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reputation. I will write an essay on his merits as an
author; you draw a flattering portrait, and we
will send both to the Revue Blanche.”
In the Dane’s studio (the dog guards it no
more) we stand and contemplate a picture of
Popoffsky painted two years ago. It represents
only his head, with a cloud below it. Underneath
are a pair of cross-bones like one sees on
tombstones. The decapitated head makes us
shudder, and the dream of May 14th steals into
my memory like a ghost. “How did you come
to think,” I asked, “of representing him with
a head only?”
“That is hard to say; but there seemed to be
a fate brooding over this fine mind, with marks
of genius, which dreamed of fame without being
willing to pay the price for it. Life lets us
choose one of two things—the laurel or luxury.”
“You have at last discovered that!”
June 23rd.—During these last days since the
news of the Russian’s arrest, a fresh disquiet
seizes me. It appears to me as though someone
somewhere were meddling with my destiny,
and I tell the Danish painter my suspicion that
the hate of the imprisoned Russian makes me
suffer like the electric fluid from a dynamo.
There are moments in which I foresee that
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