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diff --git a/old/68837-0.txt b/old/68837-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 35dcad9..0000000 --- a/old/68837-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4501 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Elsie Lindtner, by Karin Michaëlis -Stangeland - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Elsie Lindtner - A sequel to "The Dangerous Age" - -Author: Karin Michaëlis Stangeland - -Translator: Beatrice Marshall - -Release Date: August 25, 2022 [eBook #68837] - -Language: English - -Produced by: MWS and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - generously made available by The Internet Archive/American - Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELSIE LINDTNER *** - - - - - - -ELSIE LINDTNER - - - - -_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ - -THE DANGEROUS AGE - -_Letters and Fragments from a Woman’s Diary_ - - - - - ELSIE LINDTNER - - A Sequel to “The Dangerous Age” - - BY - KARIN MICHAËLIS - STANGELAND - - _AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION_ - BY - BEATRICE MARSHALL - - NEW YORK - JOHN LANE COMPANY - MCMXII - - Copyright, 1912, by - JOHN LANE COMPANY - - - - -PREFACE - - -Readers and admirers of “The Dangerous Age”—and their name is legion—will -find themselves perfectly at home in the following story. To them, Elsie -Lindtner’s rambling aphorisms, her Bashkirtseffian revelations of soul, -the remarkably frank letters which she delights to write to her friends, -among whom she numbers her divorced husband; above all, her rather -preposterous obsession with regard to the dangers of middle age, will be -familiar as a twice-told tale. - -Doubtless many will be charmed to meet Elsie Lindtner again, when she has -passed through the dreaded furnace of her “forties,” and is still keeping -the spark of inextinguishable youthfulness alive within her, by gambling -at Monte Carlo, travelling in Greece with Jeanne of the flaming hair, -fencing in London, riding in New York, and finally finding happiness and -salvation in the adoption of a small offscouring of the streets. - -But for those who may have missed reading the little masterpiece of -modern femininity which only a short time ago set a whole continent by -the ears, some sort of key is, possibly, necessary to the enjoyment of -“Elsie Lindtner.” - -In “The Dangerous Age” Elsie Lindtner writes an autobiographical letter -to Joergen Malthe, the rising young architect, who has been her ardent -admirer. She tells him now that her mother died when she was born, and -her father was bankrupt, and lived disgraced in retirement, while she was -left to the care of a servant girl. - -From her she learnt that lack of money was the cause of their sordid -life, and from that moment she worshipped money. - -“I sometimes buried a coin that had been given me,” she writes, “as a dog -buries a bone.” - -When she went to school little Elsbeth Bugge was soon informed that she -was “the prettiest girl in the school”; that a pretty face was worth a -fortune. - -“From that moment I entered upon the accursed cult of my person which -absorbed the rest of my childhood and all my first youth.... I avoided -the sun lest I should get freckles; I collected rain water for washing; -I slept with gloves, and though I adored sweets, I refrained from eating -them on account of my teeth. I spent hours brushing my hair.” - -One day when she came home she found the only big mirror in the house had -been transferred from her father’s room and hung in her own. - -“I made myself quite ill with excitement, and the maid had to put me to -bed. But later on, when the house was quiet, I got up and lit my lamp. I -spent hours gazing at myself in the glass. There I sat till the sun rose.” - -Then follows an account of how this child, scarcely in her teens, -positively set her cap at a rich, elderly widower, because he had a fine -house. - -“My brain reeled as I said to myself, ‘Some day I will live in that house -as wife of the Chief Magistrate.’” - -The precociousness of Marie Bashkirtseff who fell in love with a -duke when she ought to have been playing with her dolls, pales into -insignificance beside this confession. - -Elsie left school and went back to Denmark engaged to Herr von Brincken, -the Chief Magistrate, but he had heart disease and she did not marry him. -Instead she married Richard Lindtner, a wealthy Dane, and made her home -with him in the Old Market Place at Copenhagen, where for twenty-two -years she was, to outward appearances, a happy and contented wife. - -“I allowed my senses to be inflamed while my mind remained cold and my -heart contracted with disgust. I consciously profaned the sacred words -of love by applying them to a man whom I chose for his money. Meanwhile, -I developed into the frivolous society woman everybody took me to be. -Every woman wears the mask which best suits her purpose. My mask was my -smile....” - -It is only in this book, the second instalment of Elsie Lindtner’s -fragmentary diary and correspondence, that she gives us a reason for -leaving her husband after twenty-two years of married life, the wish that -he should have children. In “The Dangerous Age” she hints at other and -various reasons. To her friend and cousin, Lili Rothe, the perfect wife -and mother of “lanky daughters,” who could love another man passionately -without ceasing to love her husband, she writes, when announcing her -divorce, “There is no special reason ... none at least that is explicable -to the world. As far as I know Richard has no entanglements, and I have -no lover. There is no shadow of a scandal connected with our separation -beyond that which must inevitably arise when two middle-aged partners -throw down their cards in the middle of a rubber.... My real reason is so -simple and clear that few will be content to accept it.... You know that -Richard and I have got on as well as two people of opposite sex can do. -There has never been an angry word between us. But one day the impulse—or -whatever you like to call it—took possession of me that I must live -alone—quite alone, and all to myself. Call it an absurd idea ... call it -hysteria—which, perhaps, it is—I must get right away from everybody and -everything. Joergen Malthe has planned and built a little villa for me in -the belief that it was for some one else. The house is on an island, the -name of which I will keep to myself for the present.” - -In her self-communings, however, she never disguises the fact that escape -from boredom was the main motive of her returning to the White Villa. - -“Richard is still travelling, and entertains me scrupulously with -accounts of the sights he sees and his lonely nights.... As in the -past, he bores me with his interminable descriptions, and his whole -middle-class outlook....” - -Richard’s neatness and tidy ways bored her; his correctness in the -convenances; even his way of eating, and “to watch him eat was a daily -torture.” - -“Sundays were no better in the Old Market Place. There I had Richard from -morning till night. To be bored alone is bad; to be bored in the society -of one other person is much worse. To think that Richard never noticed -it! His incessant talk reminded me of a mill-wheel, and I felt as though -all the flour were blowing into my eyes.” - -In another place she says: “I am now sure that even if the difference -in our own age did not exist, I could never marry Malthe.... I could do -foolish, even mean things for the sake of the one man I loved with all my -heart.... But set up a home with Joergen Malthe—never!” - -The terrible part of home-life is that every piece of furniture in the -house forms a link in the chain which binds two married people long after -love has died out—if indeed it ever existed. Two human beings—who differ -as much as two human beings always must do—are forced to adopt the same -tastes, the same outlook. The home is built upon this incessant conflict. - -“How often Richard and I gave way to each other with a consideration -masking an annoyance that rankled more than a violent quarrel.... What -a profound contempt I felt for his tastes and, without saying so, how -he disapproved of mine. No, his home was not mine, although we lived in -it like an ideal couple. My person for his money—that was the bargain -crudely but truthfully expressed.” - - * * * * * - -Even in her White Villa, on its island with a forest of her very own, -Elsie Lindtner, to her intense disappointment, was bored. She lived there -with two servants, Torp, the cook (a delightful figure), who believed -in spooks, and whose teeth chattered when she told ghost stories; and -Jeanne, the mysterious young housemaid with “amber eyes” and hair that -glowed like red fungi against the snow, who wore silk stockings, and won -Elsie’s heart by admiring and dressing Elsie’s own wonderful hair. Jeanne -became the salient interest in Elsie’s hermit life on the island, and -was promoted to the intimacy of companion and confidante. It was Jeanne -who arranged the flowers artistically with her “long, pointed fingers,” -and picked up her skirts disdainfully when she passed the flirtatious -gardener, to whose fascinations Torp, the cook, became a hapless prey. -Torp “made herself thin in collecting fat chickens for him,” and he -played cards with her in the basement kitchen. - -Jeanne rowed hard in the little white boat across the lake to catch the -last post with Elsie’s fatal invitation to Malthe. “I will never part -with Jeanne,” Elsie said as she watched her. Then she wandered at random -in the woods and fields, and scarcely seemed to feel the ground under her -feet. The flowers smelt so sweet, and she was so deeply moved. - -“How can I sleep? I feel I must stay awake until my letter is in his -hands.... Now it is speeding to him through the quiet night. The letter -yearns towards him as I do myself.... I am young again, yes, young, -young! How blue the night is.” - -But she could not, alas, young as she felt, get into the white -embroidered muslin which used to become her so well, and Malthe’s first -glance told her all. - -“He cast down his eyes so that he might not hurt me again.” One reads of -tears of blood. “... During the few hours he spent in my house I think we -smiled ‘smiles of blood.’” - -Malthe left the White Villa the same night, and said at parting, “I feel -like the worst of criminals.” - -After this shattering blow Elsie in her despair craved for even the -boring society of the husband she had deserted. She was, to use her own -expression, “greedy of Richard’s caresses,” and invited him, too, to -visit her on her island. But Richard declined altogether. He had just -become engaged to a girl, “a mere chit of nineteen.” - -“He has made a fool of me! I am done for. Nothing is left to me but to -efface myself as soon as possible.” - -Elsie Lindtner’s method of effacing herself for the second time was to -quit her desert island, and take a Cook’s tour round the world with -Jeanne. - -Thus it happens that we renew acquaintance with her breaking the bank -at Monte Carlo in the first pages of this book to which she has given -her own name, though it might just as appropriately have been entitled -“More Dangerous Age Reflections.” For here, again, the “transition” is -the absorbing topic of Elsie Lindtner’s thoughts and correspondence; one -might almost say it is “the bee in her bonnet.” Even when she has emerged -triumphantly, as she boasts afterwards, from its perils, and has found -a new source of interest and happiness in the street arab whom she has -adopted, she seems unable to keep the subject out of her conversation and -letters. She goes so far as to warn strangers of the “stealthy footsteps -of the approaching years,” and disputes with her dear friend, the -extraordinary widow, Magna Wellmann, which of them came through those -years, “when we are all more or less mad,” with the greatest _éclat_. - -In “Elsie Lindtner” we miss the _mise en scène_ of the White Villa on -the island, with its forest and lake, for when Elsie re-visits it with -Kelly, it hardly seems the same place, with no Torp and no gardener.... -We miss, too, the first, fine, careless rapture of feminine revolt which -characterises “The Dangerous Age,” and the Jeanne of these pages is not -so vivid as the Jeanne of the former book. In compensation we have more -of Magna, and we have Lili Rothe’s love-letters—which were addressed but -never sent to the man she loved. Also, as in the previous volume, we -have Elsie Lindtner’s letters, with their strange, pathetic eloquence, -marvellously revealing a woman’s complicated soul. Their literary merit -and their value as a picture of life cannot fail to impress all readers. - - BEATRICE MARSHALL. - - - - -ELSIE LINDTNER - - - - -_Elsie Lindtner_ - - - - - MONTE CARLO. - -DEAR RICHARD, - - -Thank you for the money, and forgive my audacious telegram. I am -directing this letter to your office, as it has nothing to do with -domestic affairs. - -You really must help me. We, Jeanne and I, are stranded here like a pair -of adventuresses, and don’t know what to do. I have wired to my lawyer, -who has simply replied with an unconditional “No.” The creature seems to -think he has the right to manage my fortune as well as myself. Naturally, -I find it far from pleasant to be obliged to apply to you, but you are -the only person I can think of to whom I can turn without risking a -refusal. - -I have been gambling, winning and losing, finally losing. I am -overdrawn, and the last draft which Riise had the grace to send me is -gone. - -Your money kept me going for two hours, but now that is gone, too. I -have pawned the few valuables I possessed, but I am determined to win -everything back. So please don’t give me good advice; instead, go and -talk to Riise. Explain to him that it is urgent, and I _must_ have the -money. I am quite indifferent as to what becomes of the capital. I don’t -mind paying dearly for this spree—or whatever you like to call it—and -being poor afterwards in consequence. If the matter goes awry, you’ll -hear nothing more of Elsie Lindtner. I shall neither take poison nor -shoot myself. There is a more comfortable way out of it. A Brazilian, -whom I don’t like, has lent me a big sum of money. If I borrow any more -of him, it’ll have to come to a bargain. Make Riise sell the stock, even -at a heavy loss, I must have money. Meanwhile send me all you can spare -at the moment by cheque. I hope you continue to be as happy as ever. - -With many thanks in advance, - - Yours, - - ELSIE. - - - - - MONTE CARLO. - -DEAR RICHARD, - - -A friend in need is a friend indeed. Accept my thanks for your prompt and -ready help. All the same, I could not wait till it came, and borrowed -again from the Brazilian. His obnoxious money has brought me luck. If it -had been the other way about—well, never mind. It was a mad, desperate -plunge on my part. Now that it is over I cannot understand how I could -nerve myself for it. But I have won. The night before last I raked in two -hundred and fifty thousand francs besides all that I had lost. After that -I laid down to sleep. Your money has just arrived. I shall send it back -at once with what you sent me before, and the amount I have wrung out of -Riise. Jeanne has started packing. - -To-morrow we leave here. We are going for Jeanne’s sake. She has taken my -gambling too much to heart. - -Now, if you possibly can, forget this little episode. I wasn’t completely -myself. It’s all over, and too late to repent. We intend to spend the -rest of the winter in Tangiers and Cairo, and probably in Helvan. Jeanne -wants to go to India, and I have no objection so long as the journey is -not too difficult. At all events, we shall spend a few weeks in Paris, -just to fit ourselves out stylishly. - -It is positively disgraceful of me that I have forgotten to congratulate -you on the birth of your son and heir. How I should like to see your -paternal countenance—you might send me a photograph of yourself with the -Crown Prince, and now, farewell, till circumstances throw us together -again. - - ELSIE. - - * * * * * - -How long can things go on like this? We wander hither and thither, and -have no abiding place, as if we were fugitives condemned to be eternally -on the move. And we feign enjoyment of this perpetual unsettlement. -Jeanne has long ago seen through the pitiable farce, but she continues -to play her part loyally out of gratitude for the small kindness I have -shown her. We get on quite well together. Jeanne reads in my face when it -is best to speak, and when to be silent. - -She is happiest on shore with terra firma beneath her feet, while I -like best the gliding days and nights on board ship; the sky above, the -sea beneath me, my brain vacant, and all my senses lulled to sleep. It -reminds me of the early days on my solitary island, when every trifling -incident was an affair of huge importance. The flight of a seagull, the -top of a mast above the horizon—a ship sailing by in the night. We spend -the day on our deck chairs, half dozing over a book, or conversing in -a company voice; but at night we throw ulsters over our nightgowns and -pace the deck, our natures expanding like flowers which only shed their -perfume after dark. - -I have become very fond of Jeanne. Her poor, withered heart, too early -developed, too soon faded, awakes a certain gentle compassion within -me. All my opinions are accepted by her eagerly as golden rules for the -ordering of life. If only I could forget! existence might be bearable. -But I cannot forget. The glance which showed me the corpse of his love -follows me continually everywhere. The humiliation in that glance! I -don’t love him, and I don’t hate him. I am getting too lukewarm to hate. -But contempt rankles—Jeanne is careful to say nothing that can hurt me, -and yet sometimes she hurts me by being too tactfully silent! I don’t -want to be pitied, so we while away hours over our toilette. - -How long can it go on? - - ATHENS. - -Here it is as nice as anywhere else. I struggle bravely to let myself be -enchanted with Greece’s past, but in reality I care as little about it as -I care for the potshares on the Keramaikos. - -We are attending Professor Dörpfeld’s lectures on “The Acropolis,” and I -am more interested in the way the man says things than in concentrating -my mind on what he says. He has made himself so thoroughly familiar with -the plastic beauty of the world, that finally the invisible words that -fall from his lips seem to have become plastic, too. I take no interest -in why the pillars are thickest in the middle. It is the olive groves, -and the lights and shadows flitting over Athens, that charm and engross -me. - -Jeanne takes it all in like a gaping-mouthed schoolgirl; she studies -the history of art in the hotel. I have given her leave to go on an -excavating expedition, but without me. I strongly object to riding -through snow up to my waist, sleeping in tents on the bare ground, and -living on mutton and canned goods. My laziness is growing. - - LUXOR. - -I am uneasy about Jeanne. She is strung up to a state of enthusiasm -which alienates me. Is it travelling that has developed her, or are her -hitherto dormant abilities awakening? We are simply travelling to kill -time, but she takes everything with the same tremendous seriousness as -that day in Berlin when she first heard Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. She -regards me as if it were long ago an accepted fact that we each exist for -ourselves, alone in our separate worlds. She skips half the meals to roam -about among the temples. To-night we sat on top of the great pylon and -watched the sun go down. For me it was just like a beautiful decorative -effect at the theatre. I couldn’t help thinking of “Aïda.” She wouldn’t -come in when I did, and when I suggested that the night air was chilly -she answered quite snappishly, “I wish to see the moon illumine the -classic sea.” Of course, I left her alone, but I couldn’t sleep, and at -about midnight I heard her come back. My door was open, and I called her -in. She sat down on the end of my bed and was crying. What can be the -matter with her? - -I am not going to torment her with questions. She shall be free to -come and go as she chooses—so long as she spares me the paeans of an -enthusiasm which I cannot share. It is all very well here but I prefer -myself in the Paris boulevards, Unter den Linden, and Bond Street. I feel -so poverty-stricken when I see others full of emotional _élan_. - -Yes, that is it. That is why I am nervous about Jeanne’s enthusiasm for -art. She reminds me of old days when Malthe, in my yellow room looking -over the market-place, told me of his travels, and I deluded myself into -imagining I understood what he was talking about.... - -And so this phase has come to an end, too! I had quite thought that -Jeanne had sold herself to me for life. But it was not to be, after all. -I might have prevented it. Perhaps she was waiting for a word from me. -Still, it is best that we should part. Let her put her abilities to the -test, by all means. She will soon have had enough of work, and I am in -a position of being able to wait. Now I shall go to America, and if I -find that bores me, too, God only knows if I shan’t give in and accept -the Brazilian. His method of courtship, at least, is as systematic as a -persecution. And at bottom I am flattered, that still—_still_; but for -how much longer? I am deemed desirable. I ask myself in moments of doubt -whether I should be even that, without the aid of Poiret and Worth. - - - - -DEAR JEANNE,—Little travelling companion. - - -So our paths separate—temporarily, or for ever—neither of us can say -which. But I feel that it is best to part, and I am not at all sad -or hurt. Two years is a good long time for two people to have lived -together, and we have both derived some profit from those years. For me -the profit lies also in their coming to an end, for you that you have -found life worth living. As I said before, I strongly advise you to go -through the whole training, which will prove whether you have creative -talent, or your art is merely suited to commercial purposes. I shouldn’t -be surprised, indeed, if you became a designer of buildings—architect -is, I suppose, too ambitious a word to apply to a woman—and as Greek -and Egyptian temples are likely to be your speciality, you are hardly -destined to be popular. - -Now we have discussed all the practical points. I think you know that I -wish you absolutely to enjoy your time in Paris. Enjoy it to the full, -but don’t commit any irrevocable follies! - -You will get these lines from London, where I am amusing myself by a -short obesity cure. Imagine us fencing, like small children in black -satin knickerbockers and white sweaters! Several ladies from Court -take part in the “class.” Afterwards we have a brisk but delightful -hip-massage, and that alone makes it worth the trouble. Directly I am -satisfied with the slimness of my exterior, I start for New York. You -were never very happy over there, but for me that city has a peculiar -fascination. I don’t know myself what it consists in. - -I beg you, from my heart, Jeanne, that you will always consider me as -a friend to whom you can comfortably tell everything, and come to for -sympathy and advice, whether in sorrow or happiness. You will, Jeanne, -won’t you? and don’t neglect your appearance. Work may absorb you for a -time, but that kind of thing is a transitory craze in a woman of your -disposition. Your heritage is your appearance, remember. - -Good-bye for the present, and “good luck,” little travelling companion. - - ELSIE LINDTNER. - - - - -DEAREST JEANNE, - - -Your last letter—to put it mildly—is very exaggerated. Frankly, it is -positively hysterical. Why should you harp to me on your “guilt,” or your -everlasting gratitude, on your privilege of making some sacrifice for me. -I don’t understand a word of the whole rigmarole, not a single word. I -don’t see the point of it in the least. Here I am perfectly content in -my own solitary way, which is not a bit misanthropic, and my own desire -is that you should feel content, too. Don’t you like Paris? You really -needn’t be afraid to say so—or is it the work that you are sick of? If -so, it is only what I have long expected. - -According to my opinion, you belong to those human luxuries whose -presence in the world are quite superfluous, but who have a certain -genius through their mere existence alone of making life more tolerable -for others. Your place is either this, or in the midst of a _grande -passion_ (heaven forbid) in which you would screw yourself into a bread -pellet, to be held in some one else’s mouth. I can see you like _The -Princess on the Pea_, scorning everything, or I can see you on your knees -scouring steps for the man you love. - -But I should like to see the man you were able to love. - -Perhaps you are in love? That idea has suddenly occurred to me, though it -seems highly improbable. Now, however, that I have read through your last -nonsensical letter again, I believe that I have really hit on the right -solution. - -You are in love, and out of feelings of mistaken gratitude, you do not -like to tell me. Jeanne, Jeanne! Will you for my sake be an old maid? -It is very sweet of you, but a little too much to expect. Besides, it -is quite unnecessary. I am not going to lie, and pretend that it will -not cost me something to give up my little fairy-tale princess with the -beautiful hands. Not only my hair, but my shamefully overcultivated taste -is missing you, with whom I was able to exchange ideas. An empty place on -my balcony that will never be filled again till the aforesaid maiden sits -in it with the sunlight shining on her and on the river, and on the town -which is the town of all others. - -But, Jeanne, our paths have diverged, and they can never again unite. -You are not in the least fit to be in my company. You don’t want me, but -life, and joyousness. May you find it, no matter whether, like me, you -sell yourself, and are shut up in a golden cage, whether you live your -own fairy-tale, and realise the mirage of your dreams, or whether you -develop into an artist. Only with me you would have no peace. - -I noticed how you beat your wings when we were together, how you pined -and tortured yourself to adopt the pose that pleased me. How for my sake -you acted a part. - -Instead of writing sheets, I send you these lines, and entreat you to -answer by telegram so that you may tell me in the fewest possible words -what has happened to you. - -I am, God knows, so curious that I should like to send you a wire a yard -long. But I must rule my spirit so as to take this modern city of New -York. - - Your - - ELSIE. - - - - -JEANNE, JEANNE, JEANNE! - - -Only that! Thank God, only that. How infinitely comforting a telegram -with its few concise words can be. - -Don’t let this matter worry you further. Of course, I’ll take the child -to my heart; or still better, I will adopt the child. - -After all, it’s much the same to me whether I have a camera, cacti, or a -little child for a hobby. You needn’t be afraid that I shall plant it in -a flower-pot like a cutting, or pin it into my lace collection. It shall, -I promise you, be properly cared for, not by me, but through me. I will -engage the best nurse money can procure. If you like, too, I will sail -with the nurse over the whole width of the Atlantic to receive the little -eel in person. The more I think it over, the more excellent the plan -seems to me. You will have no bother, will not be interrupted in your -career, and I shall add to the long list of my crazes one more item. To -prevent there being any sort of misunderstanding about it, I am perfectly -confident that providing for the little legacy will be a source of new -enjoyment to me. - -I only make one condition, and that is, if the affair becomes too -complete I may be allowed to put “our child” out to nurse. - -It is to be hoped that the father has not won a fraction of your heart. -I can well imagine that he is some young artist whom you have met at the -class. He gazed at your hair till he was sick, which is not at all to be -wondered at, and you forgot momentarily that you had long ago abjured all -folly. - -Write me more details as to whether you approve; when “it” is expected, -and so on. I needn’t advise you, of course, to leave Paris before the -change in your exterior attracts notice. I am thinking a great deal of -you, Jeanne, little Jeanne. - - Your - - ELSIE. - - - - -DEAR MAGNA WELLMANN, - - -And I am the woman who thought you had forgotten me, or that you still -bore me a grudge for that letter which I wrote you four—no, it is already -five—years ago. - -Now I sit here and ponder whether the greatest transformation has been -worked in you, or in me. You, at all events, are not the same, and I -believe that I am not. But at our age, one is long past growing and -developing. - -You who of old were like a dry autumn leaf whirled before the wind, -have proved yourself all at once to have a strength and courage which -make me ashamed. Who has lulled your senses so to rest? The one “great” -love? No, I will not ask questions, though a whole host of them pulsate -within me. And you are not a bit afraid? You speak of it as if it were -a mere frolic. You wonderful human creature, Magna. Other women suffer -intolerably during the nine months of pregnancy, and grow irritable and -ugly. But you are blooming as if it were the most perfectly natural -condition to be in. What a contrast to your ordinary mood and your old -escapades. You are not in the least afraid to bring a child into the -world at your age; and in such circumstances every line of your letter -breathes freshness and health, and there is no disguising it. - -Do you know, your letter awoke in me the first longing for Denmark since -I packed my boxes and went out into the wide world. - -I have become an alien. Five years is not such a very long time, though -long enough to render a person countryless. Richard in his pleasant way, -keeps me _au courant_ with what he calls the “main movements” of our -circle, so I know that you have been banned and ostracised. I cannot -say that I think it is altogether undeserved. You know that I insist on -good form outwardly as well as inwardly, and, really, Magna, I cannot -picture myself behaving as you have done, any more than I can picture -myself going out in society in a nightdress with my hair hanging down in -a pigtail. But, of course, it is your affair. - -For the most part I take no interest in what goes on at home. It reminds -me too much of looking at a drop of water through a microscope. If, by -any chance, I come across a Danish newspaper, I read nothing but the -obituaries, and even they do not rouse a shadow of emotion in my soul. - -Yet there are fates which, out of curiosity or fellow-feeling, appeal to -me. And yours is one of them. When Richard wrote, “Frau Wellmann’s latest -makes her ‘impossible’ in this part of the world,” I could not help -smiling. You made yourself impossible years ago. It is true, Professor -Wellmann’s name and social status have sheltered and held a restraining -hand over you, that is to say, up till now. - -But now it has come to an actual scandal. You parade your shame on the -housetops of Copenhagen, instead of going away and hushing it up. - -By the bye, how many small _affairs_ were there not year after year -_hushed up_ in our set? The dear ladies even were not afraid to whisper -about them to each other. And you, you even, delight in having a child of -the peculiar kind that we call illegitimate. Magna, Magna! I am not going -to suppose that behind it all is a spark of malicious joy in challenging -the _crême de la crême_. That would be a poor joke. Neither can I believe -that your motive has anything to do with _love_ for the father of your -illegitimate child. - -You write so beautifully about the feeling that life is growing within -you. In this respect, I am a stranger, and absolutely blind. I have -never felt the smallest sensation of longing to feel that life is growing -within me. Perhaps I am even incapable of understanding your expression. -Yet it touches me. - -You were entering on a period of severe trial for yourself and for the -children, and the time of trial will not end with your confinement. -There will most certainly have to be an explanation, and preferably an -explanation that will bring as little injury as possible to the children. -Have you thought of this? Don’t put off the inevitable too long, or -others may be before you. The children cannot—it would be terrible if -they could—understand the whole, so the question is how to invent a fable -which will best lull their reflection. - -Many will judge you because you have done what is not customary and -defied the usages of society; others will judge you out of envy, because -they have not had the courage to do it themselves. Every one who has -refrained through fear of disgrace and shame, will hurl a stone at you. -Likewise the childless women. If I were still in the Old Market Place, -I should flout you, too. Still, there are a whole lot of free-thinking -human creatures who will judge you not on account of the child, but for -the _children’s_ sake. You may shrug your shoulders at the others, but -you can’t get away from the shadow which you are casting on the children. - -Well, now that I have discoursed to you in this extremely reasonable -manner, I may with a clear conscience extend my hands across the ocean -and say, “Good luck, Magna.” - -When the atmosphere becomes too hot to hold you, then take refuge with -me. I live here, fourteen storeys high, on Riverside Drive. My name is on -the door in characters as small as those on a postage stamp. It is the -fashion here, and the letters are delivered to the porter. The house is -magnificently arranged, and is as light as a studio. I steadily believe -that I shall rest my bones in some peaceful burial ground here. And as -it’s the custom to adorn and paint the dead till they look twenty or -thirty years younger than when they were alive, you will comprehend how -that appeals to the vanity of one who has warded off the burden of age. -I should just like to know how any woman devoid of vanity could exist in -this city of light and sunshine. I belong to two or three clubs where -ladies of seventy and eighty congregate, with porcelain complexions, -powdered coiffures, and Gainsborough hats. Don’t imagine for a moment -that they are ludicrous. They possess a dignity and joy in existence -which makes me think that they must pass their nights in a bath of youth. - -There is a glamour of festivity hanging over this place. Not in the -slums; but there of course, you needn’t go. New York’s poor have a -totally different aspect and manner of behaviour from the poor of -European cities, where they rub against travellers with their sores and -crutches. In all these years I have only seen two human beings who didn’t -belong to Fifth Avenue. An Italian and his wife lay and sunned themselves -on the curb and ate dirty vegetables out of a rusty tin. No one sent them -off, but the whole traffic of the street gave them a wide berth, as if -they had been a pair of plague-stricken patients. - -I ride on horseback every day till I am dead tired, in a salmon-coloured -habit and a slouch hat over my eyebrows. My master—a pitiful wreck of -a once brilliant Scottish nobleman—at first objected to my riding _en -cavalier_. But as I remained obstinate, he left me to my fate till one -fine day he was seized with admiration for my mastery of the horse, and -now we are good friends. We ride alternately in Central Park, which is -indescribably lovely when all the beds are aglow with rhododendrons -in bloom, and in New Jersey, which is still unspoilt Nature. Sundays, -as a rule, we form quite a cavalcade, and then we amuse ourselves -like children. These people who are outwardly stiff and reserved, and -inwardly do not overburden their souls with super-culture, have a wholly -remarkable and infectious capacity for sucking honey out of the most -trifling banalities of existence. We chat about the sun, moon and stars, -about our horses, our ravenous appetites, and the recently discovered -Rembrandt, and never about our neighbours. We never backbite. - -At the end of such a day, when I am resting after my bath, I seem to -myself like a being with life all before me. - -In truth, I have found congenial calm. I play bridge through the long -winter mornings at the Astor Hotel Club, or go to lectures on psychology, -followed by luxurious luncheons during which Madame Homer and Signor -Caruso sing to us, not in the intervals, but while we eat! - -The waiters go round pouring out coffee the whole time, while we sit -in a rosy twilight. Every one pays every one else little choice and -sincerely-meant compliments. Call it an empty life, if you like, and I -won’t deny that it is. - -You ask what I have been doing since I took flight from my now desolate -and dilapidated villa. If I only knew myself I would tell you. It all -seems so long ago I travelled about with Jeanne, my young housemate and -friend, and we really did nothing but kill time. - -Rumours of my Monte Carlo period have no doubt penetrated to Denmark. I -admit it was an ugly experience. Never in all my life had I imagined that -I could become the prey of this passion, but I caught the fever so badly -that I conducted myself as shamelessly as the most hardened professional -gamblers. I certainly believe that during those days I was scarcely -responsible. If the tide of fortune had not turned I should have gambled -away every farthing I possess. But things went so well that I am living -to-day on my winnings, without touching my dividends. - -Jeanne is still in Paris, where she has been for the last two years. She -intends to qualify for some industrial art, for she has an indisputable -and highly original talent. Lately I have had a very significant letter -from her, but I may not divulge its contents. If things turn out, as at -present seems likely, my life may undergo a complete re-arrangement. - -I must tell you about my latest craze. I have had quite a dozen little -crazes in this one year alone. It is a splendid distraction. Well, -my latest is collecting dwarf cacti and Japanese dwarf trees, which -you hardly ever see in Denmark. They are only a few inches high, and -incredibly old. You buy them in fat boxes, miniature imitations of -Japanese gardens with rivers, bridges, and porcelain cupolas and -tea-houses. They are entrancing. Fortunately, a gardener tends them; -otherwise they would die of neglect. The care of plants is no more in my -line than the care of children, or any other live things. If I had the -gift I should have a choice little aquarium with goldfishes and electric -light and illuminations. - -Imagine Richard a paterfamilias and domestic tyrant! Yes, indeed, Magna, -everything is changed. - -Now, I really have told you all about myself. I don’t believe there is a -single craving of my soul that I have not disclosed to you. It’s not my -fault that the result of these disclosures appears so miserably poor. How -old is Jarl now? Sixteen or more? It is a good thing that Agnete is soon -to be married. Write again soon, Magna. I promise to answer. - - ELSIE LINDTNER. - - - - -DEAR JEANNE, - - -It may be the consequence of your condition, but really, I am getting -quite concerned about your letters. I thought everything was settled -for good when I promised to relieve you of responsibility by taking the -child. And now you begin posing new riddles. - -What secret is it that you cannot betray? Why do you talk about hiding -yourself in the remotest desert? From whom should you hide? For what -reason? Why do you speak of desecration, and say you wish you could die -before the child is born? You hate to do it a wrong? What wrong? - -Is this man married? If so, his wife needn’t know that you are going to -give birth to a child. You don’t want to marry him; or do you? - -If I may advise you, Jeanne, I should suggest your leaving the future to -take care of itself, till you are established in peace and quietness in -some pretty neighbourhood. What do you say to Provence? At the moment you -are nothing but a bundle of nerves, and I have half a mind to come across -and do what I can to help you. But I am too lazy. To do anything to help -people when it involves trouble, is not my _métier_; for you, even, I -cannot take trouble, though I love you. - -But if there is anything on your mind, please let me know what it is, -for, as I said before, I am unable to make sense out of the nonsense -you have written. Write as often and at as great length as you like, -and the day will come, I hope, when I shall at last grasp your meaning. -Is it a human being that is lacking, one with whom you can really talk? -I am experiencing every day a crowd of little stupid things, that keep -me going in a most agreeable fashion. But I am chiefly taken up with -cherishing and cultivating my own precious appearance. Altogether, I -was much more alive when we two sat together in our White Villa on the -island, and saw the leaves falling from the trees. - - Your - - ELSIE. - - * * * * * - -Jeanne ... Malthe ... Jeanne ... Malthe. - -Jeanne and he ... he and Jeanne.... - -I must try to understand it. Those two.... - -And, it was the child of these two, their child, I wanted to adopt.... - - * * * * * - -Two days have passed, but I am no nearer understanding. I go round and -round in an empty circle, and say to myself, “Jeanne and Malthe—Malthe -and Jeanne.” And I expect to be overcome by a heart-rending agony. But -so far as I can judge, neither my heart nor my mind are affected. My -nerves, too, are perfectly composed. I am, in fact, only petrified with -astonishment. - - * * * * * - -Why don’t I suffer? What has become of the love I once felt. Where is -it?—or—I understand those two so exactly. It’s myself that I don’t -understand. I can give them my blessing with the easiest and most -serene conscience in the world. I can even rejoice that these two, just -these two, have found each other so futile; then am I so inexplicably, -egregiously futile? - - * * * * * - -I have begun to take delight in travelling by the Subway. People there -don’t pose. They are in too great a hurry to put on masks. Extraordinary -how impressive breeding is when it is united with good clothes. The -train can be so full that there is often a double row extending from one -end of the car to the other, hanging on to the round leather rings with -coarse, toil-worn, or delicate kid-gloved hands. Some one always makes -room for me, but I also take my time to form the desired expression on my -face. To-day a poor woman sat next to me with two or three little wreaths -on her lap. She wore a dusty mourning veil thrown over her hair. - -She cried the whole way; the veil was so shabby that I calculated the -child must have died a long time ago. Her grief was still fresh. Mine has -never existed. I had thought my life at least contained what is called a -great sorrow. But I have only draped an empty space with the trappings of -sorrow.... - -I must write to Jeanne. - - * * * * * - - - - -DEAR LITTLE TRAVELLING COMPANION, - - -This letter might be written in twenty different ways, but only one is -the right way, and now I begin writing to you in the same style as I -write in my own poor, dull diary. You know it is only lazy people who can -bear to record the barrenness of their daily life in a diary. - -Accept my warmest and most sincere congratulations, dear Jeanne, and -don’t shed any more tears on my account. You have not transgressed -anything, you dear child, with your refined humanity. Neither has he. -Yet you fancy that your letters—your “confession,” has caused me pain. -Oh, no! Alas! it has done nothing of the kind. I say, alas! because I -should so like to believe myself, that I had once in my life loved with -my whole heart. Now I see it must have been all imagination. It can’t -be explained otherwise—a delusion, a myth—anything you like. Perhaps a -charming dream. - -Well, the dream is over; that is the only thing I am certain about. All -that remains of it is the memory of a good friend who, by a truly magical -freak of fate, has found the one woman, in my opinion, suited to him. - -Jeanne, I am not disguising the facts. This is the first and the last -time, too, for that matter—that the subject of Malthe and myself is -mentioned between us. - -The whole time you and I were knocking about the world like homeless -vagrants, you never referred to it, or let drop a hint, that you knew the -whole humiliating connection. Though _I knew that you knew_, and that -raised you in my esteem as a human creature to an extraordinary degree. I -think so highly of Malthe that you alone seem to me good enough for him. -So you see what you write about committing a “robbery” has no point. And -more than that, I can tell you I am one of those women ill adapted to -_live with_, much less _to love_, another human being. I am quite clear -now about this. You, on the contrary, in compensation for your joyless -youth, are endowed with the capacity for self-sacrifice and yielding. For -you it will be a positive delight to abandon your _ego_, and let it be -absorbed by his. For me such a thing is inconceivable. - -There is no necessity to recur any more to the past—at least as far as I -am concerned. On your behalf we unfortunately have to do it. Much more -than the news itself, does your question, shall you speak or be silent, -perplex my brain and excite my emotions. - -If my position was now what it once was, and my views of life what they -once were, I should answer decidedly: Keep your lips closed, and the -secret that concerns only you, locked in your heart! But now there are -other factors to consider. I am changed. Time and life—I scarcely know -what—have changed me—and you are not like the majority of women, and -Malthe is not a man like other men. - -You may perhaps cause him a never-ending torment by speaking. Be clear -on this, or you may cause yourself no less pain by keeping silent, and -letting what is past and over for ever be forgotten. I know you, Jeanne; -every day and every hour you will despise yourself more and more because -his belief in you is so boundless. - -You can’t be silent. You will be compelled to lie. What to ninety-nine -people out of a hundred would be simple and natural enough will undermine -not only your self-respect, but your joy in life. On the other hand, -you have never loved. The thing you call your past, has really had no -significance for you. Why should it be unearthed now, and dragged into -the glare of day? Why should something that meant nothing but words -to you, be made crucial? Are you two, you and he, to spend the most -beautiful years of your love in exhuming corpses and taking them about -with you wherever you go? - -Joergen Malthe is not as other men are. He will never reproach you, but -he will grieve, and you will grieve with him. - -You see, I am unable to advise you. Perhaps I have no right to take the -responsibility upon me. I have often talked by the hour to your future -husband. But as far as I can remember, we never touched on the topic of -woman in the abstract. Thus it comes about that I am ignorant of what -Malthe’s views are. - -And yet—Malthe is the father of your child. The father of your unborn -child. - -Speak, Jeanne, speak openly and without fear. It will be setting up no -defence for having yielded to his inclinations, but he will find in it -a means of explaining and defending what happened before his time; for -Joergen Malthe is not like other men. - -If he has thought it right and natural that the woman he loves should -become his in the way you have become his, he will think it right and -natural that you should have exercised the sovereignty over your person -before you knew him. All you have got to tell him afterwards is that you -love him and that you have never loved any one but him. - -I seem to myself at this moment so very ancient. Such an eternity lies -between then and now, but that is as it should be. - -Little travelling companion with the red hair, let me see you helping him -now in the prime of his manhood to build up his reputation, so that his -name will become immortal. You understand how to see—how to enjoy. Pack -your infant when it is born in a little trunk with perforated lid, and -take it about with you, or leave it behind. Don’t let it be a hindrance -or a barrier between you two in your joint lives. - -There is a great deal more that I should like to write, but now I must go -and dress. You know “Tristan and Isolde” always was my favourite opera. - -I was going to urge you not to show this letter to Malthe, but, after -all, I leave you a free hand in the matter. - -For many reasons I believe that if he saw it the consequences would not -be disastrous. - -With many embraces. I wish you a happiness that will last through life. - - Your - - ELSIE LINDTNER. - - * * * * * - -You need not trouble to find me more lace patterns. I have presented my -whole collection to the Metropolitan Museum. My new craze, dwarf cacti, -amuses me far more—they can’t be enclosed in letters and newspapers -unfortunately. - -When did they first meet? It is no concern of mine, but I can’t help -thinking much about it. Did they know each other before? Yes, of course. -He looked after her when she passed through the room. From me he looked -across at her—and compared. And after—yes, what after? Did he think -continually of Jeanne as before he thought of me? Or is it merely because -chance has thrown them together in Paris? Or is it possible that they did -not recognise each other at first, and only discovered later where they -had met for the first time? Have I played any part in their conversation? -Have they clasped hands over my memory, as over a grave? - - * * * * * - -I don’t grudge them their happiness. Jeanne is the right woman for him, -and only a Joergen Malthe could satisfy and supplement Jeanne’s whole -nature. - -How has it come about that everything in me has gone to rest? I feel like -a heap of faded leaves lying down somewhere in a deep hollow, where not a -breath of wind reaches it, and it lulls itself to sleep. - -I don’t live now as I used to live, and I have no goal to strive for; but -I have no cares, much less do I feel in despair about anything. Truly, I -am very comfortable in mind and body. I should not mind living for ever -this sort of life. Yet at the same time I should feel no alarm if some -one came and said, “You must die to-night.” - - * * * * * - -When I consider it in broad daylight, I have a heap of enjoyments, small -and insignificant, but perfectly unclouded enjoyments. - - * * * * * - -Yes, here I am laid up with measles—at my age—a fiery rash, and -everything else. Perhaps I shall get whooping-cough next? It would be -much the best plan if one could have every childish complaint at once -and have done with it. It is boring in this magnificent carbolic-scented -clinic; but the nursing is good, and it is said to be healthy to be -bored. I always fancied the much spoken about self-sacrifice nurses to be -an old wives’ tale. - -In the room next mine, there is the most passionate little monster of a -boy nine months old, and no one would believe it, but all the nurses are -willing to give up their sorely needed night’s rest for his sake. I, for -my part, wish he was in a hot place. - -And then they actually ask me if I wouldn’t like to have him “in my bed -for a little.” Heaven protect me and my well-conditioned intellect! -Oh! I pity the poor women who have several little children at the -same time! I’d like to know how many mothers really feel for their -children—_because_ it is their children. - -Richard will get it with that wonder of a child. He boasts about his -teeth, but he says nothing about the pain getting those teeth has cost -him. - - * * * * * - -Yesterday I had a visit from a convalescent, who went round paying visits -to the patients who were still lying in bed. I shall make friends with -her. She amuses me. How well I understood that there can be a certain -charm in studying bacteria and bacilli—small causes, huge results. - -Frankly, I thought at first that she had been in a reformatory. There -was something about her that gave the impression that she must have been -under restraint. I was quite prepared that she would confess to having -committed some crime. But no, that wasn’t it. - -She had only been in all innocence a nun for twenty-two years. Twenty-two -years a nun! Think of it! There were the years, too, that she was pupil -and novice, making altogether twenty-six years behind the walls of a -convent, subjected to the convent discipline and the weary convent habit. -And now she has broken loose, like a prisoner who makes a rope of his -bedclothes to escape over walls to freedom. - -She had compelled—how, she did not disclose—the Church to set her at -liberty, and now was beginning to live her own life for the first time. -The life which she left at sixteen she has now taken up again at the age -of forty-two. She looks like a person of sixty. - -I could not forbear putting the indiscreet question, why she had broken -away? And she replied, what was evidently the truth, that when she -noticed she was beginning to grow old, a doubt arose within her as to -whether the life in the world outside was not richer than the life -behind the convent walls. She has given all her large fortune to the -Church, and now lives on a scanty allowance grudgingly doled out to her -by one of the sisters. - -But she is happy as a queen in two little rooms, where she is her own -mistress, able to eat and drink when she wants to, and as much as she -likes. And she can serve her God unbidden by the ding-dong of the chapel -bell—for she has not abjured her faith. - -The one desire of her heart now is to find a man who’ll marry her. Her -modesty is certainly touching. She doesn’t mind who he is, or what he -looks like, if only she may be granted the wonderful happiness of having -a husband. I lied my utmost to comfort her. - -And if she can’t get a husband, she intends to adopt a child. - -A really sick, starving, miserable child. I said tamely, that if I -cherished—as God forbid that I should—such a fad, I would, at all events, -seek out a healthy, pretty, and well-nourished infant. Whereupon she -answered, “I don’t want a child to live for my sake; I want to live for -the sake of a child.” She is a fine, but rather queer creature. And she -has promised to come and see me every day. - - * * * * * - -Sister Ethel has bet me a palm—she has obviously an empty tub in her -room—that if once I had the little boy next door with me for an hour, I -should take him to my heart. - -I would rather give her the palm straight off, and have nothing to do -with the little boy; but still, if it gives her any pleasure, well, I’ll -have him this afternoon, but directly the hour is over, clean sheets. - - * * * * * - -To my eternal shame I am bound to confess that I have lost the palm. It -may be that all the nun’s sentimental gabble has affected my brain! I, -who abhor the scent of little children, and shudder to touch them. - -He lay perfectly still and squinted up at me, sucking a finger. It was -the little finger. I really shouldn’t mind losing another palm, but my -pride, God be praised, prevents my giving expression to the wish. - - * * * * * - -He doesn’t cry when he is with me. Nobody can understand it. In the night -when he was crying, I, foolish old person, rose from my bed of measles, -and went to look in on him. I thought the nurse had gone away. It was -rather a painful situation. - - - - -DEAR PROFESSOR ROTHE,[1] - - -Your letter was such a shock to me that I could not answer it at once.... -That is why I sent you the brief telegram in reply, the words of which I -am sorry I must repeat, “I know nothing about the matter.” Lili has never -spoken of it to me, or made the least allusion which could cause me to -suspect such a thing. I may truthfully say that I never heard her mention -the name of Director Schlegel. My first idea was that Lili had gone out -of her mind, and I was surprised that you, a medical man, should not have -come to the same conclusion. - -But, after thinking it over for the last two days, I have changed my -opinion. I think I am beginning to understand what has happened, and I -beg you to hold me alone responsible for what I am going to say.... I -am only making suppositions. Lili has not broken her marriage vows. Any -suspicion of such a thing is out of the question, her nature was too -upright, too loyal.... If she appeared to you and the world happy in her -married life, it was because she really was so. I entreat you to believe -this. - -Lili, who never told even a conventional lie, who watched over her -children like an old-fashioned mother, careful of what they read and -what plays they saw—how could she carry on an intrigue unknown to you -and them? Perfectly impossible, my dear Professor. I don’t say that she -didn’t speak the words you heard, but that you must have put a wrong -interpretation on them. - -Not once, but thousands of times, Lili has talked about you to me. She -loved and honoured you. You were her ideal man, husband, and father. - -She used literally to become eloquent on the subject of your -operations.... She studied Latin in order that she might understand your -scientific books, while, in spite of her natural repulsion from the sight -of such things, she attended your anatomy classes and demonstrations. - -When Lili said, “I love Schlegel and have loved him for years,” her words -did not mean, “And all that time my love for you was extinct.” - -No, Lili cared for Schlegel, and for you, too.... Probably you are saying -to yourself, “A woman must love one man or the other.” - -With some show of reason you will argue, “In leaving my house, at any -rate, she proved that Schlegel alone claimed her affection.” - -Nevertheless I maintain that you are wrong. - -Lili showed every sign of a sane, well-balanced nature. Well, her famous -serenity and calmness deceived us all. Behind this serene exterior was -the most feminine of all feminine qualities—the fanciful imagination of -the visionary. Do you or I know anything about her first girlish dreams? -Have you, in spite of your happy life together, ever really understood -her innermost soul? Forgive me, but I do not think you have. - -When a man possesses a woman as completely as you possessed Lili, he -thinks himself quite safe. You never doubted for a moment that, having -you, she could wish for anything else. - -You are not only a clever and capable man, you are kind, and an -entertaining companion; in short, you have many excellent qualities which -Lili exalted to the skies. But your nature is not very poetical; you are, -in fact, rather prosaic, and only believe what you see. - -Contrast this with Lili’s immense forbearance. You remember how we used -to laugh when she defended some criminal who was beyond all defence or -apology. Something intense and far-seeing came into her expression, -and her heart, prompted such a line of argument which reason could not -support. She stood all alone in her sympathy, facing cold and incredulous -people. - -Then recollect the pleasure it gave her to discuss religious and -philosophical questions. - -She was not “religious” in the common acceptation of the word. But she -liked to get at the bottom of things, and to use her imagination. We -others were indifferent or frankly bored. - -And Lili was so gentle she gave way to us. - -Recall, too, her passion for flowers. She felt a physical pang to see cut -flowers with their stalks out of water. Once I saw her buy up a flower -girl’s whole stock, because the poor things wanted water. You and your -children have no love of flowers. As a doctor, you are inclined to think -it unhealthy to have plants in your rooms; consequently there were none -and Lili never grumbled. - -Lili did not care for modern music. César Franck wearied her, and Wagner -gave her a headache. An old-fashioned harpsichord would be her favourite -instrument, whereas at home her daughters thundered out Rubinstein and -Wagner upon a concert grand, and you, dear Professor, when in a good -humour, strode about the house whistling horribly out of tune. - -Finally, Lili liked quiet, musical speech, and she was surrounded by -people who talked at the top of their voices. - -... She was happy because she willed to be happy. She had made up -her mind that she was the luckiest woman in existence ... happy in -everything, and she was deeply grateful to you. But in the depths of her -heart—so deep down that it never rose to the surface even as a dream—lay -that secret trouble which has caused the present mischief. - -I know nothing of her relations to Schlegel, but I think I may venture to -say that they were chiefly limited to intercourse of the soul; ... and so -were fatal. Have you ever noticed the _timbre_ of Schlegel’s voice? He -spoke slowly and so softly; I can quite believe it attracted your wife in -the beginning; and that afterwards gradually, and almost imperceptibly, -she gravitated towards him. - -The man is now at death’s door, and can never explain what passed between -them—even admitting that there was anything wrong. As far as I know, -Schlegel was infatuated with a totally different woman. Had he been -really in love with Lili, would he have been content with a few words and -an occasional pressure of her hand? - -Why, then, has Lili left you, and why does she refuse to give you an -explanation? Why does she allow you to draw the worst conclusions? - -I will tell you. Lili is in love with two men at the same time. Their -different personalities and natures satisfy both sides of her character. -If Schlegel had not fallen from his horse and broken his back, thereby -losing all his faculties, Lili would have remained with you and continued -to be a model wife and mother. - -In the same way, had you been the victim of the accident, she would have -forgotten all about Schlegel, and would have lived for you alone. - -... Lili had not the strength to fight the first sharp anguish. The -shock bewildered her, and the love of her imagination seemed to her at -the moment the true one. She felt she was betraying you, Schlegel, and -herself; and since self-sacrifice had become the law of her life, she was -prepared to renounce everything as a proof of her love. - -You, Professor Rothe, have acted very foolishly. You have done just what -any average conventional man would have done. Your hurt vanity silenced -the voice of your heart. - -You had the choice of thinking two things: either Lili was mad, or she -was responsible for her actions. You were convinced that she was sane, -and playing you false in cold blood.... - -You write that you have only taken your two elder daughters into your -confidence. How could you have found it in your heart to do this...? - -Lili knew you better than I supposed. She knew that behind your apparent -kindness there lurked a cold, self-satisfied nature. She understood that -she would be accounted a stranger and a sinner in your house the moment -you discovered in her a thought or sentiment that was not subordinate to -your will. - -You have let her go, believing that she had been playing a pretty part -behind your back, and that I was her confidante, and perhaps also the -instigator of her wicked deeds. - -Lili has taken refuge with her children’s old nurse. - -How significant! Lili, who had so many friends, knows by a subtler -instinct that none of them would befriend her in her misfortune. If you, -Professor Rothe, were a generous-hearted man, you would explain to the -chief doctor at the Infirmary Lili’s great desire to stay near Schlegel -until the end comes. - -She loves you, and it would fill her with grateful joy.... If Lili had -your consent to be near Schlegel she would certainly not refuse to come -back to her wifely duties as soon as he was dead. At first she might not -be able to conceal her grief, and then it would be your task to help her -to regain her peace of mind.... Schlegel was a man, but had he been a -portrait or a character in a novel, Lili would have fallen in love with -him just the same, because her love was purely of the imagination. - -You must do what you please. But one thing I wish you to understand.... -If you are not going to act in the matter I shall act. I confess openly -that I am a selfish woman, but I am very fond of Lili, and if you abandon -her in this cruel and senseless way I shall have her to live with me -here, and shall do my best to console her for the loss of an ungrateful -husband, and a pack of stupid, undemonstrative children. - -One of Lili’s tears is worth more than all your masculine ebulitions of -wrath. - -One word more before I finish. Lili, so far as I can remember, is a -year older than I am. Could you not, woman’s specialist as you are, -have found some excuse for her in this fact? Had Lili been fifty-eight -or thirty-five, all this would never have happened. I do not care for -strangers to look into my personal affairs, and although you are my -cousin’s husband, you are practically a stranger to me. Nevertheless, -I may remind you that women at our time of life pass through critical -moments, as I know by daily experiences. A week or two ago it might have -been impossible to write a letter such as this. I should probably have -reeled off pages of incoherent abuse. - -Show Lili that your love was not selfishness pure and simple. - -With kind regards. - - Sincerely yours, - - ELSIE LINDTNER. - -[1] Extracts from an earlier letter of Elsie Lindtner’s to Professor -Rothe, in “The Dangerous Age,” are given here again, as they throw light -on the episode which follows. - - - - -DEAR PROFESSOR ROTHE, - - -Lili has closed her eyes never to open them again. It will scarcely be a -great blow to you and yours after what has passed; much more will it be a -relief. For her, indeed, it was so. - -I feel it my duty to Lili, not to you, to write this letter. You may -make what use you please of it. It was I who procured Lili the sleeping -draught, for which she had such a burning desire. With my hand in hers -I sat beside her till she was cold, and I do not repent that I had the -courage to commit what you, as a physician, will call a crime. - -A few days before she fell asleep Lili entrusted a packet of letters to -my care. I read them in the night, and now lay them in the coffin under -her head. These letters were not to be read by the unauthorised, and you -have become in relation to Lili one of the unauthorised. - -You have called hers a harlot-nature—not in a moment of excitement, -but because, after weighty consideration, you arrived at a conclusion -to which the word was appropriate. It is not in my power to give you -the satisfaction which you deserve, but I wish that the hour may come -in which you will see what a desperate wrong you and your abominable -children have done Lili. - -Harlot-nature, indeed! You can say that of Lili to whom you were married -for twenty years—Lili, the purest of beings! - -You say, “She married me, she bore me children, she professed to love -me, and all the time she had a lover behind my back. So she was of a -harlot-nature!” - -Professor Rothe, permit me to accompany you into your most private -consulting room, the room in which you examine the most modest of your -lady patients. Let me have it out with you, and inquire into your secret -motives. It is possible that your modesty will be shocked, but you shall -hear what I have to say on Lili’s behalf, and on those words, “Judge not -that ye be not judged.” - -When you married her your choice was made according to the dictates of -your heart, and fell on a very young girl who lived on the blue heights -of idealism. She was your wife, your friend, the mother of your children, -the good angel of your home. And would you dare add that she was your -love also? Yes. You think that because she loved you, and you loved her, -and because you took her in your arms as your wife, that she was, of -course your love.... - -But I tell you Lili was never your love, and that she never had a lover. -And the whole time you have known it perfectly well. Answer me, if you -like, “There are thousands and thousands of women who, like Lili, are -without feeling in this respect ... still she loved another, and so -deceived me.” - -Is a rose less red and fragrant, because there are thousands of other red -sweet-smelling roses? - -But Lili’s nature was so pure, so refined, that this deficiency as you -would call it, did not exist for her. She knew what it meant, for she -was not ignorant. She understood in others what she did not recognise -in herself. She lived for you, her children, and her household, her own -beautiful world, so essential was it for her to shed light and spread joy -around her. - -From this arose that wonderful harmony of her being, making of the -non-waking of what was dormant within her, neither a trial nor a -renunciation. If Lili had been blind she would have had the same happy -nature, and would have learned the beauty of joyousness through the eyes -of every seeing soul. - -There never arose within her, as in the case of so many poor women, a -conscious renunciation of the fire of the senses. - -How infinitely she must have loved and reverenced you, to have been -able to tolerate without complaint, without abhorrence and a sense of -renunciation, the position of being your wife for so many years. - -Schlegel was not her lover, though she loved him, and she was more -intimate with him than I thought at first ... and, listen, she loved him -with unlimited abandon, because he did not possess a husband’s rights to -lord it over her, and did not assume them. This _she_ was unconscious of. -But there existed a ... a difference between her feelings for you and for -him. He personified all that she had dreamed in her childish years of -“Love,” and continued to personify it till her last hour. - -Once she loved you thus, too, and would have gone on loving you in the -same way if you had not desecrated her without awakening the woman -within her. - -Lili was the Sleeping Beauty who slumbered eternally. No knight ever -roused her from her sleep. But you, the man to whom she presented her -life’s happiness, called her harlot-natured! - -Her last days were given up to a despairing desire for death and pardon -for the sin which she had never committed. - -The Lili who came over here was so changed that I hardly knew her. My -first thought as she touched me and uttered my name was, “Who is to blame -for this?” It was not only a broken-hearted woman, but a detested and -ill-treated human creature who flew from the pursuit of her persecutors -to die, deserted, in a foreign land. - -The Lili I once knew used to come into a room as the sunshine penetrates -a wood, like joy itself. Every one could see through her radiant -exterior right into the floor of her pure, white soul. - -But the Lili who came over here trembled in every limb and dared not meet -the eyes of anybody. Schlegel lies in his grave. When he lived I regarded -him as indifferently as I should any stranger. Now my thoughts go out to -him full of thankfulness. - -And Lili came home to you and ate the bread of humiliation for four long -years in your house, while people admired you because you had pardoned -her so magnanimously. Your abominable children looked down on their -mother and behaved to her as to one not responsible for her actions. -Dancing went on in your house, Professor Rothe, and Lili sat upstairs -alone in her room. Betrothal festivities were celebrated by your family, -while the mistress of the house was said to be ill, so that her pale, -grief-stricken face should not cast a shadow on the festive scene. - -I did the little I could, all that was in my power to win back the old, -dear Lili, but it was too late. One cannot say that her mind was under a -cloud, but she brooded day and night over a problem which she could not -solve. Mostly she sat looking down on her hands, which were never still. -Sometimes she talked of the children. She had once overheard Edmée say -to one of the maids, it would be much better if mother were sent to an -institution. Those words she could never forget. - -Professor Rothe! Time after time unhappy women have come to you to be -consoled, and helped by your explaining to them that the dangerous years -of transition may affect the brain of even the steadiest and most normal -of women. - -You could treat others with consideration and give them shrewd and kind -advice. But for Lili’s dangerous period you did not concern yourself. You -allowed fate to shatter her beautiful existence. You never stretched out -a hand to protect her. For Lili’s sake I cannot help hoping that there is -a resurrection after death, a place “where nothing is dishonoured, where -all is love.” To such a place Lili belongs. I have chosen a grave for -her, looking south, where flowers will flourish, and have done it in my -name. - -To-morrow, I shall send you the necessary business details—a death -certificate referring to heart disease—even if I have to write it myself. - -I have opened the window. The river is as blue as it used to be at home -in light nights. Here it is the moon that makes it blue. If only I had -the power I would lay Lili in a boat and let her drift out to sea. - - ELSIE LINDTNER. - - - - -LETTERS FROM LILI ROTHE TO THE MAN SHE LOVED - - -I have accumulated so many letters from you. To-day another has come—a -letter from you to me! - -Thus I know that you still think of me. And it does me good to know it. I -go about thinking of you always and always, and it makes me happy. I want -nothing different and nothing else but to be allowed to love you. - -The letter ... in my hand, in my possession ... you, who understand what -it is to love, will know how it is when one loves. Every trifling thing -becomes a heaven and an earth. - -The letter in my hand ... that means holding minutes of your time. -Time is life. So I possess a bit of your life. For you the minutes -have vanished, like raindrops sunk in the ground; for me they have -imperishable qualities; they are like seeds that send up shoots and more -shoots, to be nourished by the sun and moisture of my love. - -And what was there in the letter? I am not ashamed to answer, only word -after word, like footprint after footprint on a muddy path. The written -sheets contain hardly more than the blank ones. But I did not expect that -they would, how could I expect it? - -For you I am simply one among many. No, perhaps a little more, a tiny bit -more. You said the first time we were alone together ... not to me ... -that my nature was congenial to you. That meant you liked to be in my -neighbourhood—my poor little neighbourhood. I feel such pity for myself -when we are together. It is like being two people, one of whom has to -do and say the very opposite of what the other would like to say and -do.... Only when I go away from you and your glance follows me like a -living shadow, that doesn’t belong to me, I feel frightened and ashamed -as a child. I am nervous about my walk, my figure, my movements, lest -they should jar on you, and then I try to appear nonchalant. I talk and -laugh, and am two people at once, one of whom watches the gaucheries of -the other with sad eyes; the other who is quite at sea how she shall act -to please you. And that is I myself, I, who in every one else’s society, -feel as free as the pollen of the buttercups as it flies over the fields. -I talk on and on as if I must fill space with my words, fearful that the -embarrassment of silence will turn my features to stone, fearful, too, of -discovering a glint of boredom in your glance. Your glance! It is like a -dark, slowly flowing river that bears your soul towards me. - -When you look at me, a new world is born within and around me. It is -as on that day when the Lord said, “Let there be light, and there was -light.” Your glance has divided me inwardly into light and darkness, -which are a greater contrast than night and sun. - -Your glance penetrates every drop of blood in my veins, as the sunshine -soaks into the sleeping earth, and awakes to life its slumbering powers. - -I know when your glance is resting on me like a tired hand on the arm -of a chair. When you contemplate me without seeing me, because you are -thinking of those cares which I divine, though I know nothing about them, -something cries out within me, not from one place but from a thousand. -Then warm founts of pity and grief overflow my inward being. - -But don’t be afraid, my friend, that I shall speak of what I suspect. -If you would rather no one should know, I will be silent—like a flower -at evening I will close my eyes, compelled by the darkness in which you -envelop yourself. - -And I will go on seeming to understand nothing, nothing at all. But your -mouth, beloved, your mouth, and your dear, beautiful hands betray you. - -There is a quiver and trembling round the corners of your mouth as if the -unspoken words lay there in ambush—and your hands look so helpless. - -Your hands, whose grasp can be so majestically firm and strong, hang -limply down, but you are not aware of it. At times your hands appear to -me so full of “sin, sorrow, and peril,” that I feel as if my soul were -responsible for yours. - -I talk to you like this, beloved, because you will never know. There are -other days when your glance, as you look at me, is like a blue flower -that blossoms in the sacred garden of dreams, but only because you are -happy in yourself, only because of that. You have had some pleasant -experience, or built up some new hope.... I think, then, that you have -derived strength from the glance that is life to you, as yours is my own -life’s fountain. - -At those times your glance flashes towards me, and a smile comes and -goes on your lips. It comes from the foundation of your being, and is -astonished at itself. At those times your figure is upright and elastic, -and if you walk across a room you move with a rhythm that touches me like -a song. - -But, beloved ... you have yet another, a third look ... and this I recall -when it grows dark. I fear it the most and love it the most. It’s when -you realise I am a woman ... suddenly, as if a mask fell from my face, -you realise that I am a woman, and not only a woman, but a woman meant -for you. And the smile that then encloses me like a snare has not its -origin in your consciousness and knowledge of my love, but its origin is -in me because I am a woman. And then, of course, because in the kindness -of your heart you are glad to give me the pleasure of remembering that I -am a woman, your eyes fill with a misty twilight, and into this twilight -I sink as into an everlasting night. - -I feel your arm supporting my neck, your cheek’s melancholy pressure. -Shuddering we stand leaning against each other, like two pines of the -forest, that for a short space a hurricane of storm wind has flung -together only to separate them again. - -All the time your smile is cold and meditative, and your glance is -extinguished like a lamp that has consumed its last drop of oil. My poor -heart tells me the reason—you are wondering at yourself for giving way to -a mood which means so little to you. - -But when, saddened, I try to move away, you again offer me your mouth as -a friendly almsgiving.... The letter, the barren letter I hold it to my -heart. I leave my house and go into the deepest part of the wood till I -find a place solitary enough to lie down in. The letter has filled me -with a joy that resembles the pungent fragrance of the pine needles -carpeting the ground. - -I open my letter, contemplate the two unwritten sides, and read once -more the written sheets.... I begin a deliberate juggle with the words; -I transpose them over and over again, read each letter separately, as if -there were some sweet secret hidden in each, and a caress in every stroke -of the pen. I can’t help thinking there must be somewhere between the -lines one single little word all for myself, that concerns me only. - -Yet my joy goes down with the sun; the leaves cease to glow, and the -darkness gathers in, and I sit with nothing but despondency in my lap. - -Beloved, beloved! how kind you are! - -I have lain awake all night with these words ringing in my head like a -song through the darkness. How kind you are! - -You gave me a whole evening. Don’t deny it, for you know I collect all -the minutes that you can spare from your superfluity. I glean them -together, as Ruth gleaned wheat on Boaz’s fertile acres. I hadn’t dared -to hope; not dared, you must believe me. I left the house alone with -thoughts about you, but without the slightest shadow of a hope of seeing -you. Then when I asked you imploringly, “Come to the meeting,” you shook -your head and answered, “I can’t manage it.” - -But while I made my way through the lighted, busy streets, my heart -became suddenly so heavy that I felt I couldn’t go on. Yet I dragged -myself there. - -Many people greeted me, and said they were glad to see me.... I stood in -the centre of a little group. Then all at once I felt _your_ presence. I -heard you coming ... your step ... it seemed as if you walked straight up -to my very heart’s door. - -Smiling, you held out your hand to me ... that alone was enough to gild -my evening, but you stayed with me, stayed with _me_. We sat together, -_we two_. The whole evening we sat together. While others discussed -what they had come together to discuss, I sat apart and let myself be -enthralled by a happiness which was almost more than I could bear. - -Several times you leaned close to me to whisper something, and we both -laughed and chatted about the others. - -You are very fond of me as a friend with whom you can talk or be silent -at your pleasure. If I were to cease to exist one day, you would—if only -for a few minutes—feel the loss. Therefore I know that my life has not -been lived in vain. - -So, gradually, I have gained ground, step by step, and I don’t worry you. -That is true, is it not? I don’t worry you? Rather than be a burden to -you I would give up the joy that lies for me in seeing you now and then, -and being sometimes where you are. It is that I long for nothing else, -but to be allowed to love you. - -Sometimes when my thoughts soar to the cloudy pinnacles of bliss I have -asked myself, what if the impossible were to happen, if you were to love -me! - -The clouds float on high, but when they are heavy with the moisture of -earth, they weep till they are light again, and their tears water into -fruitfulness the woods and meadows, while they themselves sail on yonder -through the chill ether. - -The clouds aspire to reach the height of the stars as my thoughts aspire -to your love. But they know perfectly well that they are striving after -the unattainable. - -And when my thoughts have tarried a while up there in the sky, they -become weighed down with depression and float softly earthwards, where -they properly belong, and my heart itself drops like an anchor into the -deep, quiet waters of sorrow. - -But why do I talk of sorrow, I who am the happiest of the happy?... I -didn’t mean it, no, I didn’t mean it in the least. - -But if the impossible were to happen, the impossible.... - -If it could happen that you would love me? If your glance told me so just -once. - -I know what I should do—yes, I know. I should shut my eyes on that -glance, so as never to let it go from me. I should leave my home, and -my children, and go away. I should take leave of life, and fall asleep -quietly, oh, so quietly, never to awake. - -The darkness of the grave would have to be round me, so that not a sound -disturbed my happiness. - -To live and know that you loved me! I could not do it. My strength would -be lacking. I can only love. - -Henry said one day, “Don’t touch any of my little bottles.” I was staring -at them so hard. Each of the little bottles contained the peace of the -grave. But I must go on living for the sake of my little children, for -Henry’s sake. And why should I not go on living? I have no reason to wish -to do otherwise. Yet I am not with them, though in their midst. When I -move about in my rooms, when I talk to the children and Henry, I am not -there. My eyes are seeking _him_, my ears strain after _him_.... - -From the first moment we met, my _beloved_, you and I—I became a stranger -amongst my own people. But no one knows it, except myself. And I feel -that if I was bound by a thousand ties, I should break them all, where -you, my love, were concerned. - -I am so very much of a dreamer that it is difficult for me to write -distinctly just what the relations are between us. Other thoughts -perpetually throng upon me, and I have to strive hard not to pervert -things or fabricate. And you will understand that I have not a jot or -tittle of desire to fabricate.... - -You must know how poor I am, in spite of my having home and family, and -how rich, on the contrary, you make me, so that eternally I must love -you. You must be told everything. You must be told how very well I know -you don’t care whether you are told or not, but I write not for your -sake, but for the sake of my own love.... You are so unspeakably good and -kind.... - -There was another evening, the evening of the fête. I asked you to give -me a moment, one little moment for me alone, and in the middle of the -revel and music we sat down in a corner together, at a little table. One -gets distinct in calculating when the means are so sparingly few. - -I seated myself at an angle, from which I could, to my heart’s content, -and eye’s satisfaction, gaze right into your soul without any one seeing -what I was doing. - -You, you looked at me as if you were glad at my joy. You talked of all -sorts of things. But every word that you let fall with a confidential -emphasis as if it were between you and me alone, was like pure gold—a -treasure to be added to my heart. - -Not for long were we allowed to sit together undisturbed. Other people -came up to us and jokingly teased us. They said that we too obviously -sought each other’s company. How stupid of them to say that, when it is -only I who seek yours. And yet—don’t be vexed with me—I liked them to say -it. So I do. - -And then it was that we came to discuss goodness, and I said so that -every one could hear, that you were the best and finest of all the men -I knew. My own husband stood near and smiled. He was so sure of me.... -You, as well as the others, declared that there were men who might -compare favourably with you. I could not bear to hear that. Softly in -an undertone, I begged you to confess that you were the best, and you -whispered, using “thou” for the first time, “For _thee_ I am best.” - -But it is not true that you are only best for me. You are wonderfully -good—your whole manner of life bears witness to it. Every one knows it, -and every one knows that you suffer. No one can protect you from its -being common knowledge that you have suffered deeply. Your heart lies in -ruins. I ought to learn from you to forget myself, and never to speak of -love which to you can never mean anything again. But I don’t speak in -words. - -It was that evening you clasped me close to you, not because you loved -me, but because you were so kind. While your lips sought mine I asked, -“Then it is true that you love me a little?” and you answered in your -infinite goodness, “Yes, it is true, you are very, very dear to me.” - -But suppose I had then said, “Do you love me?” and you in your infinite -goodness had replied, “Yes, I love you.” What then? What then? - -I dread the moment when I shall put this question to you. It lies in -the womb of the future, waiting to reveal itself. May I have the power -granted me never to speak, but if I do speak, may I understand absolutely -that your answer is prompted by infinite goodness alone. Yet between us -there is something that is all yours and mine. Something greater than -love, for love aims at a goal, and sooner or later comes to a standstill. -But that which exists between you and me revolves on and on like a silent -star in its own distant sphere. Nobody and nothing can check its progress. - -... I am not exigent. Your love will, I know, never be my possession. I -don’t expect it, and don’t wish it. It is my greatest happiness that I -have met you too late to be one of the many who have passed out of your -heart into the cold, and everlasting yearning. - - * * * * * - -To-day is my birthday, and each one is emulating the other to give me -pleasure. The rooms are crammed with flowers and presents. Yet I am not -joyous, and the whole affair seems very childish. How should you be able -to remember that to-day is my birthday? _You_ who know such heaps of -people! - -You will come to-night! I did not tell you intentionally that it was my -birthday.... Perhaps because I hoped that you yourself would recollect -the date. Last year I met you in the street on my birthday, and you told -me that it was the anniversary of your father’s death, and then I said -that it was my birthday. You asked if you might send me some flowers, and -I said no. How could I have explained it, receiving flowers from _you_ -who had never been in our house. And now, this evening you are coming!! - -At first you did not wish to come, and it was sweet of you not to wish -it. But as you don’t—don’t love me there is no reason why you should mind -meeting my husband. - -You are coming this evening. You are coming! Every time the bell rings my -heart begins to beat faster, and every time I am disappointed. It is like -standing in a brilliantly lighted room that becomes suddenly dark. - -Once I received flowers from you which I never thanked you for. You -know nothing about these flowers. Shall I tell you their story? But you -mustn’t laugh. - -I always feel happy when I think of them. It is almost as if the flowers -were standing again in the window, and I lying in my hypnotic sleep, -unable to open my eyes but knowing all the time that your yellow orchids, -trembling like a swarm of golden butterflies on their delicate stalks -were standing there in the window. I don’t suppose you gave a thought to -whether they would reach me before or after the operation. Perhaps you -merely rang up a florist on the telephone and ordered something specially -beautiful to be sent to the Nursing Home on one or other of the days. And -I am modest with good reason about questioning you. - -I was in bed. No one was with me. The doctor had just been here and—as -he considered his duty—explained for me, what my dear Henry had been so -carefully keeping from me, that it was a matter of life and death. He had -very little hope. But I was not afraid. I lay there and thought of you, -of Henry and the children, and then again of you. I thought of how I had -told you that I had to undergo that severe operation. I was bound to tell -you—then, in case I died, I had to say good-bye to you. - -You tried to turn it off with a joke, but in a few minutes you grew -grave. You asked if I was nervous, and I begged you, if matters did not -go well, to visit my grave, just once. Only once. It was very childish -of me, but you did not laugh. You merely said, “To satisfy you I will -promise, but I know you will live to visit my grave....” - -I have the power when I like, of bringing you before me in the flesh, -so very much in the flesh, that I at times can hardly bear other people -to be in the room. I want to be alone with you. After I came out of the -operating theatre, I was alone with you every evening and every night. - -I talked to you, I talked ... and you were silent. I never was able to -put many words into your mouth. But your attentive eyes rested on me ... -and you were there. - -When the doctor had gone, I lay by myself for a long time. The nurse -supposed naturally that I needed rest after my conversation with the -doctor. I thought of you. I was so curiously restless, a sort of joyous, -expectant restlessness. I kept looking at the door, as if every minute I -should see you coming in. - -I didn’t really expect you. I knew, of course, that it was impossible, -for many reasons. It would not occur to you to call on me. You might -easily imagine that visits so shortly before the operation would not be -permitted. There had been flowers in my room, sent by my friends, and -many of Henry’s patients. - -But they had been taken away, because I must not be excited by their -scent. I lay there and gazed at the door; my heart began to beat -violently—no, not exactly to beat, but it felt as if something was -entering it. You must not think, beloved, that I imagined all this -afterwards. I felt—I could feel distinctly that some great joy was on -its way to me. I heard the footsteps approaching in my heart, and then I -heard them outside on the stairs. Nurses and visitors were coming and -going all day on the stairs, but, nevertheless, I sat up in bed pressing -my hand on my heart, for I knew, I knew, that this concerned you. - -My nurse came in with a parcel. It seemed as if she, too, understood that -this was something which I ought to see at once. She came quite close up -to me with the box and, smiling, opened it deliberately, so deliberately -that it looked as if she were teasing me.... “Let me open it,” I begged, -but no, she insisted on doing it herself. - -I felt how the blood deserted my face.... “Give them to me!” I implored -as if I were praying for my life. She handed me the long spray from which -the flowers hung like gold sunbeams, and fluttered over the whiteness of -the sheet. I held the spray in my hand. - -When she was gone, I kissed every one of the sensitive flowers. And you -were with me. All your steadfast calm was infused into my blood. Now I -could die happy. The flowers were put in water and placed in the window. -They were to stay there all night, I said, and no one objected. I had a -light burning the whole night through, as if I were afraid of the dark. I -dozed and woke, and dozed and woke. The flowers did not sleep, and they -did not fly away. - -You, you were with me! - -Even if you never thought of me at all that night you were still with -me. And, maybe, you dreamed of me. Men often dream of things that they -haven’t been thinking about. And you forgot your dream before you awoke. - -The next morning when they came to fetch me, I besought so earnestly -that my orchids might stand beside the bed. I submitted calmly to the -anæsthetic. While the mask was being drawn over my face I thought of you, -and it seemed as if the yellow, dewy petals began to dance over me. - -Deeply I breathed in the fragrance, and I felt as if the flowers filled -the room. They had increased from a swarm to countless swarms, and -become a singing ocean of gold. And in the ocean I saw _your eyes_. You -were with me, even if in thought you did not accompany me, yet you were -there. - -I woke up and my gaze met yours. My eyes were too tired to see much. Yet -I saw the yellow flowers swaying on their stalks. They had come back. -They had, with their loving souls, borne me company at the time, and -now they had come back. Close to my eyes they seemed to be perpetually -singing and making music. Yes, you were with me. - -When the pain was most acute it was just as if they flew away, and -dispersed at the sound of my groans. I quite understood it. They were -like you. You, too, hate the thought of sickness. You, too, cannot bear -people to be ill. So I tried to smile at them, and to act as if I did not -feel the pain. - -... Your flowers ... your exquisite, blessed flowers.... - -To-day is my birthday, and you are coming, yet I am not happy. - -All my best friends are coming. I shall sit at the same table as you! You -will sit on my right hand, for you are the only one who comes for the -first time. It is not wrong, it cannot be wrong. But if it is wrong, then -punish me, let me suffer for it; I am ready. - -I said that I must rest before the guests arrive. I must be alone for a -little to collect myself for the joy that is greater than joy. - -For my joy is more than bliss. There is nothing so great, there cannot be -anything greater than my joy. - -The flowers are risen from the dead. The yellow butterfly blossoms. - - * * * * * - -I almost wish it was over. I don’t know myself what it is, but I wish it -was over. - -_That_, I wish over, and I don’t know what it is. I see something beyond -the barrier, and I don’t see it. It is not death, but there is something -that hurts more than death. - -And the evening was the happiest of my life. - -Perhaps it is nothing at all. Perhaps it is only my heart breaking for -happiness, but can it hurt so much when one’s heart breaks for happiness? - -It was at the moment when you went out at the door. Magna Wellmann turned -her head and said, “That was _the_ evening of the year,” and you nodded. -Then was it. It felt as if all my joy had suddenly been hemmed up in -a coffin and couldn’t breathe. Henry asked, “Are you ill, you look so -strange, and you have been beaming the whole evening as if you had light -inside you....” That was true. I had light, yes, light burning within me, -and now it is extinguished. - -I must gather myself together. I must cherish and hoard my happy evening. -It is wrong to think such things, but I am glad that Henry had to read -the treatise this evening. I mean.... - - * * * * * - -You led me to the table. You sat on my right, and you were so calm. You -are always so calm. Why should you not be calm, you are not in love. - -You invited me to drink, and I who never drink wine, drank with you, only -a sip. It was ... no, I cannot speak of it. But now I understand that -clergymen really believe it when they say, “This is the body and blood of -Christ.” - -No one could read my thoughts. - -Now I know what it is that I have lacked hitherto, and I am glad that I -have lacked it. - -You made a speech in my honour. It was so natural that you should. You -led me to the table, and it was my birthday. For me it was a sacred -miracle. The words you spoke have gone to sleep in my heart. When I die -one day in my coffin, and my children weep over me, they will arise and -whisper and sing as your yellow flowers sang when I was ill. - -I hold so fast to my happiness. But my hands are weak, and it slips -through them like running sand. - -The hours go as they came. - -Why do you rend my dream in twain? Why do you thrust a knife in my heart? -I have never thought of being your mistress. I only grant you every -delight there is. But why in this night, in this night, when I woke and -clung to my happiness! When Magna Wellmann telephoned me to-day, I knew -everything. She said nothing and I asked no questions. - -My yellow orchids hang on their stalks like dead butterflies. I have -forgotten to give them water. - -Forgive me! I am not. I won’t be like this, and now it is over. It hurts -no longer. I am well, like the little boy who was run over the day -before yesterday. He cried and moaned that he was going to die, and all -the time was quite unhurt. - -You walked over my heart, and I thought it must die, but there is nothing -the matter with it. - - * * * * * - -It is months since I wrote to you last; I simply felt I couldn’t. I have -been like one scared. Why do people speak so often without thinking? One -lets fall a word quite indifferently, that stabs the heart of another -like a poisoned arrow. I have been half distracted by anxiety. I have -listened to all the gossip. I am sick from disquietude. My youngest child -has been ill, days and nights. I have watched beside him, expecting every -hour that death would come, and yet in the middle of my fear of death my -thoughts have been incessantly with you. - -I wouldn’t believe it.... But if it is true.... Beloved, I am so -saddened, I don’t know whether I ought to tell you why, or whether you -would tolerate my intruding into the habits of your daily life. But I am -not only depressed, for if that was all I could bear it in silence. No, I -am frightened, frightened, frightened. I cannot sleep for anxiety. - -You wrote last year to tell me yourself that your doctor had forbidden -you to resort to the strong remedy which had become a necessity to you; -that you were obeying, but suffering horrible pain in consequence. That -first awakened my anxiety. Many, many times I felt as if I were running -my head against the blank wall which separates life from death.... And -yet, it seemed to me that there was strength in the touch of your hands, -strength that could grapple with any illness, strength in your hands, -your glance, your smile. Then one day something happened that it took -weeks to get out of my head. I sat with you and between us was built -the usual bridge of kindness and confidence. Your smile came over the -bridge and met mine. We played with words as children in a meadow play -with flowers. Your hand lay on mine so firmly and tenderly. I grasped at -that moment why men honour so much the idea of a foundation stone. I felt -my hand, too, was the corner-stone in an eternal building. So proud was -I that your hand rested on mine, so sure, firmly and tenderly, and then -suddenly, with such terrible suddenness, that my heart nearly stopped -beating, your smile froze and died; your eyes became vacant, glazed; your -face was not only strange—would it had only been that—it was so changed -that you wouldn’t have recognised it yourself in the looking-glass. - -In that moment—I can’t say whether they were moments or minutes—you -were not master of your body, neither were you ruler of your soul. And -then you came to yourself. But I left you and cried. My tears were cold -and made me freeze. Soon after I had to go away on a journey. Beloved, -beloved, how full of pain love is! Every day, every hour when I strolled -in the garden among my flowers which I planted there myself, which stand -there mysteriously waiting and watching for your coming, I saw before me -a shadow that proceeded from my own distraught mind ... your dear face -with the relaxed expression, and the glazed, fixed eye. - -The pain which I experienced then has been carried about in my heart for -years, and was day by day increased and nourished by my anxiety. - -But then your letters came, like stars dropping from the sky in the -still, dark night ... and once more I gained strength and courage to look -life in the face. _Life_—that is what _you_ are for me. - -I could fancy every one dying round me, even my own darling children, all -that was near and dear to me; all that peoples the earth, and I could -fancy the houses falling, day and night ceasing—but I cannot picture -life without you. - -I cannot, and I _will not_.... - - * * * * * - -The summer passed, and with the falling leaves I returned to your -neighbourhood. You were, to all appearances the same, only rather paler, -rather softer in your manner. Your hands were the same, your lips sought -mine. I asked you no questions. Dare any one call to the man walking on -a rope over the abyss, whether he feels giddy? I asked you nothing. But -others talked about you to me. And all, all said the same. Don’t you see -how changed he is? And they spoke of the strong remedy that had become -indispensable to you, of the remedy by the help of which you maintain -your mask of mental equilibrium, a mask through whose holes your own -tormented soul stares out into vacancy. - -Now I have come to it. I have come to it. Please do not be angry, or -hurt, but let me say what I can no longer carry about with me unsaid. -Try if you cannot, slowly and by degrees, break yourself of the habit -of resorting to means which, instead of strengthening, undermine your -health. In the name of my love I ask you to do this, and you must not -think that I ask for my sake alone. Then if it happened that I was going -to die, and knew that I was going to die to-day, so that I should never -see you, or hear your voice again, I should still make the same request. -Why will you be kind to every one but to yourself? A doctor said to me -about you—No, those are words that may not be repeated.... - -Now say with a smile that I am conjuring up bogies, that my feelings have -got the better of me, and perhaps you are right, but, beloved, death is -not the worst. Do you understand me now? - -I sit here and write in the bright sunshine. My children play round my -skirts, and chatter and ask me why I am crying.... - -Well, now it is said, and now that I have said it, I dare not let you -read what I have written. - -But I will keep this letter with the rest of _your_ letters, with the -letters which you have never received. Should the day ever come when I -have sufficient courage you shall read it. - -Only this one, of all the letters. - - - - -AN UNSENT LETTER FROM LILI ROTHE TO PROFESSOR ROTHE. - - -Henry, I had on my mind to write to you and, for the last time, ask you -to forgive me, but I know that it is no use. Perhaps your forgiveness -could do me no good now. It is too late. I have suffered so much. I -cannot bear more. But this letter contains nothing but the truth, and it -is the last letter that I shall write. - -Henry, I have never denied my love for you. I have never forgotten you, -and never deceived you. If I am to die now, because I long for the sleep, -which while I live, cannot mercifully be granted to me, you must believe -my poor last words. - -I don’t know whither I am going, but even if I knew for certain that -I should reach the open gates of Paradise, I could not cross the -threshold. So long as you had not forgiven me in your heart, eternal -peace would not encompass me. And if I knew, he for whose sake I have -caused you such great trouble that it casts a shadow behind and dims all -that was once radiant and happy, if I knew that he was standing ready to -receive me with those words which up till this hour I have never heard -him utter, “Welcome, my beloved,” it would be impossible for me to follow -him into everlasting bliss. Consciousness of guilt would prevent it. - -In the years when I loved you alone, I was happy; when he came into my -life and I loved you both, my happiness increased with my love, and I did -not feel guilty. I was so unspeakably happy. I loved you, and I loved -him. You are a doctor, and when women are ill you can make them well, but -for my sickness you had no panacea to prescribe. - -And I cannot do what you desire of me; I cannot say that my love for him -is dead. Love cannot die, when once it has lived. - -Henry, when you took me back, I entreated you to ask me no questions, and -you asked none. But your eyes asked and the walls asked, and everything -round me asked questions. I do not wish to have any more secrets from -you. Yet you never can understand what I am now going to say. - -He did not know me when I came to him, and he died without having -recognised me. But it made me happy to be with him. When the others were -asleep, and it was all quiet, I heard him mention a name. Not my name. -He did not love me, you see. Every time he mentioned that other name I -felt I was expiating some of my guilt towards you. I sat and listened, -the nights were so long, but my name never came. The name of the one he -loved, the names of others, but mine never. - -One night I fell asleep and dreamed that he called me. I awoke, and he -lay dead. And now I shall never find out whether that was only a dream -or something more. - -I have thought so much over the question whether other women are the same -as I am. Were I strong enough I would go about and look till I found one -who could tell me truthfully that she had loved two men, loved both with -her whole heart and soul. I would then beg her to go to you and explain -how that is something one cannot help, cannot fight against, and cannot -kill. - - - - -My nun has espoused a husband, and I have been to call on the young -couple. He has only one eye, is superannuated, and has warts in his ears. -He is a hod carrier. When she contemplates him she feels as if heaven -were opening before her. - -She comes from a good family, and has had a good education; he is -ignorant and stupid, but he seems to appreciate her adoration. I had a -ticket for “Lohengrin” this evening, but I am not inclined to go. - -After all, I can understand it. Once I should have thought it silly, but -my ideas have undergone a change. When I reflect on it there is really -only one condition that can be called unhappy, and that is loneliness. -Loneliness on a desert island, loneliness in a great city, loneliness in -married life.... Loneliness. - -For this reason all living beings crowd together. The animals seek each -other. The faded leaves, as they flutter down from the trees, wed in the -hour of their destruction. - -She feels that she has been cheated for all the years of her convent -life, has loved without an object. She has cast off her shackles, and -achieved her liberty. The thought of a joint life with some one, that she -may have pined for vaguely in the convent, became, out in the world, the -highest thing to aim at. In her excessive modesty she humbly accepted the -first thing that offered. Surely there is nothing ridiculous in that. - -But I am alone. I am solitary. - - * * * * * - -God in heaven, what have I done? There he lies asleep, as if he were -never going to wake. Such a little gnome. But I couldn’t do anything -else, and behind all my anxiety and fidgetting I have a feeling that for -the first time in my life I have done what is right. - -For it was not unpremeditated, or was it? Do I know? A transformation has -been going on lately within me. But when did it begin, and where will it -lead me? If I only had some one whom I could consult, but there is no -one. I have broken all my old ties. I stand quite alone. Even Jeanne.... -Jeanne must be told as soon as possible, but, of course, she will think -it is nothing except one of my whims in which I indulge to kill time. - -When I ask myself deep down in my heart why I did it, there is no answer, -and, meanwhile, the boy is lying in my bed. I have slept an hour or two -here on this chair without knowing it. The windows are wide open, yet -every minute I inhale a horrible smell of spirits ... a little boy of -seven! How am I to know whether he is seven, five, or nine? - -I must collect myself. This hour may decide the whole course of my life. -I have only to hold the telephone receiver to my ear, and directly the -house-porter will call in the police. Before noon the boy will be gone, -and I shall never see him again. - - * * * * * - -Why should it concern me? It would be sheer folly if I gave way to a -sickly sentimentality and wished to keep this small tramp. Small as he -is, he seems to be endowed with every vice. - -I feel as if I had dreamed it all, and not seen it with my eyes.... And -it all comes of my freak of using the subway under the river instead of -taking a motor. What induced me to waste time in that fashion? I who, of -all others, detest subterranean zigzagging? - -Was it a presentment? Did I expect a sensation, and wish to gloat -over the sight of roofless night-wanderers, who for five cents travel -backwards and forwards by this route all day? One’s way of living and -thinking is different in New York from what it is in great European -capitals. We don’t follow each other like sheep. We think more for -ourselves. - -I felt so tired inwardly on the journey, so utterly without an anchor. I -tried to fall asleep before we reached the river to escape hearing the -ghastly rushing sound in the air behind. The boy had seen me at once. I -believe I inspired him with a certain awe. My clothes probably were too -smart for him. - -He hurled himself past me without calling out rude words, or making -grimaces. I could not take my eyes off him. At first I thought it was one -of the dwarfs out of the Hippodrome, and I squirmed with disgust. Then -I saw that it was a child. A child sick with a fever which his senses -could not master. I, like the other passengers, thought him mad, till we -grasped what was the matter with him. - -He jumped on ladies’ laps, and spat in their faces; he kicked gentlemen’s -legs violently with his heels. When the guard caught hold of his wrists -and commanded him to be quiet, he bit the man so hard he was obliged to -let him go. At the next station he was ejected. But directly the train -was in motion again, he swung himself on to the car, and this process was -repeated at every station. No one knew how to cope with him; no one knew -where he came from, or to whom he belonged. Suddenly he began to sing, -what, I couldn’t understand, but from the expression on the faces of the -men present, and from his own gestures, I gathered that it was something -indecent. - -How shall I describe my feelings? Were they prompted by horror, -repulsion, or compassion? I must try to analyse them clearly.... I felt -as if I had brought this wretched creature into the world, as if I were -responsible for him. I experienced a mother’s agony and a mother’s -boundless tenderness. - -Directly it became plain to me that the child was not speaking in the -delirium of fever, but of drunkenness, I had to bite my lips till they -bled, so as not to cry out. Then the boy came to me, and threw himself -across my lap. There he stayed, nestling his head against me, and went to -sleep. - - * * * * * - -Were I to act now sensibly and as common reason demanded, I should send -the child back whence he came, though I don’t know in the least where -that is.... The child who has awakened the most sacred feeling in my -poor, withered heart.... The child who is to blame for my having shed, -for the first time in my life, tears of joy. - -When I offered to take Jeanne’s child, I had my reasons at my fingers’ -ends, but they were not honourable ones. I wanted to start for myself -an interest in life. I started from the hypothesis that what filled the -lives of so many women might equally well fill mine. I wanted to take -Jeanne’s child, in the same way as five years before I had taken her ... -as an experiment, a distraction. - -But it was not so to-night. This small boy had kissed my hands, and I had -blessed him. - -I have heard somewhere of a holy man who met once a little child who was -tired. He lifted him on to his shoulders and carried him over a river, -but on the way the child grew and became heavier and heavier, while the -man sank deeper and deeper.... All that, however, doesn’t matter. - -I took him home with me. Here you can do what you like. My proceeding -excited no remark. A stranger asked if he should fetch me a carriage, and -we drove home. - -I must, of course, make inquiries about his antecedents. He says nothing -himself. He woke up when I struck a light, but he wouldn’t tell me -his name even. The people in the train thought he was one of those -outcast children without parents who live from hand to mouth by selling -newspapers, and stealing from the banana carts, and who pass the night -on the river’s bank or in empty wagons. - -I haven’t succeeded yet in getting his boots off. Though they have -evidently once belonged to a grown-up, they are so tightly laced on his -little legs that they can only be moved by cutting. He must have worn -them day and night for months. - - * * * * * - -What will be the end of it? I daren’t think, and I daren’t act. I keep -saying to myself without ceasing, the same thing, “Suppose he is taken -away from me?” and I seem to see into the future, his life ending in -crime, his death taking place in prison. - -I intend to sacrifice my own life for this child’s ... but is that -sufficient? Can that avert his fate? - -My beautiful, beautiful boy! He is asleep. I have locked both doors -and sit with the key in my pocket. Every quarter of an hour I look in -at him; he smiles in his sleep as only innocent children smile. Then -suddenly he clenches his little fists and his mouth becomes so distorted -and ugly that I have to turn away. What can he be dreaming about? - -Help me, help! To whom am I praying? I, who am without faith, and without -hope. But I am not without love. No longer without love; for I love this -poor, miserable child. - -Could I but give him back his innocence!... Has he never been innocent -like other children? Was he contaminated from the first by the two -creatures who gave him life? Is it in my power to atone for others’ sins -against him? - -I wonder why he tried to run away to-day? Where did he want to go, and -what was in his mind? If I had not got him back, God knows, I could not -have faced another day. - - * * * * * - -I sat with him on my lap, and he looked up at me as if he would ask, -“What are you going to do with me?” - -His childish gaze was so suspicious and hard. I told him that I wanted to -be his mother and to live for nothing else but to make him happy. All the -time his little hands were feeling about to find my pocket. I pretended -not to see, and smiling angelically, he plunged his hand after my purse, -and began to fidget with it till it opened. My heart beat so that I could -hear it distinctly resound in my ears. - -Is it to be wondered at that he steals? He has known what it is to -starve. But now I give him everything that heart can desire. I have -bought him a little purse of his own, and filled it with money. Yet still -his tiny face retains its expression of desperate greed when he sees me -take out money. When will this alter? - -And he asks me if I have bought him. Or have been given money to keep -him. He does not remember that blessed, thousandfold blessed, night when -he took my heart by storm, and transformed me into a real human being.... - -I wanted to test him, so to-day I went without lunch, explaining to him -that I had no more money, but he was to eat, I could go without it. He -nodded, and without troubling about me at all, ate up his lunch. - - * * * * * - -Kelly. That’s his name. Kelly! or he says it’s his name. He has been with -me now for six days, and only to-day he told me what he was called. Well, -it is at least a beginning. I am thankful for little. - -I dare not hesitate any longer. If I could, I would travel off with him -like a thief with his booty, even if somewhere a mother sat and wept -for him. No, no! I wouldn’t rob a mother of her child. But I needn’t be -afraid. Kelly’s whole bearing tells me that he has been for a long, long -time alone in the world. Enquiries will be only a matter of form, and -then I can adopt him properly. He will be mine by law. - - * * * * * - -It is quite a matter of indifference to me if people shake their heads at -my insane action. How should they know that Kelly alone, only this boy -with the vicious little face and criminal glance is the source of all -my bliss and riches in this life? But it distresses me when people talk -about it in his presence, and I cannot prevent them shaking their heads. -Kelly understands what they mean. He seems conscious that his brow is -branded with the mark of Cain. - - * * * * * - -To-morrow we are going to the Children’s Court; I have written to Mr. -Rander. He is said to be one of the cleverest child-psychologists in -America. - -He has replied that I need cherish no fears. So long as my love is -sufficiently great ... my love.... Yes, my love is great enough to bear -the strain. - - * * * * * - -Why had that to happen just to-day, when I was feeling in such good -heart? It’s only a trifle, certainly. He may not have thought what he was -doing. - -It’s a necessity of children’s nature to be destructive. They are cruel -without being conscious of it. What, after all, do I care about the -stupid cacti? I would have made him a present of all of them. But it was -the glance of his! The sly, uncanny glance when I said, “But, Kelly, why -have you cut my flowers in pieces?” - - * * * * * - -I am doing it entirely on my own responsibility. I should do it, even if -the whole world cried out, “Leave it alone, it will prove your ruin!” I -should do it. Even if I could see into the future, and behold my boy a -full-fledged criminal sentenced to death.... I consecrate my life to him, -my poor, squandered life. But it isn’t poor now. I am rich. I am a mother! - - * * * * * - -Mr. Rander meant well, I daresay, when he said, “Don’t do it. Take any of -them, only not him!” And he related what he knew. - -As if a single spoken phrase could dissolve the bond my heart has entered -into voluntarily. - -“Born, double-dyed criminal.” Nevertheless, I will educate myself to be a -worthy mother to him. - - - - -DEAR MAGNA WELLMANN, - - -“From earth thou comest, to earth thou shalt return....” These words of -Scripture occurred to me when I read your letter. That is the eternal -circle ... in this case the circle of your family. Your grandfather was a -renegade from the calling of his forefathers when he became a townsman. -Your father degenerated, and now you have gone back to the land. - -Magna, Magna, I admire you. Of course, I am heart and soul for the -enterprise. In this manner my money will become a breathing, living -entity, doing its own work, and reaping its own reward. Don’t talk about -being cautious. I am running no risks. I know what I am about. Your -lawyer’s letter informs me in business language that the undertaking is -“sound,” besides I am not giving the whole or even half the capital. - -I need no assurances that you will carry the thing through. But read -before you begin a little book by Flaubert. I don’t mind betting you have -never heard of it. It is called, “Bouvard et Pécuchet.” A prospective -agriculturist can learn a good deal from it. It’s splendid that Jarl is -so keen on farming. But you won’t surely let him put his hand to the -plough, and work in the fields from the start, will you? The boy is only -seventeen, and I hope, too, that his mother isn’t going to begin at once -digging turnips and milking cows. I should not care to set foot in a -cow-shed—it’s a thing I have never done. But all the same I shall enjoy -having letters yards long about all your first experiments and blunders. - -You mustn’t take it too much to heart that Agnete is cool towards you. -The poor child has a dash of prudishness in her, inherited from her -mother! When she has children of her own she will be different. - -Your account of the scandal was rich! Especially do I like that remark -of a friend, “She might at least have had the tact to say that it was an -adopted child.” I read between the lines that you have not passed through -this humiliation without it’s having left scars behind. But, Magna, -nothing is in vain. You can afford to pay the cost of your happiness. -I am reminded of a little story about you which used to be told in our -“set.” It related to the way in which you conquered Professor Wellmann’s -heart. You were at a party, and had been so bored you had spoken to no -one. There was something to drink in big, tall glasses. Suddenly in an -ebullition of superfluous strength you bit the glass with your teeth and -bit a piece out of it. Professor Wellmann sat with distended eyes and -open mouth, and watched you. - -And on his way out of the house he remarked to a not very discreet -friend, “She, the girl who bit the glass, shall be my wife!” - -The story may or may not be true, but it is characteristic of you all the -same. - -I can see you in hobnail boots, and a smock, tramping over the fields, -superintending the plough and the breeding of cattle. - -I have very little to tell about myself. Since I linked my fate to -Kelly’s I live in a new world. Every day that goes by I come nearer to -myself, but I cannot write about it. It is too sacred a subject. Troubles -which were unknown to me before have taken up their continued abode -within me, but joys which were equally strange keep watch over me with -drawn swords. Magna, I ask you, can the woman who has brought her own -child into the world experience greater bliss and greater torment than I, -to whom my boy was given by chance? - -With a thousand loving remembrances, - - Your - - ELSIE LINDTNER. - - - - - THE WHITE VILLA. - -DEAR JEANNE, - - -As you will see from this heading, we are now at home again. - -_We_, and at _home_ again! - -My home is where Kelly is, and Denmark was never his home. But for his -sake, I have uprooted once more. I did not think such a big, big town was -good for him. The island here is certainly small enough. - -Oh, if you could see how it looks now! I was determined to be the first -with Kelly to enter the house, since you and I left it together, how many -years ago? - -The carpets were in tatters. The window panes were beaten in, either by -the wind or vagabonds. Dead leaves and dead flies lay about the floors. -My beautiful pieces of furniture were mildewed from damp ... one or two -of the chairs had collapsed; the chintz coverings were moth-eaten. My -bedroom—my ridiculous bedroom—was the most deplorable of all. It must -have been struck by lightning, otherwise I don’t understand how the -mirrors got smashed, and the rain and snow lay congealed on my bed. - -Kelly laughed, and rushed from room to room, and in the end I laughed, -too. Then Kelly got hold of the mad idea that instead of putting up -at the inn, we should turn in here the first night. I half think he -contemplated a sort of burglarious attempt on the deserted house. I -yielded, of course. Never in my life have I seen any one more industrious -and handy than this boy when he likes. He ran about pumping water and -sweeping floors, and made all straight, God knows how. Tea was prepared! -ante-diluvian sugar and a canister of Albert biscuits. He ushered me into -the large parlour where my piano, my poor, wretched, beautiful piano, -had been standing all these years, the prey of wind and rain, till it -hasn’t a sound left in its body from hoarseness—and then he brought in -the tea. I won’t go so far as to say that it tasted clean or nice, and -the biscuits were musty, but Kelly’s hand had prepared it. - -And we slept together in the same bed, in your bed, Jeanne, in yours! It -was the only one in which the blankets were dry. I wanted to lie on a -sofa with a rug, but Kelly would cuddle up beside me. - -Jeanne, I—really I, your fond, old travelling companion, am now once more -“at home,” and I lay awake the whole night thinking over my happiness. - -Kelly slept in my arm, and my arm, of course, went to sleep, but no other -part of me slept ... and Kelly woke with my arm round him. - -Then we went to “The Jug,” and put up there for a fortnight till the -whole place was made habitable. I have no Jeanne—I do my own hair, and -make myself beautiful for my boy. Alack! it is hard work to inspire him -with any desire to make himself presentable. - -I am thinking of finding a tutor for him. He ought not to be allowed to -run wild and devour sensational American novelettes—of which there are -none in Denmark—and remain ignorant of all other subjects. - -Forgive me, Jeanne, but I have only one thought, and that is Kelly. He -fills my life at all points, so that everything else now has to give way -to him. - -He has a craze for collecting snails and slugs, which he brings into -the house and lets crawl about on the white window-sills. I must own it -makes a horrible mess, but Kelly may do anything. Only I draw the line at -helping him to collect his snails, for, much as I should like to oblige -him, it is too disgusting. - -Now in exchange for these confidences, tell me all your news. It was -indeed a piece of good fortune that Malthe’s design took the prize. And -in Paris, too! You will, I suppose, stay there the two years. Or are -you still the incorrigible nomads who prefer to travel about with your -houses on your backs, with your trunks and perambulator—to settling down -quietly in a refined, comfortable home. Don’t work yourself to shreds, -Jeanne. Remember that life is long, and that you mustn’t grow old and -ugly. I concluded that you are doing everything in your power fairly to -spoil your excellent husband. You go to market. You pack the boxes, take -the tickets, and accompany your husband to the museums where you make -drawings for him, and you look after the children. Jeanne! Jeanne! take -thought for your hair, and be careful of your hands. - -And don’t forget your happy _home_-flown friend, - - ELSIE LINDTNER. - - * * * * * - -DEAR GOOD MAGNA, - -That this notion should have occurred to you, and that you should have -the courage to carry it out—. But ought I to offer up this sacrifice -to you, and can I relinquish Kelly? The last few nights have been long -and sleepless; only when dawn begins to glimmer can I bring my confused -thoughts into any order, and then it seems as if I had found a solution -which is the right one. I fall asleep, and when I wake up again, -everything is as unsettled as ever. - -I don’t know my way in or out. Magna, it’s not selfishness which makes me -dread letting Kelly out of my hands—the day does not seem far off when I -shall be forced to live under another roof from that which shelters him, -and that is why I don’t want to die. - -My every thought is dedicated to him for whom and with whom I now live, -and so I will continue to live without complaint so long as life -is granted me. I have looked it all in the face, and have recoiled, -shuddering, at the petrifying horror of impossibilities, but I have made -my resolve. So long as I inhabit the earth Kelly has a human being who -stands in the place of mother to him. - -I am not afraid to make any sacrifices. I shrink only from the thought -of shirking the responsibility. From the day Kelly came into my life -I have made myself answerable for his actions and conduct. Would it -not be cowardice and treachery if I now said, “The yoke has become too -burdensome, now I will shunt it on to the shoulders of another”? - -And yet, Magna, your plan seems to me the one possibility of salvation. - -Before I express my hearty thanks, and confide my boy to your care, I -must tell you something which I have been compelled to keep to myself -till now. Kelly has before been taken care of by others. By force of -circumstances. He tried—remember he was only nine years old—to burn -me. Of course no one suspected him, otherwise the police would not have -been asked to investigate the affair, but then it was brought to light, -and he was taken away from me. I could have murdered them for taking -him.... It is hard, even now, years after, to talk about it. My one idea -was to find a means of getting him back. In America everything possible -is done to save children whose feet are set on the downward path to -crime. And it is done with a tenderness and love which is marvellous, -but I didn’t know it. I thought of what I had read in the papers at home -about reformatories for children, about floggings and starvation, and -lockings-up in dark cellars. I was ready to help Kelly to escape till the -first time that they gave me permission to visit him. - -There was no wall round the institution, not even a railing. The main -building abutted on the high road, and from there you could see the -heaps of smaller red houses resembling a town of villas. - -As I came up to the inspector’s dwelling, I was almost run down by a -crowd of boys headed by a small negro, who were having a race. - -Just as I entered the door, I heard an outcry which made my heart -stand still. I thought it was one of the boys being punished. But the -inspector showed me from the window what the noise meant. The boys were -playing at fire, and at that moment they were letting the hose play on -the inspector’s house. My little Kelly—in oilskins and a helmet on his -head—held the hose. - -And I was told that of the six hundred boys who are in the reformatory -many of them on account of gross misconduct, for which but for their -tender years, they would have been sentenced to a long period of -imprisonment, not a single one had been guilty of doing anything wrong -during his detention here. Punishments such as thrashing and being put -on bread and water and under arrest, simply do not exist. The boys live -in their little villas, twelve in a batch, under the supervision of a -pair of foster-parents. The only punishment is that a boy who has been -disobedient or lazy gets no cake at five o’clock tea, and is not given -permission to sit with the others at the large flower-decked table, but -has to sit alone at a small table. And he mayn’t lie before the fire at -dusk and listen to fairy-tales. - -No mother could have had more delightful letters from her child than I -had from Kelly during that year. If I had only been as wise then as I am -now, I should have let him stay there as long as the inspector would have -kept him. - -All the small “prisoners” were taught in succession various industries -which they might choose themselves. I saw them baking, ironing, washing, -carving, carpentering, binding books, making clothes, and toys, and I -saw them planting trees, ploughing, and, Magna, I saw them milking cows. -But I was a foolish mother. I didn’t want my boy brought up to a trade; -I imagined it was my duty to develop his great gifts in a different -direction. - -So after a year he was sent back to me. But the inspector warned me that -there would be a lapse. In two months it came. Kelly disappeared. I tore -about like a maniac hunting for him everywhere. I don’t believe there -was a beer-cellar, a common lodging-house, or a thieves’ kitchen that -I didn’t search. He was traced through the scar on his forehead, and I -recovered him. But how? - -The Kelly who for twelve months had been living a model life among six -hundred little abandoned chaps, had plotted with a group of homeless -playmates to commit a crime so diabolical and remorseless that at first I -refused to believe his brain could have hatched it. By the train between -Philadelphia and New York travels every day a crowd of millionaires who -come to do their business on the Stock Exchange. The other boys were, -through all sorts of tricks, to distract the attention of the signalman -while Kelly was to switch on the signals so that another train would come -into collision with the train from Philadelphia. After the collision they -meant to plunder the dead bodies! - -It’s true, Magna; now say, no! you dare not take Kelly under your roof -to associate with Oluf. I can’t help it, it was my duty to tell you all. -My friend, Judge Rander, in Children’s Court, helped me in every way. He -procured for me leave to travel with Kelly out of the country on a verbal -and written oath that I would never bring him back. That is why I lived -two years, summer and winter, in my White Villa with Kelly and a tutor. -I was afraid to let him come near the town, and yet the child needed -companions. So at last I ventured to migrate to a town, with the result -that Kelly in two years was expelled from three schools. Can you still -have the courage, Magna, to let the innocent child, offspring of your -heart, become Kelly’s playfellow? And if you are so courageous, how shall -I be able to exonerate myself if you come to me one day and say, “Kelly -has corrupted my boy”? - -I put the words into your mouth, Magna. - -Say no, while there is still time. You are strong, stronger than any -other woman I know, since you have found yourself again through strenuous -exertion and labour. But there are powers that the strongest cannot -conquer. - -Behind my fears about your saying yes, lies the burning wish that you -will, but how shall I ever find words to thank you? - -Of course, I realise what it will mean if Kelly from now onwards takes -up his abode with you, and directly after his confirmation leaves off -school. It’s not what Kelly is to be, but _how_ he becomes what he is, -that is going to be for me the main question. I fold my hands in my lap, -and I confess my powerlessness. - -Make Kelly a man. Make Kelly a good man. - -You will understand, Magna, that I could not say all this if we stood -face to face. While I have been writing Kelly has been several times to -the door. He wants to know what I am doing. Every time I feel tempted to -lay down my pen to enjoy his society. He asked me the other day, “Mother, -do you believe that people’s fate is pre-ordained?” What could he have -meant by it? I dared not ask him. He went on his knees, buried his head -in my lap, and cried bitterly. - -Magna, don’t keep me long in uncertainty. At least promise me that. - - Your - - ELSIE LINDTNER. - - * * * * * - -I have begun to darn Kelly’s stockings. Why did I never think of it -before? - -He was whitewashing the attic with Magna, and I saw that one of his -stockings was without a heel. I actually blushed, I felt so ashamed. The -boy, of course, doesn’t trouble about such trifles, and Magna, splendid -creature, has enough to do. I don’t believe she would mind a bit going -about with holes in her own stockings. - -In the country it doesn’t matter so much, but still— - -She simply laughed at me when I asked to be allowed to look after his -clothes, and I didn’t quite know how to explain why I wanted to do it. -But Magna is so clever, and when I was seated comfortably she brought -me out a whole bundle. She has done the same for her own children. I am -convinced that she would not let any one else darn Oluf’s stockings. - -I don’t find it easy. I have quite forgotten the proper way of doing it, -which I learnt at school. And I haven’t thought anything about darning -stockings since. - -But I take no end of trouble, and it is a wonderful feeling to sit out -here on the balcony with a whole pile of big, big stockings in front of -me—Kelly has positively a gigantic foot. My dear little balcony. It’s to -me what an airship is for young, impatient folks. I sit so serenely in my -charming, soft seat, between sweet-peas and nasturtiums, and beneath me -streams by the current of life with its men and beasts. - - * * * * * - -It amuses me to see how skilfully Richard’s eldest can drive an -automobile. If only he can avoid accidents. - -Richard himself is aging, but his little wife sits so upright in the car. -She wears well. - -Since Richard caught sight of me one day by chance he always looks up -and bows, and then we all bow, ... I overhear the lanky youth say, “Papa, -we are passing your old wife,” and then they laugh. - -Yes, I should like to see the home in the old Market Place once more. -Probably I should hardly recognise it, or perhaps Richard, from long -habit, has kept things much the same. - -The eldest son is to succeed to the business, of course, but the second -looks to me so dandified. I know this for certain that none of Richard’s -sons will ever work out in the fields in clogs and woollen shirts. And -their mother will never have the joy of darning stockings with holes in -them as big as goose’s eggs. While I sit with a pair of these coarse, -huge, manly socks in which my hand is absolutely drowned, I feel to the -full extent a mother’s glorious rights. I only wish the holes were double -the size, so that the time they take to mend lasted longer. - -I have been and bought the pan for cooking oxeyes in, and I have -promised Kelly and Oluf that every time they come they shall have oxeyes -baked in butter. Magna requires nothing but her horrid nut-suet which has -no flavour. She alone can eat it. Dear, dear boys. - - * * * * * - -DEAR AGNETE, - -It was well that you wrote to me this time, and not to your mother. You -are not to trouble her with your unhappy affairs, do you understand? -Every time that she gets a letter from you she shuts herself up and -cries. Lately I have read quite a number of your letters, and I must -confess that I was not pleased with them. - -At one time you presumed to sit in judgment on your mother’s life, and -now you blame her because yours is a failure. You have no right to do it. - -You cannot justly lay your married wretchedness at either your mother’s -or your husband’s door. Its origin is to be sought in a train of -circumstances. You must know, though you seem to have forgotten it, that -it was not your mother who gave in to your desire to go to the French -Convent School. It was my doing that you went. I sent you for her peace -of mind’s sake. - -That you have married a Catholic while you yourself are a Protestant is -no one’s fault but your own, as you did not ask anybody’s permission. -Unfortunately you have inherited from your mother a hysterical -temperament, and from your father a certain matter-of-factness which -prevents your enjoying life. - -I feel compelled to act like a surgeon who undertakes a necessary -operation, in spite of the patient’s objection to scars. - -The only time your husband was here on a visit I was able to get a -certain impression of his character. You are right in saying that he is -“dangerous to women through the animal magnetism which radiates from his -person, attracting to him adults and children alike.” And you might -add, “through his natural amiability and his kindliness.” He makes no -disguise of his vanity, but when you plume yourself on being his only -chick because you alone resist him, you are adopting a dangerous line. -The man who wishes to be worshipped will not be discouraged by superior -airs, especially when these are put on, and you merely feign opposition -in order to annoy him, and to conceal how much you are in love. - -Owing to the position he holds he is the centre of much attention. He -is unable, like most men, to diverge from the high road. Every movement -of his is noticed, and may cause him unpleasantness. Thus his position -forces him to be cautious. Yet you as his loving wife accuse him of -giving to every woman what ought to be your position alone. - -Your want of trust puts him on the rack. You pluck his nerves to pieces, -and dissect his secret thoughts. You hate him for not being unfaithful -to you in deed in that you suspect continually that he is unfaithful to -you in thought. You hurt him by telling him constantly that your mutual -life is animal and savage, that he lacks soul, and does not comprehend -what it is to love with the soul as you do. He retorts by calling you -hysterical. - -Then a young girl comes to stay in your house. She falls in love with -your husband, and he is in love with her. You say, “She made a dead set -at him.” Instead of deciding to remove her immediately you watch for -proofs of the criminal relations which you suspect. I don’t condemn you -for getting hold of your husband’s letters by any means honourable or the -reverse, because jealous wives are as irresponsible for their actions as -patients with a temperature of a hundred and six. You triumph and cause -yourself diabolical torments by revelling in the stolen love-letters. You -find in them the “psychological” impulse that you have missed in your -husband’s love. - -What ought you to do now? Either you must go, as you cannot stay with a -man who is in love with another; or you must remain and leave him and his -feelings in peace. Nonsense! Instead you thrust a dagger into his heart -and turn it in the wound. If he moans, you ask, “Do you still love her?” - -You think that love can be wrenched out of a man’s life as easily as a -tooth is drawn, root and all. - -Agony brings your husband to reason and his senses, he belies what he -feels and cries, “I love no one but you!” But even then can you leave him -alone? Certainly not. You now insist on his telling everything, betraying -and deceiving. You know, as a Catholic, he cannot claim a divorce, and -yet you ask if he will marry her in the case of your retiring? Not a word -of this offer do you intend seriously. You want to humiliate and torment -him. - -Next you make a scene with the girl, pervert his words about her, -misapply your knowledge, and use such expressions as “Impurity, lies, -vulgarity.” But she only answers, “I love him, I cannot do anything -else.” And you find this exasperating. - -Not once has it occurred to you to set your husband free. He belongs to -you, he is in your power. You begin all over again. You haven’t an hour’s -rest because you must spy on all his actions. You reproach him for being -a Catholic. His baseness is trebled because he is Catholic—as if lies had -anything to do with articles of faith. - -You are leading a pretty life! Then your husband falls ill. For a long -time he has complained of a tumour in his chest. “If it grows it’ll have -to be removed for it may be cancer.” This is a trifling matter, or you -inwardly triumph over it as “a judgment.” - -One morning he leaves the house on business. He takes leave of you -tenderly and comes back over and over again to kiss you with emotion. You -at once suspect deceit, and heap reproaches on him for intending to do -something behind your back. He smiles sadly and says, “If that is so you -will soon hear what it is.” - -At mid-day you have a “vision,” if what you write is true. You see him -lying on the operating table. You telephone to the hospital and learn -that the operation has taken place. You hurry there and meet the girl. - -To you he has not spoken of the serious ordeal in store for him. But he -has sent for her. - -This is the last drop that overflows your cup of anguish. You take your -sick husband home. You torture him till he says, “Death would be better -than this.” - -And now you ask me what you ought to do. - -It would be much simpler to tell you what you ought not to have done. - -But it is too late for that now. All the same, I will, to the best of -my poor abilities, give you advice and the benefit of my experience, -gathered from contemplation of many wretched and foolish cases in which -people tread happiness under foot, and then instantly lament what they -have lost. - -First and foremost, Agnete, you must look into yourself, and get rid of -the lie which like an octopus has caught you in its embrace and smothers -the best within you. - -The lie about your husband’s deficiency. Your expressions of longing for -a harmony of souls is a lie, just as your pretension to love with the -soul and not with the senses is a lie. - -You are one of the many women who, for reasons which I fail to -understand, find no salvation in your relations to a man. What for him -was the highest enjoyment, for you was only a torturing excitement. -A physical shortcoming in yourself would in him appear a crime in -your eyes. Instead of honestly and frankly explaining to him the state -of things and the cause of your unhappy condition, you try to seek -satisfaction by making scenes. - -Don’t you see, dear child, a clever woman never makes scenes. It isn’t -politic. A scene that lasts an hour does fourteen days’ detriment to her -appearance. - -Your question, “What ought I to do now?” really means, “How can I punish -him further?” - -Rather you should ask, “What can I do to heal his wounded soul?” And this -is my answer, Agnete, “You can do it by confessing your own mistakes, and -forgetting his.” - -You must not ape humility, and let something cry within you, “See what a -sacrifice I am making!” - -No, you must acknowledge your wrongdoing and not let it out of sight. -Take it in both hands, hold it tightly like a costly goblet, and keep -your eyes fixed on it. You should remember that it is no credit to you -that you have not betrayed him because there has been no necessity; for -you know nothing of the mad impulse that can arise between two human -creatures, suddenly, like a storm in the thickest part of the wood. - -Above all things, recognise that at the time your husband summoned his -mistress to his side when he thought he was going to die, he acted from -the greatest and most primitive of instincts—the instinct of love. - -Tell him that you have been wrong. Show him your love. Give him your -best. Not for an hour or a day, but every hour and every day. That is the -only way to his heart, and to your own peace of mind. And then the time -will come when mutual forgiveness has performed its miracle. - -Try to understand what I mean. - -Hearty good wishes from your mother’s old friend. If you like you may -show your husband this letter. - - ELSIE LINDTNER. - - * * * * * - -It is certainly a very fine trait in Magna’s character, that she who used -to be—well, never mind, I won’t say what—has never breathed the name of -her child’s father to any living soul. - -The man must have been good and strong, and I am fortunate indeed that my -Kelly has found a protector in the little fellow. Oluf doesn’t like Kelly -drinking schnaps. So Kelly doesn’t drink schnaps. Oluf wants Kelly’s -moustache to grow, so Kelly lets it grow. - -“So long as I have Oluf, who takes care of me, you need not be afraid of -me.” Those words are close to my heart. - -And yet I have still some anxiety. The world is so big, and here things -are reduced to such a groove. I notice the effect on Oluf when Kelly -tells him about America. Who knows if the day will not come when the pair -come to bid me and Magna farewell to go off on adventures? - -Oluf was making plans the other day for travelling to Canada, and camping -in the great forests far away from civilisation. The boy had fixed it -all up. They were to live in the trees, and live by hunting and fishing. -Perched up on the highest branches they would spread out their nets, and -catch fish out of the great river that rolls through the forest. They -would only enter a town twice a year to sell the skins of the beasts they -had caught. - -Oluf is not too small for such dreams, but Kelly— - -I am so unwilling to budge from here till Kelly has taken root in the -soil so that he can’t tear himself away. He promises to stay here always, -but what is a promise? - - * * * * * - -DEAR MAGNA, - -I must really tell you without delay. Richard has been to see me. When -Lucie brought in his card I was dumbfounded. But the moment he entered -the room, thank God I got over my feeling of embarrassment. We stood and -looked at each other, and were at a loss how to begin the conversation, -till it occurred to Richard to say something about Kelly. He knew, of -course, the whole story. - -It did one good to see the dear fellow, to speak to him again. He -said he could only stay a few minutes, and he stayed two hours. In -reality, it was his little wife who sent him to see me. She thought it -so extraordinary that she should not know me, who had played such an -important part for so many years in Richard’s life. - -We spoke a great deal of our respective children, and were both equally -proud. - -Now Richard has promised to visit me next Sunday with his family. -You and our boys come, too. In the course of the week I shall return -Richard’s call. - -Do you know, Magna, I intend to make it quite a festive occasion, and -there shall be no feeling in the matter that I am a divorced wife. You -will have to lend me a few things as most of my china is over in the -villa, and I shall order the food to be sent in from Palace Street. One -can be certain of getting it good there, or would you advise going to an -hotel? I have got so out of the habit of entertaining that I feel nervous -at the thought of it. - -Anyhow, you must come, Magna, and take care that Kelly is properly -attired. Also see to his hands. - -When Richard was gone, I sat a long time and meditated in retrospect on -how very nicely he and I had once got on together. The one drawback was -that we had no children. On that account I made the sacrifice and left -him. I have been royally rewarded for it, through my Kelly. - -Richard’s wife plays a good game of bridge, and we have already started -a society for the winter. The report of your enormous pluck has reached -the old Market Place, for Richard spoke of you in terms of the warmest -admiration and esteem. At parting we both positively had tears in our -eyes. - -May I, without hurting you, give a hint? Please put on your silk dress, -Magna. I shall have a new one made, I think, as quickly as possible. You -see, this is to be a very important event in my life. - -Embrace my boy for me, and remember what I said about his hands. - - ELSIE. - - - - -DEAR JEANNE, - - -It is wrong of me to have been so lazy lately about writing. But I have -had so much to do. I have, as a matter of fact, moved house. It happened -in a twinkling. This habitation became to let through a death, and mine -was taken by a young married couple. - -Now I am living on the beach road so far out that I am hardly to be -reckoned as belonging to Copenhagen. Can you guess why I have moved? -Simply to be nearer the farm, so childish does one become with advancing -age. Magna advised me strongly to come out altogether, but I am not -inclined to do that. I am always and shall be a child of towns, though -in the year that Kelly has been learning to be a farmer I have taken an -almost incredible interest in cows, pigs, winter crops, and all the rest -of it. My life is so full of richness and light, I have nearly more joy -than I can bear, and no troubles at all. - -Magna manages our “estate,” as she always calls it to please me, most -admirably. And how well she understands the art of setting others to work! - -My Kelly and her little Oluf are now, as they always have been, -inseparable, and I believe that the blue-eyed little comrade exercises -a most beneficent influence on Kelly. Magna told me one day that she -had heard Oluf saying—the boy lay in a hay-cock and didn’t know that -Magna was on the other side of it taking her after-dinner nap—“I have no -father, for my father died ten years before I was born. But if you like -to be my father, I shall be quite content to have no other.” - -Magna visits me every time that she has anything to do in the town. -When the window is open I can hear the crack of her whip above all the -rest. And will you believe it, Jeanne, my heart begins to beat at the -sound, for it means that the boys are with her, or that Magna is coming -to tell me about them. You should just see her sitting rosy and upright -in the dog-cart, her head hidden in a hood, with an old sealskin on, -all rubbed the wrong way, the same that twenty years ago formed a topic -of conversation the whole winter through, because it had cost her poor, -struggling husband goodness knows how many thousands. - -Magna is now getting on for sixty. But no one would think it. She beams -as if the whole world were at her feet. I look at least ten years older, -although, God knows, I take a lot of trouble over my hair, and touch up -my cheeks a little, as I always did. She makes a fuss about getting out -of the cart as if the coachman could not look after the butter and eggs. - -Just think, she gets up at four in summer and at six in winter, and works -for two. There is no work that she considers is too menial. - -Lately she and Kelly painted all the four buildings for Whitsun. And they -did it like the wind, so that one could hardly believe one’s own eyes. I -sat out on the verandah and watched, and was nearly sick with delight. - -Then we had roast ribs and oxeyes for dinner. How Kelly eats! You -can have no conception of his appetite. It’s not elegant, but oh, so -splendid! And after they have been slaughtering Kelly brings me lambs’ -fry, black puddings, and liver sausages. What I once couldn’t tolerate -now tastes to me better than the finest Astrakhan caviare. - -How I chat on all about my own affairs. But I don’t forget my little -fellow-traveller on that account, and her troubles are mine. Still, I -am not going to make them such a serious matter as you do, for they are -not worth it. You have arrived at a stage when everything looks to you -black, and must look so. I should be deeply pained if I had not long ago -seen what the cause of it is. You are now just about the age I was when -we first met each other; that age which for women is so difficult and -dangerous. And the inexplicable happiness is not granted to every woman -to come through the time unscathed and triumphant as I did. - -I have thought about it, and wondered what the reason could be why I, -contrary to every one else, should remain during those years much the -same as always; and I have come to the conclusion that it was because I -lived so superficially at that time, and without any deep feeling for -other people. - -But you, little Jeanne, since you linked your fate so fortunately with -Malthe’s, have been a sheer compost of love-worship and self-sacrifice. -I could have foretold long ago that your transition age would be a hard -time. But now try yourself to make it easier. Review the circumstances, -sift, and explain them to yourself. - -You have something to be thankful for that does not fall to the lot of -one woman in ten thousand. Your husband continues to love you as much -to-day as when you first became his. Does that not counter-balance -everything? Are the little cosmopolitan godless angels of children really -so hard to bring up as you think? They have, of course, the artistic -temperament, and you attempt to model them into normal human beings. You -will never succeed. - -And is Malthe’s depression of spirits of any great significance? There is -cause for it. He has of late, with justice or injustice, been overlooked, -and younger powers have been preferred before him; his name has no longer -the _cachet_ it once had, and even his talent seems to have taken a back -seat. But, dear Jeanne, you are greatly to blame for this. You have -loved your husband so blindly and fondly that you have not set him on -a pedestal, but you have built a castle of air far up in the highest -clouds, and there you have placed him like a golden ball on the most -inaccessible pinnacle, with no one above him and no one near him.... You -have fed his ambition and stifled your own natural, critical faculty, -instead of standing at his side and being helpful to him in deciding -between good and mediocre, and now you complain that you cannot console, -and that he spurns you. You are ashamed to say so, but I read between the -lines that you are very, very unhappy.... And it is all because you are -not well, dear Jeanne, and your despondency is likely to last some years. - -But I could hit, I think, on ways and means of putting your cares to -flight; if only you will at once make up your mind to bring your little -flock northwards, so that I may take them with me to the Villa this -summer, and teach the little goose-herds, the Parisian, the Sicilian, -and the Smyrna child, indifferent Danish, while you and your Malthe close -the house, store your furniture, and trot round the globe. - -Don’t let the thought of money stand in your way. Tell Joergen from me -that he may with an easy hand use the money which he would set aside as a -dowry for his daughters. - -He must be ashamed of himself if he has not that opinion about his own -flesh and blood, that it will be a pure joy to any one to take over the -girls, even if they come without a rag to their backs or clothed in flour -sacks. - -Besides, I have made my will, and, dear Jeanne, if I once played _la -banque_ at Monte Carlo, I am not likely to do it again. - -What a glorious summer it will be over there in the White Villa with your -chicks. And we’ll borrow Magna’s Oluf and my Kelly for a week, too. What -does my old travelling companion say to this? - -Much love to you and to your husband, and the whole small flock, from - - Yours always, - - ELSIE LINDTNER. - - * * * * * - -Poor Jeanne and poor Joergen.... So it fares worse with you than I -thought. - -I have the greatest desire to travel over to them and mediate, but in -these days my heart is too touchy and my neuralgia a consideration. I -ought not by rights to sit out on the balcony in the cool evening air, -but I never could be careful. - -But it shall not happen; it would be too foolish and irresponsible a -step—people don’t separate in a hurry like that without a ghost of a -real reason. All very well if Malthe had another string to his bow, or -if Jeanne was in love with another man, but, good Lord! one of them -couldn’t live without the other, and yet she talks of having “weighed” -the matter, and thoroughly thought it out. I am so angry my hands tremble. - -Jeanne must really collect herself, and understand that all this is -nothing but a transition. When I think of it, I can recall no case among -the many I have known—except, of course, my own—of a single woman who -has managed to get through these years without a slight rumpus of some -kind. Afterwards they have taken endless trouble to patch up the wounds -they have inflicted. Now, Jeanne has been more than unreasonable in this -respect. There isn’t a man in the world who can stand such an everlasting -adoration. - -It was certainly brutal of him to say, “Mind yourself, your house, and -your children, but don’t meddle with my work.” - -But he meant nothing more by it than a child in a temper does when it -vents its anger in trampling on a favourite toy. Yet the words rankled -in Jeanne as a reproach—a reproach for what? - -He has lost faith in his talent. Therefore he is irritable and dejected, -and Jeanne, who all these years has had enough to do in bringing children -into the world, and caring for them and him, now stands suddenly still, -looks round and behind her, and feels disillusioned. Now is the time when -she wants the tenderest words he has ever lavished on her, but he, with -his head full of building plans, sees no sense or object in two people -talking of love—two people who have proved their love with their whole -life. - -One of them ought to fall sick unto death ... so that the other should -forget his small grievances. - -Well, we shall see. If Jeanne listens to my advice, and lets the children -come up here, all will be well.... A little air and freedom is what they -need; otherwise I shall have to sacrifice myself and for the second time -knock about the world with my little travelling companion. - - * * * * * - -So I have been in my old home once more! Weeks will have to go by before -I get over the re-visiting of it. Every trace of me had been removed—with -a scrupulous care and thoroughness as if every piece of furniture, -every hanging and picture had been dangerously infected. Doors had been -obliterated, and new ones cut in walls which used to be doorless. Not -even the peaceful white fireplaces were there any longer, but instead -gilded radiators. Had I never inhabited the rooms they could not have -seemed more strange. I looked in vain for Richard’s oak bookcase, and the -panels from his grandmother’s country place. - -I had to see everything. My namesake—she who bears the name by right, -not courtesy—led me from one room to another. It was as if she asked me -incessantly, “Isn’t there anything that reminds you of your reign?” No, -nothing, not the very least thing. - -And then when we sat round the table at which Richard and I used to sit -alone with the servants waiting behind our chairs, all the vacant places -were filled with children whose appearance in the world was one of the -conditions of my departure. Wonderful, wonderful! and a little sad. - -I noticed how Richard exerted himself that I should feel at ease. But he, -too, I think, was moved by the oddness of the situation. - -She calls me Madame Elsie, and I call her Madame Beathe. - -Involuntarily I glanced round for the big portrait Kröyer in his day -painted of me, the portrait which Richard simply idolised. He saw what I -was looking for, and cast down his eyes. I felt inclined to say, “Dearest -friend, don’t let us be sentimental. What was once is no longer. But the -picture was a true work of art, and for that reason you should have let -it hang where it was.” - -One thinks such things, but doesn’t say them. - -I was shown, too, the daughters’ bedroom upstairs, and there—there hung -my picture among photographs of actresses and school friends. Finally it -will land in the attic unless it occurs to some one to make money out of -it. - -Why is it I cannot get rid of a feeling of bitterness and humiliation? -They were all very kind and considerate. But when Madame Beathe joking -suggested a match between her Annelisa and my Kelly, I felt near to -crying. Annelisa is a thoroughly nice girl, it is true. But I cannot -endure the thought of Kelly being looked down on, because of his country -manners. And she does look down on him. - -The little mistress has one fault. She is too immaculately tidy. I -noticed that all the carpets had dusting sheets over them, and naturally -supposed their removal had been forgotten, till I saw that every single -article on her dressing-table was covered in the middle of the day -with gauze, and I heard her scolding one of the maids for not washing -her hands before beginning to lay the cloth after touching some books. -Richard, I am sure, finds it trying. - -When he smokes a cigar she sits on pins and needles for fear he shall -scatter the ash about. And God knows that for a man Richard is tidy -enough. She discovered a mark on the white window-ledge, only a raindrop, -I believe, but got up twenty times at least to scrub, brush, and breathe -on the spot. - -It gives me food for thought. It is not for me to judge what she does and -how she acts. But I can’t get over it. I feel bound to criticise her. And -somehow the idea will bother me that this is my home she is fussing about -in, and not the other way about. - -Annelisa kissed me at parting, and asked if she might soon come to see -me. But she shall not come when Kelly is at home. That is certain. - -And now they have invited me to a grand dinner-party. - - * * * * * - -Kelly must have a tail-coat, there is no question of that. - - * * * * * - -No, Kelly shall not have a dress suit. Kelly won’t come with me to the -dinner-party at Richard’s. I am going alone. - - * * * * * - -Pah! I am positively excited! It was a grand occasion. And it did me good -to hear pretty speeches made about my appearance. The orchids certainly -did go well with my mauve silk. They couldn’t have come from anywhere -but Paris, of course. - -Annelisa and I became great friends. She took me up to her room and -confided in me that she and her mother don’t get on. - -You were afraid to move almost for fear of being told you were making -things in a mess. And the child betrayed, by the way, the little domestic -secret that her mother now had a bedroom to herself, because her father -was so untidy in shaving. When no one was looking her mother went about -with a duster and wiped away the marks left by the soles of your boots. -Wasn’t it too awful? But it didn’t seem so dreadful to me, for all at -once I saw plainly what it meant, and I consoled the child by telling her -that in a year or two the scouring demon would be cleaned away. - -Richard seems quite unconcerned. He doesn’t dream of complaining. But if -he has any memory, it must occur to him in looking back, how in the years -that I was passing through the phase, everything inwardly and outwardly -went on the same as usual. - -Richard plays a brilliant game of bridge. But I must say I was utterly -unprepared for Professor Rothe making the third. He behaved as if nothing -whatever had passed between us. And Lili’s name was not mentioned. - -Richard said when I rose to go, “You have been the Queen of the Feast!” -God knows I blushed. - -Maybe that in his secret heart he recognises the great sacrifice I -made for him. It was, undoubtedly, no easy matter to leave him and the -beautiful house. But my exemplary conscience was sufficient reward, even -if I had not afterwards received the guerdon of Kelly. - - * * * * * - -I believe I shall succeed in having a chat with Madame Beathe about her -_tic doloreux_. If one broaches the subject tactfully, it’s possible -to achieve a great deal; and it is only a matter of getting her to see -herself that her malady is an appendage of her years. - - * * * * * - -What holes Kelly wears his stockings into, and how black he makes -his pocket-handkerchiefs! I do believe the boy uses them to wash the -cart-wheels. - - * * * * * - -Kelly said yesterday, “And if you hadn’t adopted me, I should have been -in the gutter all my life.” How he looks at me! - - * * * * * - -I suppose I had better have left it alone. I was told that for others -such a period of incapability might exist, but not for her. She knew -the duties of a proper housewife, and did not attend to a fifth part of -things and leave the rest in dirt and disorder. - -It was a little too much that I should not only come and interfere in her -housekeeping, but ascribe to her a fictitious illness that only existed -in my imagination.... And then followed a long story which to listen -to was enough to make one laugh and weep together. Goodness! she had -actually been jealous of my former régime, and had no peace till she had -turned the whole house topsy-turvy. She didn’t intend that I should know -this. But the storm burst when she thought to-day I had been taking my -revenge. Her one object in life was to live for her husband, her home, -and her children, and she had no notions about posing as a beauty, and be -painted by famous artists. And so on.... - -She was so beside herself finally, that I was obliged to cave in, and -say that I had made a mistake, she was not at the dangerous age, and her -scouring mania was a perfectly natural instinct, and it was a pity that -all housewives did not follow her example. - -And then we were good friends again, and she told me that she was very -glad I was really quite old. - -Any woman so old and harmless, of course didn’t count. - -No, I shall not burn my fingers again. It is most curious how forgetful -one becomes with the flight of years. - -But forgetful is not exactly the right word. It is much more a sort of -half-unconscious perversion of actual facts. The same kind of thing as -parents making out to their children and almost believing it themselves, -that when they were children they were absolute angels. - -Magna, for instance, is capable of self-delusion and lying with regard -to the miseries of her dangerous age. Magna, usually the soul of -truthfulness, who never tries to make herself out better than she is, -apparently believes that she got over those difficult years easily and -calmly. Good God! - -For once we nearly grew angry with one another. I maintained that it was -nothing to be ashamed of, but rather an honour, that she had afterwards -matured into the magnificent, vigorous creature she now is. - -But she wouldn’t hear of it. The only thing she would admit was Oluf, and -she only did that because he is flesh and blood. - -We both became vehement, and in the end Magna went the length of -asserting in her excitement that I had been far more affected by the -critical years than she and Lili Rothe put together! - -It was useless to protest against such a ludicrous mis-statement of -facts. But we very soon made it up again, and played our game of Friday -bridge. Unfortunately Kelly had not come in with Magna. - -He and Oluf had to sit up all night with a sick cow. It would have -sufficed if one of them had done it, but where Kelly is there Oluf will -be also. - -God bless Magna for her way of chatting about the two boys. I devour the -words as they fall from her lips. It is so splendid to hear her. Magna -thinks it will be a good thing for Kelly if he marries in a year or two -... it seems almost as if she had fixed on some one already. What if it -should be to the new dairy-maid? Well, I should not mind, so long as it -was for my boy’s happiness. In that event we must think of taking a farm -for Kelly, for Kelly and Oluf. - - * * * * * - -It would interest me to prove to Magna who was right. If I could bring -myself to reading through once more what I wrote down in those days ... -yes, I will to-morrow. - - * * * * * - -I am ashamed, oh, how ashamed I am! It is not fancy or forgery. I wrote -every word of it in circumstances which bear witness to the honesty of -the writer. I can never look either Magna or Jeanne in the face again ... -or in my boy’s. - -Not I who have a thousand times dreamed and wished with all my heart that -I had brought him into the world! I can only hang my head now and be -thankful that he never had such a person for his mother. - -I, I, who strutted about like a peacock, proud of my own perfections; -I, who pointed the finger of scorn at others; I, who presumed with the -rights of a judge to condemn or pardon others, inwardly jubilating -triumphantly, “Thank God I am not as other men are.” - -_That_ can never be erased, never made good. - -Now that I have reached the evening of my days, and my one occupation is -to sit and look out of the window at the people who pass, and dream happy -dreams for my boy, I commit no thought or deed that needs the veil of -oblivion. - -But then, when I was in my prime ... when I might have applied my gifts -for usefulness and pleasure—I was such a.... - -The memory of it can never be wiped out. It can never be made good. - -And I had thought that Kelly was to read it all after my death, so that -he might learn to know what I really was; learn to despise me as I lay -in my grave.... I have had the fire lit though it is summer. I intend to -destroy every line. Every line! - -But will that prevent Kelly beholding me in all my pitiableness? Am I -such a coward? Such a coward?... No, Kelly _shall_ read it, every scrap -when I am dead. - -Then he shall see what a deplorable, wretched creature I was till love -entered my life, when he did. Then he shall know the great miracle which -love wrought. - -Kelly has a claim to me in bad as well as good.... - -I feel to-day so ineffably tired. It seems as if this day were to be my -last. The day of judgment, when I am to stand face to face with myself. - -But the day of judgment is to be followed by regeneration. Kelly is to be -my regeneration. Not for myself do I pray to be granted a year, an hour; -I pray for Kelly’s sake alone, that our meeting that night may not have -been in vain. This prayer throbs from my lips into Eternity. - -Will it be heard? - - * * * * * - -There are bells chiming for vespers. Now Kelly is coming home from work, -so tall, strong, and healthy. They are busy with the spring ploughing, -and to-morrow will be Sunday. Then I shall see him, have him to -myself.... - -Kelly, Kelly ... why aren’t you here at this hour? Kelly, I want to see -you, and to thank you. - -Be good ... be happy.... - - - - -THE DANGEROUS AGE - -BY - -Karin Michaëlis - - _Cloth_ _12mo_ _$1.20 net_ _Postage 12 cents_ - - -“One can hardly fail to be heartily in accord with Marcel Prevost in -regard to the literary value of the story, the artistic insight, the -skill, and the peculiarly feminine flavor that it displays. As a piece -of fiction of unique form and substance, written with unusual skill and -artistic feeling, the book is worth reading.”—_New York Times_ - -“The book will have a powerful appeal for a great many women.”—_New York -Herald_ - -“An admirable piece of workmanship, both subtle and sincere.... Fine -literary taste and an artistic reticence are characteristics of this -Danish woman’s method.”—_New York Sun_ - -“An extraordinary document, and reveals the feminine soul of all -time.”—_Boston Evening Herald_ - -“It is not a record of deeds, but of thoughts; as such it will attract -many who think, and who have had experience with life.”—_Cincinnati -Times-Star_ - -“The author’s great success came with ‘The Dangerous Age,’ in -which she bares the very soul of a woman with the relentless -sternness of the surgeon and the power of expression of the literary -artist.”—_Philadelphia Public Ledger_ - -“The book is sure to appeal to women and those interested in the study of -feminism.”—_Detroit News_ - -“The book is admirably written, never extreme, always chaste in language, -but fascinatingly leaving much to the imagination. Will interest all -readers.”—_Pittsburg Dispatch_ - -JOHN LANE CO., NEW YORK - - - - -AN UNOFFICIAL HONEYMAN - -BY - -Dolf Wyllarde - -Author of “The Rat Trap,” “The Riding Master,” etc. - - _Cloth_ _12mo_ _$1.30 net_ _Postage 12 cents_ - - -“A strong story in more senses than literary, and well worth the -reading.”—_New York Times_ - -“A distinct achievement in the realm of fiction, and should add to -the laurels the writer has already won. The theme is an old one—a man -and a woman cast upon an uninhabited island—but the handling of it is -new and in Miss Wyllarde’s best style. The descriptions are vivid and -realistic.... The story is told with unusual vigor. It is human, simple, -convincing and absorbing.”—_Boston Herald_ - -“As interesting as the first sea story ever written; a fresh, -vividly-told tale.”—_Baltimore Evening News_ - -“A highly entertaining story for the lover of adventure, a sort of -modernized Robinson Crusoe, with a heroine to take the place of Goodman -Friday.”—_Chicago Evening Post_ - -“Brilliant writing and realistic psychology.”—_New York Sun_ - -“The book is more than an entertaining story.”—_Boston Globe_ - -“Miss Wyllarde invests this tale with a keenly attractive -quality.”—_Washington Evening Star_ - -“Miss Wyllarde has ability above the average, and the gift of -characterization to a marked degree.”—_Providence Journal_ - -“There is a fascination in reading the book that comes to one but rarely -in any other contingent circumstance that is brought up in the present -day pages of romance.”—_Cincinnati Press Leader_ - -JOHN LANE CO., NEW YORK - - - - -THE UNKNOWN WOMAN - -BY - -Anne Warwick - -Author of “Compensation” - - _Cloth_ _12mo_ _$1.30 net_ _Postage 12 cents_ - -Frontispiece and Jacket Illustration by Will Grefé - - -“From start to finish an interesting story. It is entertaining because -the incidents keep the reader in some suspense, and—even more—because -of the author’s undoubted mastery in reproducing a certain modern -atmosphere.”—_New York Times_ - -“An exceptionally good piece of work, planned on a large scale and -executed with an able, firm hand. A tale of one of the most interesting -phases of the life of contemporary New York—of the line where art and -intellect and wealth meet.”—_New York Tribune_ - -“There are clever and original things here; the book is well -written.”—_New York Sun_ - -“Holds the interest very well.”—_New York Evening Globe_ - -“Brilliant and charming bits of life.”—_Washington Evening Star_ - -“Its conversational parts are lively and entertaining and its -descriptions interesting.”—_Buffalo Commercial_ - -“A strong, vital story of the artistic and business life of New -York.”—_Brooklyn Eagle_ - -“The person who likes dialogue will find the book fascinating. The author -has a genuinely sincere purpose in her method of depicting life. A -handsome frontispiece in color by Will Grefé enhances the appearance of -the book.”—_Cincinnati Times-Star_ - -“There is a Bohemian atmosphere about the story, which is laid in -Rome and New York, that is most appealing, and it is so dramatic and -interesting in treatment and theme, and the plot itself is so absorbing, -that ‘The Unknown Woman’ is quite one of the most remarkable books of the -year.”—_Salt Lake City Herald_ - -JOHN LANE CO., NEW YORK - - - - -WINGS OF DESIRE - -BY - -M. P. Willcocks - -Author of “A Man of Genius,” “The Way Up,” etc. - - _Cloth_ _12mo_ _$1.30 net_ _Postage 12 cents_ - - -“So far as it deals with the problems of the modern woman, or rather, -with the modern woman’s new way of facing a problem that is as old as -life—that of love—the book is curiously revelatory.”—_New York Tribune_ - -“The story of the woman who forces herself on the weakling to save him -from himself is good work.”—_New York Sun_ - -“The story is so remarkable for its analytical power, its minute -observation, its sense of background, its delicate style as literature, -that it arrests and holds, and calls the reader back again and -again.”—_Boston Evening Transcript_ - -“The right of woman to her own individuality is the book’s chief -inspiration. It is for serious minds, and to such provides much food for -thought.”—_Springfield Republican_ - -“The author handles her characters as might a true mother her -children—knowing, yet not specially noting, the faults and virtues of -all. The style is clear and terse to incisiveness, and almost every -page has its sage or witty saying. It isn’t an easy story to lay aside -unfinished.”—_Chicago Record Herald_ - -“Much of beauty and truth, with occasional instances of vivid -strength.”—_Chicago Evening Post_ - -“There is in all Miss Willcocks’ stories a certain quality that makes -for the heights. She has a precious vocabulary. The realism that -distinguishes her never for a moment extinguishes her grace of style or -charm. She is essentially an artist who offends neither by useless detail -nor disappoints by leaving too much to the reader’s imagination. Always -she handles her wisdom and wit perfectly, while she presents her stories -powerfully. This is a book to read and keep.”—_Philadelphia Record_ - -“Her technique is good, her details are exceedingly well handled, and her -study of types is most delightful.”—_Louisville Post_ - -JOHN LANE CO., NEW YORK - - - - -HECTOR GRAEME - -BY - -Evelyn Brentwood - - _Cloth_ _12mo_ _$1.25 net_ _Postage 12 cents_ - - -“A tale which carries conviction with it. The story is well told and the -conception of the central character is extremely interesting.”—_New York -Times_ - -“A remarkable book. The study of that virile character, Hector Graeme, is -exceedingly powerful. The gripping power of the novel is undeniable and -its psychology sure-based.”—_Boston Evening Transcript_ - -“One of the most convincing novels of military life ever -written.”—_Rochester Post Express_ - -“One of the strongest pieces of fiction to reach this desk for many a -month. It is a character study of the sort that may be honestly described -as unusual.”—_Cleveland Plain Dealer_ - - -SEKHET - -BY - -Irene Miller - - _Cloth_ _12mo_ _$1.25 net_ _Postage 12 cents_ - -“A novel of genuine dramatic power. Its pages are marked by a strong, -cumulative interest. It is a long while since a novel of greater dramatic -force has claimed our attention.”—_New York Herald_ - -“To those aweary of novels that are not novel, and stories that lack -blood and bone and sinew, ‘Sekhet’ will seem as manna to hungry palates. -It is as human a document as one might find. Its characters live today, -and love and sin and die, just as surely as the author relates. A better -sermon than is often preached, a better novel than is often written, -describes the book exactly.”—_Philadelphia Record_ - -“A powerfully written tale with marvellous descriptive bits and very -strong character drawing—a story which grips the emotions from the -start.”—_Nashville American_ - -JOHN LANE CO., NEW YORK - - - - -EARTH - -BY - -Muriel Hine - - _Cloth_ _12mo_ _$1.25 net_ _Postage 12 cents_ - -“A readable story.”—_Boston Evening Transcript_ - -“The story is well told and is without an uninteresting paragraph in all -its pages.”—_Boston Globe_ - -“The story is pleasantly told.”—_Washington Evening Star_ - -“The tale is well written and has a good plot and the character -delineation is well done.”—_San Francisco Call_ - - -HALF IN EARNEST - -BY - -Muriel Hine - - _Cloth_ _12mo_ _$1.25 net_ _Postage 12 cents_ - -“The story compels interest from first to last.”—_New York Times_ - -“The real interest of the book—and it is a very real interest—lies in the -conflict of character and will between the two protagonists.”—_New York -Evening Post_ - -“A well built, well written tale.”—_Washington Evening Star_ - -“Holds the interest, being well constructed and smoothly -told.”—_Washington Herald_ - -JOHN LANE CO., NEW YORK - - - - -THE STORY OF A PLOUGHBOY - -BY - -James Bryce - -With an Introduction by Edwin Markham - - _Cloth_ _12mo_ _$1.25 net_ _Postage 12 cents_ - - -“A big story, bearing the blood prints of reality.”—_Edwin Markham_ - -“Whoever reads this story will get so keen a sense of actuality, will -feel so strongly the grip of a living, human hand through all its pages -that he can hardly help rejoicing, as for a friend, that the lad lives -true to his vision and the man to his final glimpse of the solidarity of -mankind.”—_New York Times_ - -“This ‘Story of a Ploughboy’ ought to rouse people to the degrading -effects on men of unremitting, unregulated, unsweetened, unenlightened -toil, and also to the fact that it is the ploughboys of the world who -make the fortunes of the rich. It is a most unusual story and makes a -good impression.”—_New York Evening Globe_ - -“Three of the greatest merits that any book can have cannot be denied to -this story: it is a book of good faith; it is a book of vital actuality, -and it is a book for men.”—_New York Herald_ - -“The pictures of life and labor are admirably well done, and if the book -does preach socialism, it preaches it logically and convincingly.”—_James -L. Ford in New York Herald_ - -“To read this story that quivers with the pathos and passion of life is -to get a keener and kindlier vision of our mortal existence.”—_Buffalo -Commercial_ - -“Those who are interested in stories with a sociological trend will be -charmed with this history, minute and graphic, of a ploughboy.”—_Buffalo -Express_ - -“A record of a young man’s life—one of the most popular themes of today. -The story has pathos, sincerity of intention, and all the multiplied -details of realism that make happy the heart of the reader on Socialistic -problems.”—_Baltimore Evening News_ - -JOHN LANE CO., NEW YORK - - - - -AWAKENING - -BY - -Maud Diver - -Author of “Candles in the Wind,” “Captain Desmond, V.C.” and “The Great -Amulet” - - _Cloth_ _12mo_ _$1.30 net_ _Postage 12 cents_ - - -“A story of very human interest, a careful study well thought out in all -its possibilities.”—_Boston Evening Transcript_ - -“A most delightful and enjoyable story.”—_Boston Times_ - -“This is a story told with a good deal of poesy and power, a story -disclosing and suggesting much of the inner life of two great -civilizations.”—_New York American_ - -“Apart from its romantic interest the book has good literary style.”—_New -York Herald_ - -“Mrs. Diver’s sympathetic appreciation of the Indian point of view is -remarkable and could only come from long experience.”—_Providence Journal_ - -“Even the most enthusiastic admirer of Maud Diver’s previous works will -not hesitate to say that ‘Awakening’ is the greatest book she has yet -given us.”—_Cleveland Town Topics_ - -“The author is a word painter and her story gives her plenty of -opportunity to show her talent. Many of the situations are exquisitely -tendered and are brought out with a delicacy of touch that is worthy of a -poet.”—_Albany Argus_ - -“Like the other works by the same author, ‘Awakening’ is marked by -excellent diction and delicate touch of descriptive powers.”—_Chicago -Journal_ - -“The story is engrossing.”—_Detroit Free Press_ - -JOHN LANE CO., NEW YORK - - - - -THE BEACON - -BY - -Eden Phillpotts - -Author of “The Thief of Virtue,” “Demeter’s Daughter,” etc. - - _Cloth_ _12mo_ _$1.30 net_ _Postage 12 cents_ - - -“One is lost in the beauty of imagination of the word paintings of -Dartmoor, and absorbed by the thoughtful study of human nature.”—_The -Outlook_ - -“The book has the usual excellences of clearness and -picturesqueness.”—_The Nation_ - -“We seldom see such strong buffets of wit in present day stories. The -book has greatly pleased us.”—_New York Sun_ - -“The dramatic power of plot and characters of the tale are undeniable. -Mr. Phillpotts remains an admirable artist in the maturity of his -powers.”—_New York Tribune_ - -“The tale in its mingled tragedy and comedy is admirable and holds -the attention. The people are alive and interesting. This book ranks -high.”—_New York Herald_ - -“No one who has once begun to read ‘The Beacon’ will fail to read eagerly -to the end.”—_New York Evening Mail_ - -“As a prose poem of great beauty, those parts that sing the beauty of -Cosdon will delight the reader.”—_Chicago Evening Post_ - -“A problem worked out in a way that must fascinate any thoughtful -reader.”—_Chicago Record Herald_ - -“There is a flavor of a whole portion of humanity in Mr. Phillpotts’ men -of the soil that makes his novels much more than passing fiction. There -is also the aroma, the color, the austerity of the moors that creates -an atmosphere long remembered. Both will be found at their best in ‘The -Beacon.’”—_Boston Herald_ - -JOHN LANE CO., NEW YORK - - - - -MANALIVE - -BY - -Gilbert K. Chesterton - -Author of “The Innocence of Father Brown,” “Heretics,” “Orthodoxy,” etc. - - _Cloth_ _12mo_ _$1.30 net_ _Postage 12 cents_ - -Frontispiece and Jacket Illustration by Will Foster - - -“Mr. Chesterton has undertaken in this quaint narrative to make burlesque -the vehicle of a sermon and a philosophy. It is all a part of the -author’s war upon artificial attitudes which enclose the living men like -a shell and make for human purposes a dead man of him. He speaks here in -a parable—a parable of his own kind, having about it a broad waggishness -like that of Mr. Punch and a distinct flavor of that sort of low comedy -which one finds in Dickens and Shakespeare. You are likely to find, -before you are done with the parable, that there has been forced upon -your attention a possible view of the life worth living. ‘Manalive’ is a -‘Peterpantheistic’ novel full of Chestertonisms.”—_New York Times_ - -“One of the oddest books Mr. Chesterton has yet given us.”—_New York -Evening Globe_ - -“The fun of the book (and there is plenty of it) comes quite as much -from the extraordinary and improbable characters as from the situations. -Epigrams, witticisms, odd fancies, queer conceits, singular whimsies, -follow after one another in quick succession.”—_Brooklyn Eagle_ - -“One of the most humorous tales of modern fiction, combined with a very -tender and appealing love story.”—_Cleveland Plain Dealer_ - -“The book is certain to have a wide circulation, not only because of -the name of the author attached to it, but because of its own intrinsic -worth.”—_Buffalo Commercial_ - -“There can be no doubt as to the iridescent brilliance of the book. -Page after page—full of caustic satire, humorous sally and profound -epigram—fairly bristles with merriment. The book is a compact mass of -scintillating wit.”—_Philadelphia Public Ledger_ - -JOHN LANE CO., NEW YORK - - - - -THE INNOCENCE OF FATHER BROWN - -BY - -Gilbert K. Chesterton - -Author of “Manalive,” “Orthodoxy,” “Heretics,” etc. - - _Cloth_ _12mo_ _$1.30 net_ _Postage 12 cents_ - -Illustrations by Will Foster - - -“Mr. Chesterton writes extremely good detective stories—detective stories -the more fascinating because if there is about them a hint of irony, -there is also more than a hint of poetry and a shadow—or, if you will, a -glow—of the mystic and the supernatural.”—_New York Times_ - -“The stories are entertaining; the mysteries and their solutions are -ingenius and interesting.”—_New York Sun_ - -“The stories are vastly entertaining, and excellent specimens of literary -craftsmanship at the same time.”—_The Outlook_ - -“Never were philosophy, ethics and religion preached in a more unusual -manner.”—_Chicago Tribune_ - -“In their own Chestertonic realm, the stories are personal and -convincing; full, too, of the charm of landscape. The author arranges -his scenes and marshals his characters with an artistic eye worthy of a -Poe.”—_Chicago Evening Post_ - -“The stories have a charming variety, and interest in them is awakened -more insidiously than in the average story dealing with the detection of -crime.”—_Chicago Record Herald_ - -“Throughout these meteoric adventures there is, of course, besides Father -Brown a lot of Mr. Chesterton himself, scintillating along the way, to -the fascination and bedazzlement of the reader.”—_Washington Evening Star_ - -“The stories are of the dashing and brilliant kind that Stevenson -invented—exciting tales told in an artistic manner.”—_Albany Argus_ - -JOHN LANE CO., NEW YORK - - - - -THE GLORY OF CLEMENTINA - -BY - -William J. Locke - -Author of “The Belovèd Vagabond,” “Simon the Jester,” etc. - - _Cloth_ _12mo_ _$1.30 net_ _Postage 12 cents_ - -Illustrations by Arthur I. Keller - - -“Mr. Locke has succeeded in uniting with the firm carefulness of his -early work the rapid, fluent, vibrating style that makes his later -books so delightful; therefore it is easy to make the deduction that -‘Clementina’ is the best piece of work he has done.”—_New York Evening -Sun_ - -“Among the novels of the past five years no books have more consistently -produced an effect at once certain, satisfactory and delightful than -those of William J. Locke. This latest addition to his shelf is full of -life and laughter and the love not only of man for woman but of man for -man and for humanity. Mr. Locke is a born story-teller and a master of -the art of expression.”—_The Outlook_ - -“The book contains a mass of good material, with original -characterization, and is written in a style piquant and clever.”—_The -Literary Digest_ - -“A story containing the essence of humanity, with an abundance of -sensible and sensitive, casual and unobtrusive commentary upon life and -man, and especially upon woman.”—_Boston Evening Transcript_ - -“It contains even more of the popular qualities than are usually -associated with the writings of this noted author.”—_Boston Times_ - -“Mr. Locke’s flights into the realms of fancy have been a delight to -many readers. He has a lightness of touch that is entirely captivating, -and his remarkable characterization of inconsequent people gives them a -reality that is very insistent.”—_Baltimore Evening Sun_ - -“Never has he drawn so deeply from that well that is the human heart; -never so near those invisible heights which are the soul; and, if we are -not altogether mistaken, ‘The Glory of Clementina’ will also prove to be -that of its author.”—_Baltimore News_ - -“A fascinating story with delicate, whimsical touches.”—_Albany -Times-Union_ - -“The book seems destined to live longer than any written by the author -to date, because it is so sane and so fundamentally true.”—_Philadelphia -Enquirer_ - -JOHN LANE CO., NEW YORK - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELSIE LINDTNER *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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