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her good-looking, while others were ugly who
might not deserve this qualification. As a rule
she admired fair people, seldom dark ones.
I cannot help mentioning here that she lacked
all sense of art in a remarkable degree, quite
astonishing in a person of her extraordinary
cleverness. She had spent years in Paris without
once visiting the Louvre; neither pictures,
sculptures, nor architecture, ever attracted her
attention.
However, she was highly charmed with
Norwegian scenery, and liked the people as well.
We had planned a long journey in Norway, and
a visit to the poet Alexander Kielland; but
though she had been looking forward to this for
years, she changed her mind all of a sudden.
The creative spirit had come over her, and she
could not resist its powerful voice. We were
just crossing one of the Norwegian lakes, when
the idea seized her that she must set to work
immediately; so she took leave of me, and went
on board another steamer, which took her to
Christiania, and from there to Sweden.
I could neither object nor blame her; still it
was a great disappointment to me. I continued
the journey with a chance companion, visited
Kielland, returned eastward, and attended a
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