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Concluding Remarks of the Author
This is a terrible book, I fully admit it, and I regret
that I ever wrote it.
How did I come to write it?
I had to wash my corpse before it was laid in its coffin.
Four years ago, if I remember rightly, a friend of
mine, a writer, a declared enemy of the indiscretions—of
others—said to me one day when talking about my
first marriage—
“Do you know, it would make excellent copy for the
sort of novel which I should like to write.”
Certain of my friend’s applause, I decided there and
then to write it myself.
“Don’t be angry with me, dear old fellow, that I, as
the original owner, make use of my property.”
I also remember, it is twelve years ago now, a remark
my future mother-in-law made to me one evening when I
was watching her daughter carrying on a flirtation with
a group of young men—
“Wouldn’t she make a splendid heroine for a novel?”
“With what title?”
“A passionate woman!”
Happy mother, who died in the nick of time, I have
carried out your suggestion. The novel has been written.
I can die in peace.
MS. 1888.
The other day I met again the hero of this novel. I
upbraided him for having induced me to publish the story
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Project Runeberg, Sat Dec 9 18:47:39 2023
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