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THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL 155
managers in b3’2,one days, appeared from drawers, wliere
they had long- lain forgotten. I was credited with the
wondrous capacity to effect their acceptance, and burdened
witli futile commissions which interfered with my work and
caused me no end of trouble. I had to fall buck on my
small savings because I wasted my time and used up my
nervous energy ; I could only afford one meal a day, and
reverted to my old habit of going to bed without supper.
Encouraged by her few little successes, Marie under-
took to write a play in five acts. I seemed to have sown
into her soul all the sterile seed of my poetic inspirations.
In this virgin soil it germinated and grew, while I
remained unproductive, like a flower which shakes out its
seed and withers. My soul was lacerated, sick to death.
The influence of that little female brain, so different
from the brain of a man, disturbed and disordered the
mechanism of my thoughts. I was at a loss to understand
why I thought so highly of her literary gifts, why I kept
on urging her to write, for with the exception of her
letters to me, which were mostly personal and frequently
c^uite commonplace, I had no proof that she could write
at all. She had become my living poem ; she had taken
the place of my vanished talent. Her personality was
grafted on mine and was dominating it. I existed only
through her ; I, the mother-root, led an underground life,
nourishing this tree which was growing sunwards and
promising wonderful blossoms. I delighted in its marvel-
lous beauty, never dreaming that the day would come
when the offshoot would separate from the exhausted
trunk, to bloom and dazzle independently, proud of the
borrowed splendour.
The first act of her play was finished. I read it.
Under the spell of my hallucination I found it perfect ; I
loudly expressed my sincere admiration and heartily con-
gratulated the author. She Avas herself astonished at her
talent, and I prophesied for her a brilliant future. Rut
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