Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - V. Purgatory
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Mr. X., but he gives me in all simplicity to
understand that he is an Alsatian—nothing
more. One fine morning I return from my work
and see in the letter-rack quite close to my
keys a post card. For a moment I feel tempted
to solve the riddle by looking at the post
card, but my good angel paralysed my hand,
just as the young man came out of his hiding-place
behind the door. I look him in the face
and am startled; he is exactly like my wife.
We greet each other silently, and each goes
his way.
I have never been able to unravel this conspiracy,
since I did not know the actors in this
drama. Moreover, my wife has neither brothers
nor cousins. This undefined threatening spectre
of a continuous vengeance tortured me for half
a year. I bore it like everything else as a
punishment for known and unknown sins.
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