those scoffers; they should never know. I was jealous of my own personality, which was henceforth consecrated to her only. As I went through the streets, I had a vision of acolites walking before me, their tinkling bells announcing to the passers-by the approach of the Holy of Holies enshrined in the monstrance of my heart. I imagined myself in mourning, deep mourning for a queen, and longed to bid the crowd bare their heads at the passing of my stillborn love, which had no chance of ever quickening into life.

On the third day I was roused from my lethargy, by the rolling of drums and the mournful strains of Chopin's Funeral March. I rushed to the window and noticed the captain marching by at the head of his Guards. He looked up at my window and acknowledged my presence with a nod and a smile. The band was playing his wife's favourite piece, at his orders, and the unsuspicious musicians had no inkling that they played it in her honour for him and for me, and before an even less auspicious audience.

Half-an-hour later the Baron called for me at the library. I took him through the passages in the basement, overcrowded with cupboards and shelves, into the manuscript room. He looked cheerful, and at once communicated to me the contents of a letter he had received from his wife. All was going on well. She had enclosed a note for me. I devoured it with my eyes, trying hard to hide my excitement. She thanked me frankly and graciously for having looked after "her old man"; she said she had felt flattered by my evident grief at parting, and added that she was staying with my "guardian angel," to whom she was getting more and more attached. She expressed great admiration for her character, and, in conclusion, held out hopes of a happy ending. That was all.

So she was in love with me, this "guardian angel" of mine! This monster! The very thought of her now filled me with horror. I was compelled to act the part of a lover against my will; I was condemned to play an abominable farce, perhaps all my life long. The truth of the old adage that one cannot play with fire without burning one's fingers came home to me with terrible force. Caught in my own trap, I pictured to myself in my wrath the detestable creature who had forced herself upon me: she had the eyes of a Mongolian, a sallow face, red arms. With angry satisfaction I recalled her seductive ways, her suspicious behaviour, which more than once had set my friends wondering what species of woman it was with whom I was seen so constantly walking about the parks and suburbs.

The remembrance of her tricks, her attentions, her flattering tongue, gave me a kind of vicious pleasure. I remembered a way she had of pulling out her watch and showing a little bit of dainty underclothing. I remembered a certain Sunday in the Park. We were strolling along the broad avenues when she all at once proposed that we should walk through the shrubbery. Her proposal irritated me, for the shrubbery had an evil reputation, but she answered all my objections with a short "Bother propriety!"

She wanted to gather anemones under the hazel bushes. She left me standing in the avenue and disappeared behind the shrubs. I followed, confused. She sat down in a sheltered spot under an alder tree, spreading out her skirts and showing off her feet, which were small but disfigured by bunions. An uncomfortable silence fell between us. I thought of the old maids of Corinth.... She looked at me with an expression of childlike innocence ... she was safe from me, her very plainness saved her, and, moreover, I took no pleasure in easy conquests.

Every one of these details, which I had always put away from me as odious, came into my mind and oppressed me, now that there seemed a prospect of winning her. I prayed fervently for the comedian's success.

But I had to be patient and hide my feelings.

While I was reading his wife's note, the Baron sat down at the table, which was littered with old books and documents. He was playing with his carved ivory baton, absent-mindedly, as if he were conscious of his inferiority in literary matters. He defeated all my attempts to interest him in my work with an indifferent, "Yes, yes, very interesting!"

Abashed by the evidences of his rank, his neckpiece, the sash, the brilliant uniform, I endeavoured to readjust the balance by showing off my knowledge. But I only succeeded in making him feel uncomfortable.

The sword versus the pen! Down with the aristocrat, up with the commoner! Did the woman, when later on she chose the father of her children from the aristocracy of the brain, see the future, clairvoyantly, without being conscious of it?

In spite of his constant efforts to treat me as his equal, the Baron, without admitting it even to himself, was always constrained in my presence. At times he paid due deference to my superior knowledge, tacitly acknowledging his inferiority to me in certain respects; at other times he would ride the high horse; then a word from the Baroness was sufficient to bring him to his senses. In his wife's eyes the inherited coat of arms counted for very little, and the dusty coat of the man of letters completely eclipsed the full-dress uniform of the captain. Had he not been himself aware of this when he donned a painter's blouse and entered the studio at Düsseldorf as the least of all the pupils? In all probability he had, but still there always remained a certain refinement, an inherited tradition, and he was by no means free from the jealous hatred which exists between students and officers.

For the moment I was necessary to him, as I shared his sorrow, and therefore he invited me to dine with him.

After the coffee he suggested that we should both write to the Baroness. He brought me paper and pen, and compelled me to write to her, against my will; I racked my brain for platitudes under which to hide the thoughts of my heart.

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

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

"And I never write to another man's wife without that man's full knowledge of the correspondence."

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

I saw nothing of him during the rest of the week, until I met him one evening at a street corner. He seemed very pleased to see me, and we went into a café to have a chat.

He had just returned from the country, where he had spent a few days with his wife's cousin. Without ever having met that charming person, I was easily able to draw a mental picture of her from the traces of her influence on the Baron's character. He had lost his haughtiness and his melancholy. There was a gay, somewhat dissipated look on his face, and he enriched his vocabulary by a few expressions of doubtful taste; even the tone of his voice was altered.

"A weak mind," I said to myself, "swayed by every emotion; a blank slate on which the lightest of women may write sense or folly, according to her sweet will."

He behaved like the hero in comic opera; he joked, told funny tales and was in boisterous spirits. His charm was gone with his uniform; and when, after supper, slightly intoxicated, he suggested that we should call on certain female friends of his, I thought him positively repulsive. With the exception of the neckpiece, the sash and the uniform, he really possessed no attractions whatever.

When his intoxication had reached its climax, he lost all sense of shame and began to discuss the secrets of his married life. I interrupted him indignantly and proposed that we should go home. He assured me that his wife allowed him full license during her absence. At first I thought this more than human, but later on it confirmed the opinion I had formed of the Baroness's naturally frigid temperament. We parted very early, and I returned to my room, my brain on fire with the indiscreet disclosure which I had been made to listen to.

This woman, although apparently in love with her husband, after a union of three years not only permitted him every freedom, but did so without claiming the same right for herself. It was strange, unnatural, like love without jealousy, light without shade. No! it was impossible; there must be another cause. He had told me the Baroness was naturally cold. That, too, seemed strange. Or was she really an embodiment of the virgin mother, such as I had already dimly divined? And was not chastity, purity of the soul, so closely linked to refinement of manners, a characteristic, an attribute of a superior race? I had not been deceived, then, in my youthful meditations when a young girl roused my admiration without in the least exciting my senses. Beautiful childish dreams! Charming ignorance of woman, that problem unspeakably more complex than a bachelor ever dreams of!

At last the Baroness returned, radiant with health; the memories awakened by meeting again the friends of her girlhood seemed to have rejuvenated her.

"Here is the dove with the olive branch," she said, handing me a letter from my so-called sweetheart.

With anything but genuine enjoyment I waded through the presumptuous twaddle, the effusions of a heartless blue-stocking, anxious to win independence by marriage—any marriage, and while I was reading I made up my mind to put an end to the matter.

"Do you know for certain," I asked the Baroness, "whether the lady is engaged to the singer or not?"

"Yes and no."

"Has she given him her word?"

"No."

"Does she want to marry him?"

"No."

"Do her parents wish it?"

"No."

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

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

"Is she in love with me?"

"Perhaps she is."

"Then she is simply a husband-hunter. She has but one thought, to make a bargain with the highest bidder. She doesn't know what love is."

"What is love?"

"A passion stronger than all others, a force of nature absolutely irresistible, something akin to thunder, to rising floods, a waterfall, a storm——"

She gazed into my eyes, forgetting the reproaches which, in the interest of her friend, had risen to the tip of her tongue.

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

But, supposing I did?... The bond between us would be broken, and, without the lie which protected me from my criminal passion, I should be lost.

Afraid of committing myself, I asked her to drop the subject. I said that my cruel sweetheart was dead as far as I was concerned, and that all that remained for me to do was to forget her.

The Baroness did her utmost to comfort me, but she did not cloak the fact that I had a dangerous rival in the singer, who was on the spot and in personal contact with his lady-love.

The Baron, evidently bored by our conversation, interrupted us peevishly, telling us that we should end by burning our fingers.

"This meddling with other people's love affairs is utter folly!" he exclaimed, almost rudely; the Baroness's face flushed with indignation. I hastily changed the subject to avoid a scene.

The ball had been set rolling. The lie, originally a mere whim, grew. Full of apprehension and shame, I told myself fairy tales which I ended in believing. In them I played the part of the ill-starred lover, a part which came easy enough, for with the exception of the object of my tenderness, the fairy tales agreed in every detail with reality.

I was indeed caught in my own net. One day, on returning home, I found "her" father's card. I returned his call at once. He was a little old man, unpleasantly like his daughter, the caricature of a caricature. He treated me in every way as he would his prospective son-in-law. He inquired about my family, my income, my prospects. It was a regular cross-examination. The matter threatened to become serious.

What was I to do? Hoping to divert his attention from me, I made myself as insignificant as possible in his eyes. The reason of his visit to Stockholm was obvious. Either he wanted to shake off the singer, whom he disliked, or the lady had made up her mind to honour me with her hand if an expert should approve of her bargain.

I showed myself from my most unpleasant side, avoided every opportunity of meeting him, refused even an invitation to dinner from the Baroness; I tired my unlucky would-be father-in-law out by giving him the slip again and again, pleading urgent duty at the library, until I had gained my purpose, and he departed before the appointed time.

Did my rival ever guess to whom he was indebted for his matrimonial misery when he married his bride-elect? No doubt he never knew, and proudly imagined that he had ousted me.

An incident which to some extent affected our destiny was the sudden departure of the Baroness and her little daughter to the country. It was in the beginning of August. For reasons of health she had chosen Mariafred, a small village on the Lake of Mälar, where at the moment the little cousin happened to be staying with her parents.

This hurried departure on the day after her home-coming struck me as very extraordinary; but, as it was none of my business, I made no comment. Three days passed, then the Baron wrote asking me to call. He appeared to be restless, very nervous and strange. He told me that the Baroness would be back almost immediately.

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

"Yes!... her nerves are upset, the climate doesn't suit her. She has written me an unintelligible letter which frightens me. I have never been able to understand her whims ... she gets all sorts of fantastic ideas into her head. Just at present she imagines that you are angry with her!"

"I!"

"It's too absurd!" he continued, "but don't take any notice of it when she returns; she's ashamed of her moods; she's proud, and if she thought you disapproved of her, she would only commit fresh follies."

"It has come at last," I said to myself; "the catastrophe is imminent!" And from that moment my thoughts were bent on flight, for I had no desire to figure as the hero of a romance of passion.

I refused the next invitation, making excuses which were badly invented and wrongly understood. The result was a call from the Baron; he asked me what I meant by my unfriendly conduct? I did not know what explanation to give, and he took advantage of my embarrassment and exacted a promise from me to join them in an excursion.

I found the Baroness looking ill and worn out; only the black eyes in the livid face seemed alive and shone with unnatural brilliancy. I was very reserved, spoke in indifferent tones and said as little as possible.

On leaving the steamer, we went to a famous hotel where the Baron had arranged to meet his uncle. The supper, which was served in the open, was anything but gay. Before us spread the sinister lake, shut in by gloomy mountains; above our heads waved the branches of the lime trees, the blackened trunks of which were over a hundred years old.

We talked commonplaces, but our conversation was dull and soon languished. I fancied that I could feel the after-effects of a quarrel between my hosts, which had not yet been patched up and was on the verge of a fresh outbreak. I ardently desired to avoid the storm, but, unfortunately, uncle and nephew left the table to discuss business matters. Now the mine would explode!

As soon as we were alone the Baroness leaned toward me and said excitedly—

"Do you know that Gustav is angry with me for coming back unexpectedly?"

"I know nothing about it."

"Then you don't know that he'd been building on meeting my charming cousin on his free Sundays?"

"My dear Baroness," I exclaimed, interrupting her, "if you want to bring charges against your husband, hadn't you better do it in his presence?"

... What had I done? It was brutal, this harsh, uncompromising rebuke, flung into the face of a disloyal wife in defence of a member of my own sex.

"How dare you!" she cried, amazed, changing colour. "You're insulting me!"

"Yes, Baroness, I am insulting you."

All was over between us, for ever.

As soon as her husband returned she hastened towards him, as if she were seeking protection from an enemy. The Baron noticed that something was wrong, but he could not understand her excitement.

I left them at the landing-stage, pretending that I had to pay a visit at one of the neighbouring villas.

I don't know how I got back to town. My legs seemed to carry a lifeless body; the vital node was cut, I was a corpse walking along the streets.

Alone! I was alone again, without friends, without a family, without anything to worship. It was impossible for me to recreate God. The statue of the Madonna had fallen down; woman had shown herself behind the beautiful image, woman, treacherous, faithless, with sharp claws! When she attempted to make me her confidant, she was taking the first step towards breaking her marriage vows; at that moment the hatred of her sex was born in me. She had insulted the man and the sex in me, and I took the part of her husband against her. Not that I flattered myself with being a virtuous man, but in love man is never a thief, he only takes what is given to him. It is woman who steals and sells herself. The only time when she gives unselfishly is when she betrays her husband. The prostitute sells herself, the young wife sells herself; the faithless wife only gives to her lover that which she has stolen from her husband.

But I had not desired this woman in any other way than as a friend. Protected from me by her child, I had always seen her invested with the insignia of motherhood. Always seeing her at the side of her husband, I had never felt the slightest temptation to indulge in pleasures which are gross in themselves, and ennobled only by entire and exclusive possession.

I returned to my room annihilated, completely crushed, more lonely than ever, for I had dropped my Bohemian friends from the very outset of my relations with the Baroness.

[IV]

I occupied in those days a fairly large attic with two windows which looked on the new harbour, the bay and the rocky heights of the southern suburbs. Before the windows, on the roof, I had managed to create a garden of tiny dimensions. Bengal roses, azaleas and geraniums provided me in their turn with flowers for the secret cult of my Madonna with the child. It had become a daily habit with me to pull down the blinds towards the evening, arrange my flower-pots in a semicircle, and place the picture of the Baroness, with the lamplight full on it, amongst them. She was represented on this portrait as a young mother, with somewhat severe, but deliciously pure features, her delicate head crowned with a wealth of golden hair. She wore a light dress which reached up to her chin and was finished off with a pleated frill; her little daughter, dressed in white, was standing on a table by the side of her, gazing at the beholder with pensive eyes. How many letters "to my friends" had I not written before this portrait and sent off on the following morning addressed to the Baron! These letters were at that time the only channel into which I could pour my literary aspirations, and my inmost soul was laid bare in them.

To open a career for the erratic, artistic soul of the Baroness, I had tried to encourage her to seek an outlet for her poetic imagination in literary work. I had provided her with the masterpieces of all literatures, had taught her the first principles of literary composition by furnishing endless summaries, commentaries and analyses, to which I added advice and practical illustrations. She had been only moderately interested, for she doubted her literary talent from the outset. I told her that every educated person possessed the ability to write at least a letter, and was therefore a poet or author in posse. But it was all in vain; the passion for the stage had taken firm hold of her obstinate brain. She insisted that she was a born elocutionist, and, because her rank prevented her from following her inclination and going on the stage (an ardently desired contingency), she posed as a martyr, heedless of the disastrous consequences which threatened to overtake her home life. Her husband sympathised with my benevolent efforts, undertaken in the hope of saving the domestic peace of the family from shipwreck. He was grateful, although he had not the courage to take an active and personal interest in the matter. The Baroness's opposition notwithstanding, I had continued my efforts and urged her in every letter to break the fateful spell which held her, and make an effort to write a poem, a drama, or a novel.

"Your life has been an eventful one," I said to her in one of my letters; "why not make use of your own experience?" And, quoting from Börne, I added, "Take paper and pen and be candid, and you are bound to become an authoress."

"It's too painful to live an unhappy life all over again," she had replied. "I want to find forgetfulness in art; I want to merge my identity into characters different from my own."

I had never asked myself what it was that she wanted to forget. I knew nothing of her past life. Did she shrink from allowing me to solve the riddle? Was she afraid of handing me the key to her character? Was she anxious to hide her true self behind the personalities of stage heroines, or did she hope to increase her own magnitude by assuming the identities of her superiors?

When I had come to the end of my arguments, I suggested that she should make a start by translating the works of foreign authors; I told her this would help to form her style and make her known to publishers.

"Is a translator well paid?" she asked.

"Fairly well," I replied, "if she knows her business."

"Perhaps you will think me mercenary," she continued, "but work for its own sake doesn't attract me."

Like so many women of our time, she was seized with the mania of earning her own living. The Baron made a grimace plainly indicative of the fact that he would far rather see her taking an active interest in the management of her house and servants, than contributing a few shillings towards the expenses of a neglected home.

Since that day she had given me no peace, begging me to find her a good book and a publisher.

I had done my utmost, and had succeeded in procuring for her two quite short articles, destined for "Miscellaneous Items" in one of the illustrated magazines, which did not, however, remunerate its contributors. For a whole week I heard nothing of the work, which could easily have been accomplished in a couple of hours. She lost her temper when the Baron teasingly called her a sluggard; in fact, she was so angry that I saw he had touched a very sore spot, and stopped all further allusions, afraid of making serious mischief between the couple.

This was how matters stood at the time of my rupture with her.

... I sat in my attic with her letters before me on the table. As I re-read them, one after the other, my heart ached for her. She was a soul in torment, a power wasted, a voice unable to make itself heard, just like myself. This was the secret of our mutual sympathy. I suffered through her as if she were a diseased organ grafted on my sick soul, which had itself become too blunted and dull to sense the pleasure of exquisite pain.

And what had she done that I should deprive her of my sympathy? In a moment of jealousy she had complained to me of her unhappy marriage. And I had repulsed her, I had spoken harshly to her, when I ought to have reasoned with her; it would not have been an impossible task, for hadn't her husband told me that she allowed him every licence?

I was seized with an immense compassion for her; no doubt, in her soul lay, shrouded in profound mystery, fateful secrets, physical and psychical aberrations. It seemed to me that I should be guilty of a terrible wrong if I let her come to ruin. When my depression had reached its climax I began a letter to her, asking her to forgive me. I begged her to forget what had happened, and tried to explain the painful incident by a misunderstanding on my part. But the words would not come, my pen refused to obey me. Worn out with fatigue, I threw myself on my bed.

The following morning was warm and cloudy, a typical August morning. At eight o'clock I went to the library, melancholy and depressed. As I had a key, I was able to let myself in and spend three hours in perfect solitude before the general public began to arrive. I wandered through the passages, between rows of books on either side, in that exquisite solitude which is not loneliness, in close communion with the great thinkers of all times. Taking out a volume here and there, I tried to fix my mind on some definite subject in order to forget the painful scene of yesterday. But I could not banish the desecrated image of the fallen Madonna from my mind. When I raised my eyes from the pages, which I had read without understanding a word, I seemed to see her, as in a vision, coming down the spiral staircase, which wound in endless perspective at the back of the galleries. She lifted the straight folds of her blue dress, showing her perfect feet and slender ankles, looking at me furtively, with a sidelong glance, tempting me to the betrayal of her husband, soliciting me with that treacherous and voluptuous smile which I had yesterday seen for the first time. The apparition awakened all the sensuality which had lain dormant in my heart for the last three months, for the pure atmosphere which surrounded her had kept away from me all lascivious thoughts. Now all the passion which burnt in me concentrated itself on a single object. I desired her. My imagination painted for me the exquisite beauty of her white limbs. I selected a work on art which contained illustrations of all the famous sculptures in the Italian museums, hoping to discover this woman's formula by systematic scientific research. I wanted to find out species and genus to which she belonged. I had plenty to choose from.

Was she Venus, full-bosomed and broad-hipped, the normal woman, who awaits her lover, sure of her triumphant beauty?

No!

Juno, then, the fertile mother, who keeps her regal charms for the marriage-bed?

By no means!

Minerva, the blue-stocking, the old maid, who hides her flat bosom under a coat of mail?

On no account!

Diana then, the pale goddess of night, fearful of the sun, cruel in her enforced chastity, more boy than girl, modest because she needs must be so—Diana, who could not forgive Actæon for having watched her while bathing? Was she Diana? The species, perhaps, but not the genus!

The future will speak the last word! With that delicate body, those exquisite limbs, that sweet face, that proud smile, that modestly veiled bosom, could she be yearning for blood and forbidden fruit? Diana? Yes, unmistakably Diana!

I continued my research; I looked through a number of publications on art stored up in this incomparable treasure-house of the State, so as to study the various representations of the chaste goddess.

I compared; like a scientist, I proved my point, again and again rushing from one end of the huge building to the other to find the volumes to which I was being referred.

The striking of a clock recalled me from the world of my dreams; my colleagues were beginning to arrive, and I had to enter on my daily duties.

I decided to spend the evening at the club with my friends. On entering the laboratory, I was greeted with deafening acclamations, which raised my spirits. The centre of the room was occupied by a table dressed like an altar, in the middle of which stood a skull and a large bottle of cyanide of potassium. An open Bible, stained with punch spots, lay beside the skull. Surgical instruments served as bookmarkers. A number of punch-glasses were arranged in a circle all round. Instead of a ladle a retort was used for filling the glasses. My friends were on the verge of intoxication. One of them offered me a glass bowl containing half-a-pint of the fiery drink, and I emptied it at one gulp. All the members shouted the customary "Curse it!" I responded by singing the song of the ne'er-do-wells—

Deep potations
And flirtations
Are life's only end and aim ...

After this prelude an infernal row arose, and, amid shouts of applause, I delivered myself of a stream of vulgar platitudes, abusing and insulting women in high-flown verses, mixed with anatomical terms. Intoxicated with the coarse suggestions, the vulgar profanation, I surpassed myself in heaping insults on the head of my Madonna. It was the morbid result of my unsatisfied longing. My hatred for the treacherous idol broke out with such virulence that it afforded me a sort of bitter comfort. My messmates, poor devils, acquainted with love in its lowest aspect only, listened eagerly to my vile denunciations of a lady of rank, who was utterly beyond their reach.

The drunkenness increased. The sound of men's voices delighted my ears after I had passed three months amid sentimental whining, mock modesty and hypocritical innocence. I felt as if I had torn off the mask, thrown back the veil under which Tartuffe concealed his cupidity. In imagination I saw the adored woman indulging every whim and caprice, merely to escape the boredom of a dull existence. All my insults, my infamous invectives and abuse I addressed to her, furious with the power in me which successfully strove against my committing a crime.

At this moment the laboratory appeared to me to be a hallucination of my over-excited brain, the temple of monstrous orgies in which all the senses participated. The bottles on the shelves gleamed in all the colours of the rainbow: the deep purple of red lead; the orange of potash, the yellow of sulphur, the green of verdigris, the blue of vitriol. The atmosphere was thick with tobacco smoke; the smell of the lemons, used in brewing the punch, called up visions of happier countries. The piano, intentionally out of tune and badly treated, groaned Beethoven's march in a manner which made it unrecognisable. The pallid faces of the revellers see-sawed in the blue-black smoke which rose from, the pipes. The lieutenant's sash, the black beard of the doctor of philosophy, the physician's embroidered shirt front, the skull with its empty sockets; the noise, the disorder, the abominable discords, the lewd images evoked, bewildered and confused my maddened brain, when suddenly, with one accord, there arose a cry uttered by many voices—

"To the women, you men!"

The whole assembly broke into the song—

Deep potations
And flirtations
Are life's only end and aim ...

Hats and overcoats were donned, and the whole horde trooped out. Half-an-hour later we had arrived at our destination. The fires in the huge stoves spluttered and crackled, stout was ordered, and the saturnalias, which rendered the remainder of the night hideous, began.

[V]

When I awoke on the following morning in my own bed in broad daylight, I was surprised to find that I had regained complete mastery over myself. Every trace of unhealthy sentimentality had disappeared; the cult of the Madonna had been forgotten in the excesses of the night. I looked upon my fantastic love as a weakness of the spirit or the flesh, which at the moment appeared to me to be one and the same thing.

After I had had a cold bath and eaten some breakfast, I returned to my daily duties, content that the whole matter was at an end. I plunged into my work, and the hours passed rapidly.

It was half-past twelve when the porter announced the Baron.