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unworthy, unpardonable letter. I give her to
understand that I am involved in a new love-affair.
The blow goes home. My wife answers with
a demand for separation.
Solitary, guilty of suicide and assassination,
I forget my crime under the weight of sorrow
and care. No one visits me, and I can see no
one, since I have alienated all. I drift alone
over the surface of the sea; I have hoisted my
anchor, but have no sail.
Necessity, however, in the shape of an unpaid
bill, interrupts my scientific tasks and
metaphysical speculations, and calls me back to
earth.
Christmas approaches. I have abruptly refused
the invitation of a Scandinavian family,
the atmosphere of which makes me uncomfortable
because of their moral irregularities. But,
when evening comes and I am alone, I repent,
and go there all the same.
They sit down to table, and the evening meal
begins with a great deal of noise and outbursts
of hilarity, for the young artists who are
present feel themselves at home here. A certain
familiarity of gestures and attitudes, a tone
which is anything but domestic, repels and
depresses me indescribably. In the middle of the
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