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THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL 73
stones, and feels every change of the sinking barometer,
I wandered about, trying to find a soul stronger than mine,
take hold of a firm hand, feel the warmth of a human
presence, look into a friendly eye. Like a squirrel in its
cage, I ran round the upper deck, picturing to myself the
ten days of suffering which awaited me. I remembered
that I had only been on board for an hour ! A long hour,
more like a day of agony . . . and not a glimmer of
hope at the end of this accursed journey ! I tried to
reason with myself, and all the time rebelled against
reason.
Who compelled me to go ? Who had a right to blame
me if I returned ? . . . Nobody ! And yet ! . . . Shame,
the fear of making myself a laughing-stock, honour ! No !
No ! I must abandon all hope. Moreover, the boat would
not call anyAvhere on her way to Havre. Forward then,
and courage !
But courage depends on strength of body and mind,
and at the moment I lacked both. Haunted by my
dreary thoughts, I turned towards the lower deck, for by
now I knew the upper deck down to its smallest details,
and the sight of its rails, rigging and tackling bored me
like a book read until one knows it by heart. On my way
I almost tumbled over a person seeking shelter from the
wind behind the cabin. It was an old lady, dressed in
black, with grey hair and a careworn face.
She gazed at me attentively, with sympathetic eyes. I
walked up to her and spoke to her. She answered me in
French, and we soon became acquainted.
After the exchange of a few commonplaces, we confided
to each other the purpose of our journey. She was not
travelling for pleasure. The widow of a timber-merchant,
she had been staying with a relative in Stockholm, and
was now on her way to visit her insane son, confined in a
lunatic asylum at Havre,
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