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THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL 45
vulgar platitudes, abusing and insulting women in high-
flown verses, mixed with anatomical terms. Intoxicated
with the coarse suggestions, the vulgar profanation, I
surpassed myself in heaping insults on the head of my
Madonna. It was the morbid result of my unsatisfied
longing. My hatred for the treacherous idol broke out
with such virulence that it afforded me a sort of bitter
comfort. My messmates, poor devils, acquainted with
love in its lowest aspect only, listened eagerly to my vile
denunciations of a lady of rank, who was utterly beyond
their reach.
The drunkenness increased. The sound of men’s voices
delighted my ears after I had passed three months amid
sentimental whining, mock modesty and hypocritical inno-
cence. I felt as if I had torn off the mask, thrown back
the veil under which Tartuffe concealed his cupidity. In
imagination I saAv the adored woman indulging every
whim and caprice, merely to escape the boredom of a dull
existence. All my insults, my infamous invectives and
abuse I addressed to her, furious with the power in me
which successfully strove against my committing a crime.
At this moment the laboratory appeared to me to be
a hallucination of my over-excited brain, the temple of
monstrous orgies in which all the senses pai’ticipated.
The bottles on the shelves gleamed in all the colours of
the rainbow : the deep purple of red lead ; the orange
of potash, the yellow of sulphur, the green of verdigris,
the blue of vitriol. The atmosphere was thick with
tobacco smoke ; the smell of the lemons, used in brewing
the punch, called up visions of happier countries. The
piano, intentionally out of tune and badly treated, groaned
Beethoven’s march in a manner which made it unrecognis-
able. The pallid faces of the revellers see-sawed in the
blue-black smoke which rose from the pipes. The lieu-
tenant’s sash, the black beard of the doctor of philosophy,
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