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EPILOGUE
Seated at my writing-table, pen in hand, I fainted; a
feverish attack prostrated me. This very inopportune
attack frightened me, for I had not been seriously ill for
fifteen years. It was not fear of death, oh no. Death
held no terrors for me; but I was thirty-nine years old
and at the end of a turbulent career, my last word still
unsaid, the promises of my youth only partly fulfilled,
pregnant with plans for the future. This sudden cutting
of the knot was far from pleasing me. For the last four
years I had lived with my family in half-voluntary exile;
I was at the end of my resources, and had settled down in
a small town in Bavaria; I had come into conflict with
the law, for one of my books had been confiscated, and
I had been banished from my own country. I had but
one desire left when I was thrown on my sick-bed—the
desire for revenge.
A struggle arose within me; I had not sufficient
strength left in me to call for help. The fever shook me
as one shakes a feather bed; it seized me by the throat
and throttled me; it put its foot on my breast and
scorched my brain, so that my eyes started from their
sockets. I was alone with Death, who had crept in by
stealth and was attacking me.
But I was unwilling to die; I resisted, and an obstinate
fight began. The tension of my nerves relaxed, the blood
coursed through my veins. My brain twitched like a
polypus that has been thrown into vinegar. But before
long I realised that I must succumb in this dance of
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