mill. He was dazzled by the blinding sun, the sea appeared to be

boundless, and the hazy blue mountains called him with irresistible force. His eyes fell on the children's perambulator; the one painted white with the blue cover, not the other one; he knew it so well, there were little white milkspots on the blue cover. And over there was the big arm-chair and the drawing-room sofa and the bath with the flower-pots. How dusty the poor things looked, they had spent the whole winter in a cloud of tobacco smoke; the pelargoniums used to stand on the writing-table in the lamplight, in the early spring, when the evenings were still long; the arm-chair stood to the right of the writing-table, and whenever he looked up from his work, whenever the restless pen stopped for a second, he received a friendly nod. But when there was no one sitting in the arm-chair, his tired eyes travelled to the cretonne flowers on the sofa; but there were so many eyes staring into the room, and how the lamp flickered! Ah! it was the sun shining on the upper deck! What was that over there? A pair of eyes familiar last year--how dull they were! Had he been ill? No! They had not met since last year; one never met in town, one was so busy there! One left one's school and went home! The children had had measles.... It was cold on deck, he had better go downstairs into the saloon.

There were the eyes again, staring at the sofa and the arm-chair. But they looked happy, longing, yearning for something which must surely happen.

He left his place and stepped forward to let the fresh breeze cool his face. Smoke and the smell of food were rising from the kitchen. There was the cook, taking a rest, trying to grow cool. And the large cabin!

The table-cloth was as white as it had been last year, the silver epergne sparkled as before, the flowers on the sideboard were as new and fresh, the lamps were swinging in their brass brackets; everything was exactly as it had been before, and yet everything was new, thanks to the ever-rejuvenating power of nature, thanks to spring!

And the shore glided past, a long, triumphant march past, now threatening and sinister, now happy and smiling, but always new, endowed with eternal youth.

He was the helpless sport of gloomy dreams; he was pressed in between houses in narrow, dark streets; he was at the bottom of a well; he was trying to creep through a tunnel and was held fast; bricks were being heaped on his breast, when he was awakened by a loud knocking at the window shutters. He jumped up, but the room was pitch dark; he opened the shutters and a sea of light and green greeted his eyes. Oh, Nature! Reality which surpasses all dreams!

Behold, you dreamer, your brain could never invent such a dream, and yet you would talk of cold reality!

The morning sun was shining on an August landscape. He put a piece of bread in his pocket, slung his drinking-cup across his shoulder, took a stick and a basket and went out in search of sport--sport, not bloodshed.

His path lay between oak trees and hazels; autumn flowers grew here, flowers which had waited until after the passing of the scythe before they appeared, so that they could enjoy life undisturbed until the frost killed them. He crossed the stubble field, climbed over the fence, and the sport began.

On the short, springy turf, woven of reed-grass and stunted mudwort, the mushrooms lay scattered like new-laid eggs, waiting for the sun to enable them to fulfil their destiny before they decayed; but that was impossible now, since fate had decreed that they should die in their youth.

He left the battlefield and entered the forest with its odour of turpentine--health and sick-room--balm for the wounded breast, as the saying is; he walked below the branches in a dead calm, while twenty yards above his head the tempest shrieked. A woodcock flew up; the branches rattled. If only he had a gun!

Why does a man long for a gun whenever he happens to come across a harmless creature of the woods? There are many occasions in life when a gun would be much more in its place.

Here was a cart track; the wheels of the cart, drawn by oxen, had cut deeply into the turf; nevertheless, a red species of the poisonous spit-devils had shot up in the ruts; maybe they required strake-nails and kicks from the hoofs of oxen before they could enter into material existence.

The wood opened out and the path ceased at a place where many trees had been felled; before him lay what remained of the giants of the forest, cut down by the axe because it had been impossible to dig them-up with the roots. He gazed at a huge stump which had been attacked by a host of fungi of all sizes; they had settled on it as a swarm of flies settles on carrion, but their crowd was densest round the decayed parts which they could overcome more easily; they looked starved, pale and bloodless; they were neither pretty nor poisonous, like the spit-devils; they were merely useful.

Denser and darker grew the wood; the Scotch firs mingled their branches with the moss which covered the ground, embraced the stones and built cool little huts for the yellow merulius which grew embedded in the moss and enjoyed a short life, protected alike from scorching sun and preying insects.

The ground became damp; the bog-myrtle, in times gone by highly valued and eagerly gathered on account of its medicinal qualities, grew undisturbed between tiny hillocks, at the foot of degenerated grey pines which had died of superabundance. A woodpecker hammered high above and stopped every now and then to listen whether the sound betrayed a hollow. The sun's rays were scorching; the ground became stony, the wood opened again; he could hear a low, muffled roar; fresh breezes, laden with the smell of oysters, cooled his face; he caught glimpses of a shining blue expanse through the lower branches of the Scotch firs.

A few more steps up the incline--and before him lay the sea--the sea! The waves leaped up the cliffs and were thrown down again, only to begin their game afresh.

Off with the clothes and down into the deep! What was it that he saw down there for the space of a moment? A different world, where the trees were red like seaweed and the air emerald green like the waves; now he was again on the surface amid the bellowing, fighting breakers; he fought with them until he was tired; he lay on his back and floated; they threw him up sky-high, they dragged him down into dark chasms, as if they meant to throw him into the abyss; he ceased to wish, he ceased to will; he made no resistance; his body had lost all weight; the law of gravity no longer applied to him; he floated between water and air--in absolute calm, devoid of all sensation.

He let the waves carry him to the shore, the shallow, sandy shore, where it formed a lumber-room between the rocks for the sea's collection of all things it could not devour; here they lay, sorted, washed and polished; broken oars, a legion of corks, bark, reed-pipes, staves and hoops. He sat down and stared at a broken plank.

* * * * *

They had been shut up in the house for a week, for it was raining. He had established himself in the window-seat, for one of the panes was all colours with age and sunlight, and when he looked through it at the grey, cloud-covered expanse of water, the sun seemed to be shining; the grey reefs, where the seagulls nested, looked red, the air was flooded with gold, the trees were of a brilliant emerald green; and if he looked through the window-pane at a certain angle he could see a rainbow in the sky, and that kindled in him the hope of fine weather.

Far away, out in the sea, there was a small island, an island which looked less profaned than the other islands; the Scotch firs grew more closely together; the cliffs were greener and the shore was covered with reeds. His soul yearned for it, for from there he could see the open sea.

And the sun shone again. He set sail and steered for the little island. The boat danced over the rolling waves, the channel broadened; far away the green island called him; it swam nearer steadily, until at last the boat was moored among the whispering reeds and he landed.

His dream had been realised; he was alone among the trees and reefs, with the sea before him and the infinite blue sky above his head. No sound betrayed the disturbing vicinity of a human being, no sail on the horizon, no cottage on the shore. A solitary oyster-plover flew away from him, terrified, uttering its impotent: help! help! A family of creek-ducks, led by the mother, scudded away, running on the water, frightened by the arrival of dread man; a grey adder uncurled and made good its escape, slipping away between the stones, like a tiny, winding brooklet. The seagulls came flying from the reefs to have a look at the intruder, screamed like little children and hurried away again. A crow rose from a large Scotch fir; it fluttered and beat its wings, screamed and threatened and groaned and escaped to outlying reefs; every living thing shunned the dreaded being who had fled from his own kind.

He walked along the sandy shore; he came upon the skeleton of a pine-tree, washed by the sea and bleached by the sun to a deadly pallor; it lay there like a skeleton of a dragon and between its ribs flowered the purple lythrum and the golden lysimachia; little piles of shells lay heaped round the wild aster which lived its life on empty sepulchres; the air was laden with the scent of valerian which grew in profusion on a bed of evil-smelling seaweed.

He left the shore and turned his footsteps towards the wood. How tall and straight the trees were, a little too straight perhaps, but he could see the sea through the trunks, the sea--solitude--nature! The ground was as smooth as if it had been stamped down and flattened by human feet; here was the stump of a tree--the axe had been here; over there a nettle grew, men had been here; there could be no mistake, for the nettle is a parasite which follows in the wake of man and never ventures into the solitude of the woods or the large stretches of meadow-land; the nettle is vermin, supported by man, and can only exist in the vicinity of man; it collects all dust and dirt on its hairy, sticky leaves and burns the finger which touches it,--a magnificent breed, nourished by sin.

He went on. His eyes fell on a sparrow, the denizen of the gutter and backyard--the winged creature which feels at home in the dust, bathes in dirt and should have been a rat since it makes no use of its wings--man's jackal. What was it doing out here where there were no men? What did it live on? On the seed of the nettle?

A few more steps and he found the sole of a shoe; a large foot, a foot deformed by hard work, had trodden heavily on this sole. Between the trunks he came upon a fire-place made of boulders, an altar perhaps, on which Nature's conqueror had sacrificed to Strength. The fire had long been extinct, but the effects of it were still visible. The ground was dug up as if by the hoofs of animals, the trees were stripped of their bark, even the rocks were broken; there was a gigantic well in the mountain, filled with dirty brown water; the bowels of the earth had been laid bare and the broken pieces scattered as if by naughty children, disappointed because they had not found what they sought. But a great piece of mountain was missing. It had been taken away with a feldspar to the china factory, and only when there was no more to be got, man had stayed away.

He fled from the devastation, down to his boat. He noticed the traces of footsteps on the sand. He cursed and turned to fly when he suddenly saw in a flash that he had been cursing himself; and all at once he understood why the seagulls and the adder and all the others had shunned him, and he retraced his footsteps, for he could not escape from himself.

He gazed at the sea through his field-glasses in the direction whence he had come. A white dress and a blue cover shone among the oak-trees. He climbed into the boat, ate his bread, drank a liqueur and muttered, seizing the oars--

"You, whose every desire has been fulfilled, who possess the best of all things Life has to bestow, why are you discontent?"

XIII

At last the house had been cleansed of her friends. The last one, the pretty one, had disappeared in the company of a well-known professor, who had returned from an expedition with four orders and an assured position. Having no home of her own, the fair lady had lived in my house, cost free. She had seized the opportunity, fastened herself on to the poor fellow and seduced him one evening in a cab, where, for some reason or other, she found herself with him; she forced him into marrying her by making a scandalous scene in a third house, to which they had both been invited. As soon as she felt sure of her position she dropped the mask, and at a party, under the influence of too much wine, she called Marie a degenerate. A colleague, who happened to hear the remark, thought it his duty to tell me at once.

Marie, with a few words, proved that the accusation was unjust, and in future my door was closed to the lady, although this meant the loss of my old friend for ever.

I was not sufficiently curious to go more deeply into the meaning of the word "degenerate," but it left its sting in my bleeding flesh. New insults, uttered by the same impure lips, referred to the suspicious life Marie had led during her tour in Finland. My old suspicions arose with fresh vigor, her miscarriage, our conversation on destiny, her complete surrender.... All these things strengthened my intention to leave the country.

Marie had discovered the use of a sick poet, and constituted herself sister of mercy, sick-nurse, keeper even, if a keeper was required.

She wove a martyr's crown for her own head, acted with absolute independence behind my back, and, as I discovered later on, went so far as to borrow money from my friends in my name. At the same time valuable pieces of furniture disappeared from our house, and were carted to adventuress No. I, to be sold by the letter.

All this aroused my attention.

"Had Marie expenses of which I was ignorant?" I often asked myself this question. Was this the cause of those secret sales? The cause of the enormous housekeeping expenditure? And if this was the cause, what was the object of them? I enjoyed the income of a Swedish minister of State, a larger income than that of a Swedish general, and yet I led a miserable life; it was as if my feet were fettered, as if I were dragging a leaden weight with me wherever I went. And yet we lived very simply. Our table was the table of a labourer; the food was cooked so badly that it was at times uneatable. We drank beer or brandy, like a working-man; our cellar was so inferior that our friends upbraided us more than once. I smoked nothing but--a pipe. I had hardly any recreation, only very occasionally, about once a month, I spent an evening with friends.

Once only, beside myself with anger, I determined to look into the matter. I asked an experienced lady for advice. She laughed when I asked her whether our household expenses were not rather, high, and told me that we must be mad.

I had every reason therefore to believe in extraordinary and secret expenditure. But the object? the object?

Relations? friends? lovers? Nobody cares to enlighten a husband, and so everybody becomes an accessory in crime....

* * * * *

After endless preparations the date of our departure was fixed. But now a new difficulty arose, a difficulty which I had long forseen and which was accompanied by a series of unpleasant scenes. The dog was still alive! How much annoyance it had caused me already! especially as so much attention was devoted to him that the children were habitually neglected.

However, the day had dawned when to my inexpressible joy Marie's idol and my evil genius, old, diseased, half-rotten, was to end its days; Marie herself now desired the animal's death, and only the thought of the innocent pleasure which its disappearance would cause me led her to postpone the "dog-question" again and again, and invent fresh annoyances to make me pay for the longed-for relief.

But at last a farewell feast was arranged. She made heart-rending scenes, had a fowl killed, of which I, still a semi-invalid, received the bones, and then--we were in the country at the time--she went to town, taking the dog with her.

After two days' absence she announced her return in a few cold words. What else could a murderer expect? Full of happiness, freed of a burden which I had borne for six years, I went to the landing-stage to meet her, expecting to find her alone. She received me as if I were a poisoner, her eyes were suffused with tears, and when I approached to kiss her, she pushed me aside. Carrying in her arms a large parcel of extraordinary shape, she walked on, slowly, as if she were walking in a funeral procession, with a certain rhythm as if to the strains of a funeral march.

The parcel held the corpse! The funeral ceremony had been reserved for me! She ordered a coffin and sent for two men to dig a grave. Although determined to have nothing to do with the matter, I was compelled to be present at the obsequies of the murdered innocent. It was most touching. Marie collected her thoughts and then prayed to God for the victim and its slayer. Amid the laughter of the onlookers she placed a cross on the grave, the cross of the Saviour who had--at last--delivered me from a monster, innocent itself, but yet terrible as the embodiment and instrument of the malice of a woman who lacked the courage to persecute her husband openly.

After a few days' mourning, during which she refused to have anything to say to me--for she could have nothing to say to a murderer--we left for Paris.