The Story of San Michele by Axel Munthe, from Project Gutenberg Canada (2025)


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Title: The Story of San Michele
Author: Munthe, Axel Martin Fredrik (1857-1949)
Date of first publication: 1929
Date of first publication ["special preface"]: [1932]
Edition used as base for this ebook:New York: E. P. Dutton, November 1945[114th printing, using plates from the October 1932"entirely reset and electrotyped" 93rd printing]
Date first posted: 5 May 2017
Date last updated: 5 May 2017
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1431

This ebook was produced by Al Haines& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Teamat http://www.pgdpcanada.net

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As part of the conversion of the book to its new digitalformat, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.

BY

AXEL MUNTHE

AUTHOR OF "MEMORIES AND VAGARIES," ETC.

WITH

A SPECIAL PREFACE BY THE AUTHOR
FOR THE AMERICAN EDITION

The Story of San Michele by Axel Munthe,from Project Gutenberg Canada (1)

NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & CO., INC.

TO MY OLD FRIEND
Sir Esme Howard

A SPECIAL PREFACE FOR THE
AMERICAN EDITION

Reviewers of this book seem to have foundconsiderable difficulty in attempting to classifythe Story of San Michele, and I do not wonder.Some have described the book as an Autobiography,others have called it "The Memoirs ofa Doctor." As far as I can understand, it isneither the one nor the other. Surely it could nothave taken me five hundred pages to write downthe story of my life, even had I not left out itssaddest and most eventful chapters. All I can sayis that I never meant to write a book about myself;it was, on the contrary, my constant preoccupationthe whole time to try to shake off thisvague personality. If anyhow this book has turnedout to be an Autobiography, I begin to believethat, judging from the sale of it, the simplest wayto write a book about oneself consists in trying ashard as one can to think of somebody else. All aman has to do is to sit still in a chair by himself,and look back upon his life with his blind eye. Betterstill would be to lie down in the grass and notto think at all, only to listen. Soon the distant roarof the world dies away, and the forests and fieldsbegin to sing with clear bird voices, friendly animalscome up to tell him their joys and sorrows in soundsand words that he can understand, and when all issilent even the lifeless things around him begin towhisper in their sleep.

To call this book "The Memoirs of a Doctor,"as some reviewers have done, seems to me evenless appropriate. Its boisterous simplicity, its unblushingfrankness, its very lucidity fit ill withsuch a pompous sub-title. Surely a medical man,like every other human being, has the right tolaugh at himself now and then to keep up hisspirits, maybe even to laugh at his colleagues ifhe is willing to stand the risk. But he has no rightto laugh at his patients. To shed tears with themis even worse, a whimpering doctor is a bad doctor.An old physician should, besides, think twicebefore sitting down in his arm-chair to write hismemoirs. Better keep to himself what he has seenof Life and Death. Better write no memoirs atall, and leave the dead in peace and the living totheir illusions.

Somebody has called the Story of San Michelea story of Death. Maybe it is so, for Death isseldom out of my thoughts, "Non nasce in mepensier che non vi sia dentro scolpita la Morte"wrote Michel Angelo to Vasari. I have beenwrestling so long with my grim colleague; alwaysdefeated, I have seen him slay one by one allthose I have tried to save. I have had a fewof them in mind in this book as I saw them live,as I saw them suffer, as I saw them lie down todie. It was all that I could do for them. Theywere all humble people, no marble crosses standon their graves, many of them were already forgottenlong before they died. They are all rightnow. Old Maria Porta Lettere who climbed the777 Phoenician steps for thirty years on her nakedfeet with my letters, is now carrying the post inHeaven, where dear old Pacciale sits smoking hispipe of peace, still looking out over the infinitesea as he used to do from the pergola of SanMichele, and where my friend Archangelo Fusco,the street-sweeper in Quartier Montparnasse, isstill sweeping the star-dust from the golden floor.Down the stately peristyle of lapis-lazuli columnsstruts briskly little Monsieur Alphonse, the doyenof the Little Sisters of the Poor, in the Pittsburgmillionaire's brand-new frock-coat, solemnly raisinghis beloved top hat to every saint he meets, ashe used to do to all my friends when he drovedown the Corso in my victoria. John, the blue-eyedlittle boy who never smiled, is now playinglustily with lots of other happy children in theold nursery of the Bambino. He has learnt tosmile at last. The whole room is full of flowers,singing birds are flying in and out through theopen windows, now and then the Madonna looksin to see that the children have all they want.John's mother, who nursed him so tenderly inAvenue des Villiers, is still down here. I saw herthe other day. Poor Flopette, the harlot, looksten years younger than when I saw her in thenight-café on the boulevard; very tidy and neat inher white dress, she is now second housemaid toMary Magdalen.

In a humble corner of the Elysian Fields is thecemetery of the dogs. All my dead friends arethere, their bodies are still where I laid them downunder the cypresses by the old Tower, but theirfaithful hearts have been taken up here. KindSt. Rocco, the little patron-saint of all dogs, isthe custodian of the cemetery, and good old MissHall is a frequent visitor there. Even the rascalBilly, the drunkard Baboon, who set fire to IlCanonico Don Giacinto's coffin, has been admittedon trial to the last row of graves in the monkeycemetery some way off, after a close scrutiny fromSt. Peter, who noticed he smelled of whisky andmistook him at first for a human being. DonGiacinto himself, the richest priest in Capri, whohad never given a penny to the poor, is still roastingin his coffin, and the ex-butcher of Anacapri,who blinded the quails with a red-hot needle, hashad his own eyes stung out by the Devil in personin a fit of professional jealousy.

One reviewer has discovered that "there isenough material in the Story of San Michele tofurnish writers of short sensational stories withplots for the rest of their lives." They are quitewelcome to this material for what it is worth.I have no further use for it. Having concentratedmy literary efforts during a lifetime onwriting prescriptions, I am not likely to try myhand on short sensational stories so late in theday. Would that I had thought of it before, orI should not be where I am today! Surely itmust be a more comfortable job to sit in anarm-chair and write short sensational stories thanto toil through life to collect the material forthem, to describe diseases and Death than tofight them, to concoct sinister plots than to beknocked down by them without warning! Butwhy do not these professionals collect theirmaterial themselves? They seldom do. Novelwriters, who insist on taking their readers to theslums, seldom go there themselves. Specialistson disease and Death can seldom be persuadedto come with you to the hospital where they havejust finished off their heroine. Poets and philosophers,who in sonorous verse and prose hail Deathas the Deliverer, often grow pale at the verymention of the name of their best friend. It isan old story. Leopardi, the greatest poet ofmodern Italy, who longed for Death in exquisiterhymes ever since he was a boy, was the first tofly in abject terror from cholera-stricken Naples.Even the great Montaigne, whose calm meditationson Death are enough to make him immortal,bolted like a rabbit when the peste broke out inBordeaux. Sulky old Schopenhauer, the greatestphilosopher of modern times, who had made thenegation of life the very keystone of his teaching,used to cut short all conversation about Death.The bloodiest war novels were written, I believe,by peaceful citizens well out of the range of thelong-distance German guns. Authors who delightin making their readers assist at scenes of sexualorgies are generally very indifferent actors in suchscenes. Personally I only know of one exceptionto this rule, Guy de Maupassant, and I saw himdie of it.

I am aware that some of the scenes in this bookare laid on the ill-defined borderland between thereal and the unreal, the dangerous No Man'sLand between fact and fancy where so manywriters of memoirs have come to grief and whereGoethe himself was apt to lose his bearings in his"Dichtung und Wahrheit." I have tried mybest by means of a few well-known technical tricksto make at least some of these episodes pass offas "short sensational stories." After all, it is onlya question of form. It will be a great relief tome if I have succeeded, I do not ask for betterthan not to be believed. It is bad enough and sadenough anyhow. God knows I have a good dealto answer for as it is. I shall also take it as acompliment, for the greatest writer of short sensationalstories I know is Life. But is Life alwaystrue?

Life is the same as it always was, unruffledby events, indifferent to the joys and sorrowsof man, mute and incomprehensible as the sphinx.But the stage on which the everlasting tragedyis enacted changes constantly to avoid monotony.The world we lived in yesterday is not the sameworld as we live in to-day, inexorably it moveson through the infinite towards its doom, and sodo we. No man bathes twice in the same river, saidHeraclitus. Some of us crawl on our knees, someride on horseback or in motor-cars, others fly pastthe carrier-pigeon in aeroplanes. There is no needfor hurry, we are all sure to reach the journey'send.

No, the world I lived in when I was young isnot the same world that I live in to-day, at leastit does not seem so to me. Nor do I think it willseem so to those who read this book of ramblesin search of adventure in the past. There are nomore brigands with a record of eight homicides tooffer you to sleep on their mattresses in tumble-downMessina. No more granite sphinxes arecrouching under the ruins of Nero's villa inCalabria. The maddened rats in the cholera slumsof Naples, who frightened me to death, have longago retreated in safety to their Roman sewers.You can drive up to Anacapri in a motor-car, andto the top of the Jungfrau in a train, and climbthe Matterhorn with rope-ladders. Up in Laplandno pack of hungry wolves, their eyes blazingin the dark like burning coals, is likely to gallopbehind your sledge across the frozen lake. Thegallant old bear, who barred my way in the lonelySuvla gorge, has long ago departed to the HappyHunting Fields. The foaming torrent I swamacross with Ristin, the Lap-girl, is spanned by arailway-bridge. The last stronghold of the terribleStalo, the Troll, has been pierced by a tunnel. TheLittle People I heard patter about under the floorof the Lap tent, no more bring food to the sleepingbears in their winter quarters, that is why there areso few bears in Sweden to-day. You are welcometo laugh incredulously at these busy Little Peopleas much as you like, at your own risk and peril.But I refuse to believe that any reader of this bookwill have the effrontery to deny that it was a realgoblin I saw sitting on the table in Forsstugan andpull cautiously at my Watch-chain. Of course itwas a real goblin. Who could it otherwise havebeen? I tell you I saw him distinctly with bothmy eyes when I sat up in my bed just as the tallowcandle was flickering out. I am told to my surprisethat there are people who have never seen a goblin.One cannot help feeling sorry for such people. Iam sure there must be something wrong with theireyesight. Old uncle Lars Anders in Forsstugan,six feet six in his sheepskin-coat and wooden shoes,is dead long ago, and so is dear old Mother Kerstin,his wife. But the little goblin I saw sittingcross-legged on the table in the attic over the cow-stallis alive. It is only we who die.

Axel Munthe.

St. James's Club,
July, 1930.

PREFACE

I had rushed over to London from France tosee about my naturalization, it looked as ifmy country was going to be dragged into the warby the side of Germany. Henry James was to beone of my sponsors, he had just been naturalizedhimself, "Civis Britannicus sum," he said in hisdeep voice. He knew that I had tried to do mybit and that I had failed because I had become toohelpless myself to be of any help to others. Heknew the fate that awaited me. He laid his handon my shoulder and asked me what I was going todo with myself? I told him I was about to leaveFrance for good to hide like a deserter in my oldtower. It was the only place I was fit for. As hewished me good-bye he reminded me how years agowhen he was staying with me at San Michele hehad encouraged me to write a book about my islandhome, which he had called the most beautiful placein the world. Why not write the Story of SanMichele now if it came to the worst and my couragebegan to flag? Who could write about SanMichele better than I who had built it with my ownhands? Who could describe better than I all thesepriceless fragments of marbles strewn over the gardenwhere the villa of Tiberius once stood? Andthe sombre old Emperor himself whose weary foothad trod the very mosaic floor I had brought tolight under the vines, what a fascinating study fora man like me who was so interested in psychology!There was nothing like writing a book for a manwho wanted to get away from his own misery,nothing like writing a book for a man who couldnot sleep.

These were his last words, I never saw my friendagain.

I returned to my useless solitude in the oldtower, humiliated and despondent. While everybodyelse was offering his life to his country, Ispent my days wandering up and down in the darktower, restless like a caged animal, while the never-endingtidings of suffering and woe were read tome. Now and then of an evening when the relentlesslight of the day had ceased to torture my eyes,I used to wander up to San Michele in search ofnews. The flag of the British Red Cross was flyingover San Michele where brave and disabled menwere nursed back to health by the same sun thathad driven me away from my beloved home. Alasfor the news! How long was the waiting for thosewho could do nothing but wait!

But how many of us dare to confess what somany have felt, that the burden of their own griefseemed easier to bear while all men and womenaround us were in mourning, that the wound intheir own flanks seemed almost to heal while theblood was flowing from so many other wounds?Who dared to grumble over his own fate while thefate of the world was at stake? Who dared towhimper over his own pain while all these mutilatedmen were lying on their stretchers silent with setteeth?

At last the storm abated. All was silent as beforein the old tower, I was alone with my fear.

Man was built to carry his own cross, that is whyhe was given his strong shoulders. A man canstand a lot as long as he can stand himself. He canlive without hope, without friends, without books,even without music, as long as he can listen to hisown thoughts and to the singing of a bird outsidehis window and to the far-away voice of the sea.I was told at St. Dunstan's that he can even livewithout light, but those who told me so were heroes.But a man cannot live without sleep. When Iceased to sleep I began to write this book, all milderremedies having failed. It has been a great successso far as I am concerned. Over and over again Ihave blessed Henry James for his advice. I havebeen sleeping much better of late. It has evenbeen a pleasure to me to write this book, I nolonger wonder why so many people are taking towriting books in our days. Unfortunately I havebeen writing the Story of San Michele under peculiardifficulties. I was interrupted at the very beginningby an unexpected visitor who sat downopposite to me at the writing table and began totalk about himself and his own affairs in the mosterratic manner, as if all this nonsense could interestanybody but himself. There was something veryirritating and un-English in the way he kept onrelating his various adventures where he alwaysseemed to turn out to have been the hero—too muchEgo in your Cosmos, young man, thought I. Heseemed to think he knew everything, antique art,architecture, psychology, Death and Hereafter.Medicine seemed to be his special hobby, he said hewas a nerve specialist and boasted of being a pupilof Charcot's as they all do. God help his patients,I said to myself. As he mentioned the name of themaster of the Salpêtrière I fancied for a momentthat I had seen him before, long, long ago, but Isoon dismissed the thought as absurd, for he lookedso young and boisterous, and I felt so old andweary. His unceasing swagger, his very youthbegan to get on my nerves, and to make mattersworse it soon dawned upon me that this younggentleman was making mild fun of me the wholetime, as young people are apt to do with old people.He even tried to make me believe that it was he andnot I who had built San Michele! He said heloved the place and was going to live there for ever.At last I told him to leave me alone and let me goon with my Story of San Michele and my descriptionof my precious marble fragments from thevilla of Tiberius.

"Poor old man," said the young fellow withhis patronizing smile, "you are talking throughyour hat! I fear you cannot even read your ownhandwriting! It is not about San Michele andyour precious marble fragments from the villa ofTiberius you have been writing the whole time, it isonly some fragments of clay from your own brokenlife that you have brought to light."

Torre di Materita.
1928.

CONTENTS

Special Preface for the American Edition

Preface

I Youth

Giola—The Phoenician Steps—Maria Porta-Lettere—LaBella Margherita—Don Dionisio's Wine—InMastro Vincenzo's Garden—The Man in the RedMantle—The Bargain.

II Quartier Latin

Hôtel de l'Avenir—The Implacable Foe—The EternalSleeping-Draught—Salle St. Claire—Work,Work, Work!

III Avenue de Villiers

Colitis—The Countess—Faubourg St. Germain—Loulou—TheSalvatore Family

IV A Fashionable Doctor

Monsieur l'Abbé—Luck—Asile St. Anne—MénageriePezon—Jack

V Patients

Dogs—Hydrophobia—Pasteur—The Moujiks—TheNorwegian Painter—An Error of Diagnosis—Vivisection—TheMonkey Doctor

VI Château Rameaux

Diphtheria—Walking Home—Holidays—The BearStory—The Skylark—Vicomte Maurice—In theSmoking-room—The Village Doctor—Spratt's Biscuits—Romeoand Juliet—Le Vieux Marcheur—Backto Paris—The Ghost—The Pole Star

VII Lapland

Old Turi—The Little People—Lapland Dogs—TheHealer—Ristin—The Birch-root Box—The Old Bear—TwoStately Travellers—Fog—Uncle Lars andMother Kerstin—Those People they Call Thieves—Inthe Cow-stable—The Tallow Candle and the Goblin—NurseryRecollections—Six Hundred Years Old—TheGold Box—Night Visitors—'The Times'

VIII Naples

Afraid—The Street Scavengers—Farmacia di SanGennaro—Doctor Villari—Osteria dell'Allegria—IlConvento delle Sepolte Vive—The Patron Saint ofthe Eyes—Suora Ursula—The Abbess—Death'sLove Philtre

IX Back to Paris

My Friend Norstrom—On Women—More onWomen—Mademoiselle Flopette

X The Corpse-Conductor

In Heidelberg—Off for a Holiday in Sweden—TheRussian General—A Pleasant Journey—BetweenColleagues—Visiting My Brother—My First Embalmment—TheLast Time I Ever Went to a Funeral

XI Madame Réquin

The Diamond Brooch

XII The Giant

A Wedding Party—Au Violon—Two Collectors ofWatches

XIII Mamsell Agata

The Tyrant at Home—The Swedish Chaplain—ColonelStaaff—The Hero of Gravelotte

XIV Vicomte Maurice

Loulou Again—Talking with M. l'Abbé—Moonlightin Monte Carlo—Bois de St. Cloud—Always Luck—TheOld Hat

XV John

Madame Réquin Again—The Blue-eyed Boy—Joséphine—DismissingMamsell Agata—The Mascot—Consultationin London—The Beautiful Lady—John'sNurse—The Owner of the Diamond Brooch

XVI A Journey to Sweden

The Night Express to Cologne—Hamlet in Lund

XVII Doctors

On Writing Bills—Reforming Society—Fees—SomeFamous Doctors—Rest Cure in Switzerland—Spallanzani'sExperiment—Back in Paris

XVIII La Salpêtrière

Guy de Maupassant—In the Coulisses of theOpera—St. Lazare and Maison Blanche—Charcot'sTuesday Lectures—Geneviève—Post-hypnoticSuggestion—Failure

XIX Hypnotism

Hypnotic Suggestion—Dangers of Hypnotism

XX Insomnia

Massage—Going to Pieces—The Doppelgänger

XXI The Miracle of Sant'Antonio

The Architect of San Michele—The Overseer—TheTelegram—Good Friday—The Swedish Minister

XXII Piazza di Spagna

In Keats' House—Some of My Colleagues—Billyand his Master

XXIII More Doctors

Mrs. Jonathan—Signor Cornacchia's Dilemma—ThePerambulator—Another Fashionable Doctor—Deathand Thereafter—The Nursing Home byPorta Pia—A Dangerous Rival

XXIV Grand Hôtel

The New Serum—The Cheque for £1,000—TheProtestant Cemetery—The Pittsburgh Millionaire—Mrs.Charles Washington Perkins, Jr.

XXV The Little Sisters of the Poor

Monsieur Alphonse—La Mère Générale—TheGargoyle of Notre Dame

XXVI Miss Hall

Giovannina and Rosina—In Villa Borghese—FromMiss Hall's Diary—On Decorations—Messina—MyKind Host—The Mafia—Magna Graecia—Demeter—Mrs.Charles Washington Perkins,Jr., Again—Fraülein Frida and Aunt Sally—TheOwl of Minerva—The Finest View in Rome

XXVII Summer

Home Again—Inspecting San Michele—TheBanquet—The Dream—The Great Adventure—WhileI Was Away—Billy—Don Giacinto Lyingin State—The Secular Enemy—A FuturistPainter—Il Demonio

XXVIII The Bird Sanctuary

The Protestants—The Devil's Discovery—TheNets—The Wings of the Angels

XXIX The Bambino

The Nursery in San Michele—That Night onGolgotha

XXX The Festa Di Sant'Antonio

Evviva il Santo! Evviva la Musica!—The Procession—Receptionin San Michele—Serenatad'Addio

XXXI The Regatta

The Blue Grotto—Tiberius—Damecuta—LordDufferin's Relation—The "Lady Victoria"—TheSailroom—The First of May—Old Pacciale

XXXII The Beginning of the End

Schubert—Spring

In the Old Tower

The Last Stand—The Golden Light—Il Cantodel Sole—Wolf—The Eternal Sleeping Draught—Thanatos—Onwards!Upwards!—The AgedArchangel—The War—Il Poverello—Botticelli'sMadonna—Arcangelo Fusco's Sunday Clothes—TheHall of Osiris—Habakkuk—The Bells ofAssisi

I
YOUTH

I sprang from the Sorrento sailing-boat onto the little beach. Swarms of boys wereplaying about among the upturned boats or bathingtheir shining bronze bodies in the surf, andold fishermen in red Phrygian caps sat mendingtheir nets outside their boat-houses. Opposite thelanding-place stood half-a-dozen donkeys with saddleson their backs and bunches of flowers in theirbridles, and around them chattered and sang asmany girls with the silver spadella stuck throughtheir black tresses and a red handkerchief tied acrosstheir shoulders. The little donkey who was to takeme up to Capri was called Rosina, and the name ofthe girl was Gioia. Her black, lustrous eyes sparkledwith fiery youth, her lips were red like thestring of corals round her neck, her strong whiteteeth glistened like a row of pearls in her merrylaughter. She said she was fifteen and I said thatI was younger than I had ever been. But Rosinawas old, "è antica," said Gioia. So I slipped offthe saddle and climbed leisurely up the windingpath to the village. In front of me danced Gioiaon naked feet, a wreath of flowers round her head,like a young Bacchante, and behind me staggeredold Rosina in her dainty black shoes, with bent headand drooping ears, deep in thought. I had no timeto think, my head was full of rapturous wonder, myheart full of the joy of life, the world was beautifuland I was eighteen. We wound our way throughbushes of ginestra and myrtle in full bloom, andhere and there among the sweet-scented grass manysmall flowers I had never seen before in the land ofLinnaeus, lifted their graceful heads to look at usas we passed.

"What is the name of this flower?" said I toGioia. She took the flower from my hand, lookedat it lovingly and said: "Fiore!"

"And what is the name of this one?" Shelooked at it with the same tender attention andsaid "fiore!"

"And how do you call this one?"

"Fiore! Bello! Bello!"

She picked a bunch of fragrant myrtle, butwould not give it to me. She said the flowers werefor S. Costanzo, the patron saint of Capri who wasall of solid silver and had done so many miracles,S. Costanzo, bello! bello!

A long file of girls with tufa stones on their headsslowly advanced towards us in a stately processionlike the caryatides from the Erechtheum. One ofthe girls gave me a friendly smile and put an orangeinto my hand. She was a sister of Gioia's and evenmore beautiful, thought I. Yes, they were eightsisters and brothers at home, and two were in Paradiso.Their father was away coral-fishing in "Barbaria,"look at the beautiful string of corals he hadjust sent her, "che bella collana! Bella! Bella!"

"And you also are bella, Gioia, bella, bella!"

"Yes," said she.

My foot stumbled against a broken column ofmarble, "Roba di Timberio!" explained Gioia."Timberio cattivo, Timberio mal'occhio, Timberiocamorrista!"[1] and she spat on the marble.

[Footnote 1:] The old emperor who lived the last eleven years of his lifeon the island of Capri and is still very much alive on the lips ofits inhabitants, is always spoken of as Timberio.

"Yes," said I, my memory fresh from Tacitusand Suetonius, "Tiberio cattivo!"

We emerged on the high road and reached thePiazza with a couple of sailors standing by theparapet overlooking the Marina, a few drowsyCapriotes seated in front of Don Antonio's osteria,and half-a-dozen priests on the steps leading to thechurch, gesticulating wildly in animated conversation:"Moneta! Moneta! Molta moneta; Nientemoneta!" Gioia ran up to kiss the hand of DonGiacinto who was her father confessor and un verosanto, though he did not look like one. She wentto confession twice a month, how often did I go toconfession?

Not at all!

Cattivo! Cattivo!

Would she tell Don Giacinto that I had kissedher cheeks under the lemon trees?

Of course not.

We passed through the village and halted atPunta Tragara.

"I am going to climb to the top of that rock,"said I, pointing to the most precipitous of the threeFaraglioni glistening like amethysts at our feet.But Gioia was sure I could not do it. A fishermanwho had tried to climb up there in search of seagulls'eggs had been hurled back into the sea by anevil spirit, who lived there in the shape of a bluelizard, as blue as the Blue Grotto, to keep watchover a golden treasure hidden there by Timberiohimself.

Towering over the friendly little village the sombreoutline of Monte Solaro stood out against theWestern sky with its stern crags and inaccessiblecliffs.

"I want to climb that mountain at once," said I.

But Gioia did not like the idea at all. A steeppath, seven hundred and seventy-seven steps, cut inthe rock by Timberio himself led up the flank of themountain, and half-way up in a dark cave lived aferocious werewolf who had already eaten severalcristiani. On the top of the stairs was Anacapri,but only gente di montagna lived there, all very badpeople; no forestieri ever went there and she herselfhad never been there. Much better climb to theVilla Timberio, or the Arco Naturale or the GrottaMatromania!

"No, I had no time, I must climb that mountainat once."

Back to the Piazza, just as the rusty bells of theold campanile were ringing 12 o'clock to announcethat the macaroni was ready. Wouldn't I at leasthave luncheon first under the big palm-tree of theAlbergo Pagano. Tre piatti, vino a volontà, prezzouna lira. No, I had no time, I had to climb themountain at once. "Addio, Gioia bella, bella!Addio Rosina!" "Addio, addio e presto ritorno!"Alas! for the presto ritorno!

"E un pazzo inglese," were the last words Iheard from Gioia's red lips as, driven by my fate,I sprang up the Phoenician steps to Anacapri.Half-way up I overtook an old woman with a hugebasket full of oranges on her head. "Buon giorno,signorino." She put down her basket and handedme an orange. On the top of the oranges lay abundle of newspapers and letters tied up in a redhandkerchief. It was old Maria Porta-Lettere whocarried the post twice a week to Anacapri, later onmy life-long friend, I saw her die at the age ofninety-five. She fumbled among the letters, selectedthe biggest envelope and begged me to tell her if itwas not for Nannina la Crapara[2] who was eagerlyexpecting la lettera from her husband in America.No, it was not. Perhaps this one? No, it was forSignora Desdemona Vacca.

[Footnote 2:] "The Goat-woman."

"Signora Desdemona Vacca," repeated oldMaria, incredulously. "Perhaps they mean lamoglie dello Scarteluzzo,"[3] she said meditatively.The next letter was for Signor Ulisse Desiderio."I think they mean Capolimone,"[4] said old Maria,"he had a letter just like this a month ago." Thenext letter was for Gentilissima Signorina RosinaMazzarella. This lady seemed more difficult totrace. Was it la Cacciacavallara?[5] or la Zopparella?[6]Or la Capatosta?[7] Or la FemminaAntica?[8] Or Rosinella Pane Asciutto?[9] Orperhaps la Fesseria?[10] suggested another womanwho had just overtaken us with a huge basket offish on her head. Yes, it might be for la Fesseria ifit was not for la moglie di Pane e Cipolla.[11] Butwas there no letter for Peppinella 'n'coppo ucamposanto[12] or for Mariucella Caparossa[13] or for GiovanninaAmmazzacane[14] who were all expecting lalettera from America? No, I was sorry there wasnot. The two newspapers were for Il reverendoparroco Don Antonio di Giuseppe and Il canonicoDon Natale di Tommaso, she knew it well, for theywere the only newspaper-subscribers in the village.The parroco was a very learned man and it was hewho always found out who the letters were for, butto-day he was away in Sorrento on a visit to theArchbishop, and that was why she had asked me toread the envelopes. Old Maria did not know howold she was, but she knew that she had carried thepost since she was fifteen when her mother had togive it up. Of course she could not read. When Ihad told her that I had sailed over that very morningwith the post-boat from Sorrento and had hadnothing to eat since then, she gave me anotherorange which I devoured skin and all, and the otherwoman offered me at once from her basket somefrutta di mare which made me frightfully thirsty.Was there an inn in Anacapri? No, but Annarella,la moglie del sagrestano could supply me withexcellent goat-cheese and a glass of excellent winefrom the vineyard of the priest Don Dionisio, heruncle, un vino meraviglioso. Besides there was LaBella Margherita, of course I knew her by nameand that her aunt had married "un lord inglese."No, I did not, but I was most anxious to know LaBella Margherita.

[Footnote 3:] "The wife of the Hunchback."

[Footnote 4:] "Lemonhead."

[Footnote 5:] "The Cheese-woman."

[Footnote 6:] "The lame Woman."

[Footnote 7:] "The Hardhead."

[Footnote 8:] "The Ancient Woman."

[Footnote 9:] "Stale Bread."

[Footnote 10:] Not for ears polite.

[Footnote 11:] "The wife of Bread and Onions."

[Footnote 12:] "Above the Cemetery."

[Footnote 13:] "Carrots."

[Footnote 14:] "Kill-dog."

We reached at last the top of the seven-hundredand seventy-seven steps, and passed through avaulted gate with the huge iron hinges of its formerdraw-bridge still fastened to the rock. Wewere in Anacapri. The whole bay of Naples layat our feet encircled by Ischia, Procida, the pine-cladPosilipo, the glittering white line of Naples,Vesuvius with its rosy cloud of smoke, the Sorrentoplain sheltered under Monte Sant'Angeloand further away the Apennine mountains, stillcovered with snow. Just over our heads, rivetedto the steep rock like an eagle's nest, stood a littleruined chapel. Its vaulted roof had fallen in, buthuge blocks of masonry shaped into an unknownpattern of symmetrical network, still supported itscrumbling walls.

"Roba di Timberio," explained old Maria.

"What is the name of the little chapel?" Iasked eagerly.

"San Michele."

"San Michele, San Michele!" echoed in myheart. In the vineyard below the chapel stood anold man digging deep furrows in the soil for thenew vines. "Buon giorno, Mastro Vincenzo!"The vineyard was his and so was the little houseclose by, he had built it all with his own hands,mostly with stones and bricks of the Roba di Timberiothat was strewn all over the garden. MariaPorta-Lettere told him all she knew about me andMastro Vincenzo invited me to sit down in his gardenand have a glass of wine. I looked at the littlehouse and the chapel. My heart began to beat soviolently that I could hardly speak.

"I must climb there at once," said I to MariaPorta-Lettere! But old Maria said I had bettercome with her first to get something to eat or Iwould not find anything and driven by hunger andthirst I reluctantly decided to follow her advice.I waved my hand to Mastro Vincenzo and said Iwould come back soon. We walked through someempty lanes and stopped in a piazzetta. "EccoLa Bella Margherita!"

La Bella Margherita put a flask of rose-colouredwine and a bunch of flowers on the table in hergarden and announced that the "macaroni" wouldbe ready in five minutes. She was fair like Titian'sFlora, the modelling of her face exquisite, her profilepure Greek. She put an enormous plate ofmacaroni before me, and sat herself by my sidewatching me with smiling curiosity. "Vino delparroco," she announced proudly, each time shefilled my glass. I drank the parroco's health, herhealth and that of her dark-eyed sister, la bellaGiulia, who had joined the party, with a handfulof oranges I had watched her picking from a treein the garden. Their parents were dead and thebrother Andrea was a sailor and God knows wherehe was but her aunt was living in her own villa inCapri, of course I knew that she had married unlord inglese? Yes, of course I knew, but I didnot remember her name. "Lady G——," said LaBella Margherita proudly. I just remembered intime to drink her health, but after that I did notremember anything except that the sky overheadwas blue like a sapphire, that the parroco's winewas red like a ruby, that La Bella Margherita satby my side with golden hair and smiling lips.

"San Michele!" suddenly rang through myears. "San Michele!" echoed deep down in myheart!

"Addio, Bella Margherita!" "Addio e prestoritorno!" Alas for the presto ritorno!

I walked back through the empty lanes steeringas straight as I could for my goal. It was thesacred hour of the siesta, the whole little villagewas asleep. The piazza, all ablaze with sun, wasdeserted. The church was closed, only from thehalf-open door of the municipal school the stentorianvoice of the Rev. Canonico Don Nataletrumpeted in sleepy monotony through the silence:"Io mi ammazzo, tu ti amazzi, egli si ammazza,noi ci ammazziamo, voi vi ammazzate, loro si ammazzano,"repeated in rhythmic chorus by a dozenbarelegged boys, in a circle on the floor at the feetof their school master.

Further down the lane stood a stately Romanmatron. It was Annarella herself, beckoning mewith a friendly waving of the hand to come in.Why had I gone to La Bella Margherita insteadof to her? Did I not know that her cacciacavallowas the best cheese in all the village? And as forthe wine, everybody knew that the parroco's winewas no match for that of the Rev. Don Dionisio."Altro che il vino del parroco!" she added witha significant shrug of her strong shoulders. As Isat under her pergola in front of a flask of DonDionisio's vino bianco it began to dawn upon methat maybe she was right, but I wanted to be fairand had to empty the whole flask before giving myfinal opinion. But when Gioconda, her smilingdaughter, helped me to a second glass from the newflask I had made up my mind. Yes, Don Dionisio'svino bianco was the best! It looked like liquid sunshine,it tasted like the nectar of the Gods, andGioconda looked like a young Hebe as she filledmy empty glass. "Altro che il vino del parroco!Did I not tell you so," laughed Annarella. "Èun vino miracoloso!" Miraculous indeed, forsuddenly I began to speak fluent Italian withvertiginous volubility amid roars of laughter frommother and daughter. I was beginning to feel veryfriendly toward Don Dionisio; I liked his name,I liked his wine, I thought I would like to make hisacquaintance. Nothing was easier, for he was topreach that evening to "le Figlie di Maria" in thechurch.

"He is a very learned man," said Annarella.He knew by heart the names of all the martyrsand all the saints and had even been to Rome tokiss the hand of the Pope. Had she been toRome? No. And to Naples? No. She hadbeen to Capri once, it was on her wedding day, butGioconda had never been there, Capri was full of"gente malamente." I told Annarella I knew ofcourse all about their patron saint, how manymiracles he had done and how beautiful he was,all of solid silver. There was an uncomfortablesilence.

"Yes, they say their San Costanzo is of solidsilver," ejaculated Annarella with a contemptibleshrug of her broad shoulders, "but who knows,chi lo sa?" As to his miracles you could countthem on the top of your fingers, while Sant'Antonio,the patron saint of Anacapri had alreadydone over a hundred. Altro che San Costanzo!I was at once all for Sant'Antonio, hoping withall my heart for a new miracle of his to bring meback as soon as possible to his enchanting village.Kind Annarella's confidence in the miraculouspower of Sant'Antonio was so great that she refusedpoint-blank to accept any money.

"Pagherete un'altra volta, you will pay me anothertime."

"Addio Annarella, addio Gioconda!"

"Arrividerla, presto ritorno, Sant'Antonio vibenedica! La Madonna vi accompagni!"

Old Mastro Vincenzo was still hard at workin his vineyard, digging deep furrows in thesweet-scented soil for the new vines. Now andthen he picked up a slab of coloured marble or apiece of red stucco and threw it over the wall,'Roba di Timberio,' said he. I sat down on abroken column of red granite by the side of mynew friend. Era molto duro, it was very hardto break, said Mastro Vincenzo. At my feet achicken was scratching in the earth in search ofa worm and before my very nose appeared a coin.I picked it up and recognized at a glance thenoble head of Augustus, 'Divus Augustus Pater.'Mastro Vincenzo said it was not worth a baiocco,I have it still. He had made the garden all byhimself and had planted all the vines and fig-treeswith his own hands. Hard work, saidMastro Vincenzo showing me his large, hornyhands, for the whole ground was full of roba diTimberio, columns, capitals, fragments of statuesand teste di cristiani, and he had to dig up andcarry away all this rubbish before he could planthis vines. The columns he had split into gardensteps and of course he had been able to utilizemany of the marbles when he was building hishouse and the rest he had thrown over theprecipice. A piece of real good luck had beenwhen quite unexpectedly he had come upon alarge subterranean room just under his house,with red walls just like that piece there under thepeach tree all painted with lots of stark nakedcristiani, tutti spogliati, ballando come dei pazzi,[15]with their hands full of flowers and bunches ofgrapes. It took him several days to scrape offall these paintings and cover the wall withcement, but this was small labour compared towhat it would have meant to blast the rock andbuild a new cistern, said Mastro Vincenzo with acunning smile. Now he was getting old andhardly able to look after his vineyard any more,and his son who lived on the mainland withtwelve children and three cows wanted him tosell the house and come and live with him.Again my heart began to beat. Was the chapelalso his? No, it belonged to nobody and peoplesaid it was haunted by ghosts. He himself hadseen when he was a boy a tall monk leaning overthe parapet and some sailors coming up the stepslate one night had heard bells ringing in thechapel. The reason for this, explained MastroVincenzo, was that when Timberio had hispalace there he had fatto ammazzare GesùCristo, put Jesus Christ to death, and since thenhis damned soul came back now and then to askforgiveness from the monks who were buriedunder the floor in the chapel. People also saidthat he used to come there in the shape of a bigblack snake. The monks had been ammazzatiby a brigand called Barbarossa, who had boardedthe island with his ships and carried away intoslavery all the women who had taken refuge upthere in the castle overhead, that is why it wascalled Castello Barbarossa. Padre Anselmo, thehermit, who was a learned man and besides a relationof his, had told him all this and also aboutthe English who had turned the chapel into a fortressand who in their turn had been ammazzati bythe French.

[Footnote 15:] All naked, dancing like mad people.

"Look!" said Mastro Vincenzo, pointing to aheap of bullets near the garden wall and "look"he added, picking up an English soldier's brassbutton. The French, he continued, had placeda big gun near the chapel, and had opened fireon the village of Capri held by the English."Well done," he chuckled. "The Capresi areall bad people." Then the French had turnedthe chapel into a powder magazine, that waswhy it was still called La Polveriera. Now itwas nothing but a ruin, but it had proved veryuseful to him, for he had taken most of his stonesfor his garden walls from there.

I climbed over the wall and walked up thenarrow lane to the chapel. The floor was coveredto a man's height with the débris of the fallenvault, the walls were covered with ivy and wildhoneysuckle and hundreds of lizards played merrilyabout among big bushes of myrtle and rosemarystopping now and then in their game to lookat me with lustrous eyes and panting breasts. Anowl rose on noiseless wings from a dark corner,and a large snake asleep on the sunlit mosaic floorof the terrace, unfolded slowly his black coils andglided back into the chapel with a warning hiss atthe intruder. Was it the ghost of the sombre oldEmperor still haunting the ruins where his imperialvilla once stood?

I looked down at the beautiful island at myfeet. How could he live in such a place and beso cruel! thought I. How could his soul be sodark with such a glorious light on Heaven andEarth! How could he ever leave this place, toretire to that other even more inaccessible villa ofhis on the eastern cliffs, which still bears his nameand where he spent the last three years of hislife?

To live in such a place as this, to die in such aplace, if ever death could conquer the everlastingjoy of such a life! What daring dream had mademy heart beat so violently a moment ago whenMastro Vincenzo had told me that he was gettingold and tired, and that his son wanted him tosell his house? What wild thoughts had flashedthrough my boisterous brain when he had said thatthe chapel belonged to nobody? Why not to me?Why should I not buy Mastro Vincenzo's house,and join the chapel and the house with garlands ofvines and avenues of cypresses and columns supportingwhite loggias, peopled with marble statuesof gods and bronzes of emperors and . . . I closedmy eyes, lest the beautiful vision should vanish, andgradually realities faded away into the twilight ofdreamland.

A tall figure wrapped in a rich mantle stood bymy side.

"It shall all be yours," he said in a melodiousvoice, waving his hand across the horizon. "Thechapel, the garden, the house, the mountain withits castle, all shall be yours, if you are willing topay the price!"

"Who are you, phantom from the unseen?"

"I am the immortal spirit of this place. Timehas no meaning for me. Two thousand yearsago I stood here where we now stand by the sideof another man, led here by his destiny as youhave been led here by yours. He did not askfor happiness as you do, he only asked for forgetfulnessand peace, and he believed he could find ithere on this lonely island. I told him the pricehe would have to pay: the branding of an untarnishedname with infamy through all ages.

"He accepted the bargain, he paid the price.For eleven years he lived here surrounded by a fewtrusty friends, all men of honour and integrity.Twice he started on his way to return to his palaceon the Palatine Hill. Twice his courage failedhim, Rome never saw him again. He died on hishomeward journey in the villa of his friend Luculluson the promontory over there. His last wordswere that he should be carried down in his litter tothe boat that was to take him to his island home."

"What is the price you ask of me?"

"The renunciation of your ambition to makeyourself a name in your profession, the sacrificeof your future."

"What then am I to become?"

"A Might-Have-Been, a failure."

"You take away from me all that is worth livingfor."

"You are mistaken, I give you all that is worthliving for."

"Will you at least leave me pity. I cannotlive without pity if I am to become a doctor."

"Yes, I will leave you pity, but you would havefared much better without it."

"Do you ask for anything more?"

"Before you die, you will have to pay anotherprice as well, a heavy price. But before thisprice is due, you will have watched for many yearsfrom this place the sun set over cloudless days ofhappiness and the moon rise over starlit nights ofdreams."

"Shall I die here?"

"Beware of searching for the answer to yourquestion, man could not endure life if he was awareof the hour of his death."

He laid his hand on my shoulder, I felt a slightshiver run through my body. "I shall be withyou once more at this place when the sun hasset to-morrow; you may think it over till then."

"It is no good thinking it over, my holiday isat an end, this very night I have to return to myevery day's toil far away from this beautiful land.Besides I am no good at thinking. I accept thebargain, I will pay the price, be it what it may.But how am I to buy this house, my hands areempty."

"Your hands are empty but they are strong,your brain is boisterous but clear, your will issound, you will succeed."

"How am I to build my house? I know nothingabout architecture."

"I will help you. What style do you want?Why not Gothic? I rather like the Gothic with itssubdued light and its haunting mystery."

"I am going to invent a style of my own, suchthat not even you shall be able to give it a name.No mediaeval twilight for me! I want my houseopen to sun and wind and the voice of the sea,like a Greek temple, and light, light, light everywhere!"

"Beware of the light! Beware of the light!Too much light is not good for the eyes of mortalman."

"I want columns of priceless marble, supportingloggias and arcades, beautiful fragments frompast ages strewn all over my garden, the chapelturned into a silent library with cloister stalls roundthe walls and sweet sounding bells ringing AveMaria over each happy day."

"I do not like bells."

"And here where we stand with this beautifulisland rising like a sphinx out of the sea below ourfeet, here I want a granite sphinx from the landof the Pharaohs. But where shall I find it all!"

"You stand upon the site of one of Tiberio'svillas. Priceless treasures of bygone ages lie buriedunder the vines, under the chapel, under the house.The old emperor's foot has trod upon the slabs ofcoloured marble you saw the old peasant throwover the wall of his garden, the ruined fresco withits dancing fawns and the flower-crowned bacchantesonce adorned the walls of his palace.Look," said he, pointing down to the clear depthsof the sea a thousand feet below. "Didn't yourTacitus tell you at school that when the news ofthe Emperor's death had reached the island, hispalaces were hurled into the sea?"

I wanted to leap down the precipitous cliffs atonce and plunge into the sea in search of mycolumns. "No need for such a hurry," he laughed,"for two thousand years the corals have been spinningtheir cobwebs round them and the waves haveburied them deeper and deeper in the sand, theywill wait for you till your time comes."

"And the sphinx? Where shall I find thesphinx?"

"On a lonely plain, far away from the life ofto-day, stood once the sumptuous villa of anotherEmperor, who had brought the sphinx from thebanks of the Nile to adorn his garden. Of thepalace nothing remains but a heap of stones, butdeep in the bowels of the earth still lies the sphinx.Search and you will find her. It will nearly costyou your life to bring it here, but you will do it."

"You seem to know the future as well as youknow the past."

"The past and the future are all the same tome. I know everything."

"I do not envy you your knowledge."

"Your words are older than your years, wheredid you get that saying from?"

"From what I have learned on this island to-day,for I have learned that this friendly folk whocan neither read nor write are far happier thanI, who ever since I was a child have been strainingmy eyes to gain knowledge. And so have you,I gather from your speech. You are a greatscholar, you know your Tacitus by heart."

"I am a philosopher."

"You know Latin well?"

"I am a doctor of theology from the universityof Jena."

"Ah! that is why I fancied I detected a slightGerman twang in your voice. You know Germany?"

"Rather," he chuckled.

I looked at him attentively. His manners andbearings were those of a gentleman, I noticed forthe first time that he carried a sword under his redmantle and there was a harsh sound in his voiceI seemed to have heard before.

"Pardon me, sir, I think we have already metin the Auerbach Keller in Leipzig, isn't yourname? . . ." As I spoke the words, the churchbells from Capri began to ring Ave Maria. Iturned my head to look at him. He was gone.

II
QUARTIER LATIN

Quartier Latin. A student's room inthe Hôtel de l'Avenir, piles of books everywhere,on tables, chairs and in heaps on the floor,and on the wall a faded photograph of Capri.Mornings in the wards of La Salpêtrière, Hôtel-Dieuand La Pitié, going from bed to bed to readchapter after chapter in the book of human suffering,written with blood and tears. Afternoonsin the dissecting rooms and amphitheatres ofl'École de Médecine or in the laboratories of theInstitut Pasteur, watching in the microscope withwondrous eyes the mystery of the unseen world,the infinitely small beings, arbiters of the life anddeath of man. Nights of vigil in the Hôtel del'Avenir, precious nights of toil to master the hardfacts, the classical signs of disorder and diseasecollected and sifted by observers from all lands,so necessary and so insufficient for the making ofa doctor. Work, work, work! Summer holidayswith empty cafés in Boulevard St. Michel, Écolede Médecine closed, laboratories and amphitheatresdeserted, clinics half-empty. But noholiday for suffering in the hospital wards, noholiday for Death. No holiday in the Hôtel del'Avenir. No distraction but an occasional strollunder the lime-trees of the Luxembourg Gardens,or a greedily enjoyed hour of leisure in the LouvreMuseum. No friends. No dog. Not even a mistress.Henri Murger's "Vie de Bohême" wasgone, but his Mimi was still there, very much so,smilingly strolling down the Boulevard St. Michelon the arm of almost every student, when the hourfor the apéritif was approaching, or mending hiscoat or washing his linen in his garret while hewas reading for his exam.

No Mimi for me! Yes, they could afford totake it easy, these happy comrades of mine, tospend their evenings in idle gossip at the tablesof their cafés, to laugh, to live, to love. Theirsubtle Latin brain was far quicker than mine, andthey had no faded photograph of Capri on the wallof their garret to spur them on, no columns ofprecious marble waiting for them under the sandat Palazzo al Mare. Often during the long wakefulnights, as I sat there in the Hôtel de l'Avenir,my head bent over Charcot's 'Maladies du SystèmeNerveux,' or Trousseaux's 'Clinique del'Hôtel Dieu,' a terrible thought flashed suddenlythrough my brain: Mastro Vincenzo is old, fancyif he should die while I am sitting here or sell tosomebody else the little house on the cliff, whichholds the key to my future home! An ice-coldperspiration burst out on my forehead and myheart stood almost still with fear. I stared atthe faded photograph of Capri on the wall, Ithought I saw it fade away more and moreinto dimness, mysterious and sphinx-like till nothingremained but the outline of a sarcophagus,under which lay buried a dream. . . . Then rubbingmy aching eyes, I plunged into my bookagain with frantic fury, like a race-horse spurredon towards his goal with bleeding flanks. Yes,it became a race, a race for prizes and trophies.My comrades began to bet on me as an easywinner, and even the Master with the head of aCaesar and the eye of an eagle mistook me for arising man—the only error of diagnosis I everknew Professor Charcot commit during years ofwatchful observation of his unerring judgmentin the wards of his Salpêtrière or in his consulting-roomat Boulevard St. Germain, thronged withpatients from all the world. It cost me dearlythis mistake of his. It cost me my sleep, and itnearly cost me the sight of my eyes. This questionis not settled yet for the matter of that. Suchwas my faith in the infallibility of Charcot whoknew more than any living man about the humanbrain that for a short time I believed he was right.Spurred by ambition to fulfil his prophecy, insensibleto fatigue, to sleep, even to hunger, Istrained every fibre of mind and body to breaking-pointin an effort to win at all costs. No morewalks under the lime-trees of the LuxembourgGardens, no more strolls in the Louvre. Frommorning till night my lungs filled with the foulair of the hospital wards and the amphitheatres,from night till morning with the smoke of endlesscigarettes in my stuffy room at the Hôtel del'Avenir. Exam after exam in rapid succession,far too rapid, alas, to be of any value, success aftersuccess. Work, work, work! I was to take mydegree in the spring. Luck in everything my handtouched, never failing, amazing, almost uncannyluck. Already I had learned to know the structureof the marvellous machinery which is thehuman body, the harmonious working of its cogsand wheels in health, its disorders in disease andits final breaking-down in death. Already I hadbecome familiar with most of the afflictions whichchained the sufferers in the wards to their beds.Already I had learned to handle the sharp edgedweapons of surgery, to fight on more equal termsthe implacable Foe, who, scythe in hand, wanderedHis rounds in the wards, always ready to slay,always at hand any hour of the day or of the night.In fact He seemed to have taken up His abodethere for good in the grim old hospital, which forcenturies had sheltered so much suffering andwoe. Sometimes He came rushing through theward, striking right and left, young and old, inblind fury like a madman, throttling one victimwith the slow grip of His hand, and tearing awaythe bandage from the gaping wound of anothertill his last drop of blood had oozed away. SometimesHe came on tiptoe, silent and still, closingwith an almost gentle touch of His finger the eyesof another sufferer, who lay there almost smilingafter He had gone. Often, I who was there tohinder His approach did not even know He wascoming. Only small children at their mother'sbreast knew of His presence and started in theirsleep with a sharp cry of distress as He passedby. And as often as not one of the old nuns,who had spent a lifetime in the wards, saw Himcoming just in time to put a crucifix on the bed.At first, when He stood there, victorious, on oneside of the bed and I, helpless, on the other, Iused to take little notice of Him. Life was everythingto me then, I knew that my mission was atan end when His had begun, and I only used toturn my face away from my sinister colleague inresentment at my defeat. But as I became morefamiliar with Him, I began to watch Him withincreasing attention, and the more I saw of Him,the more I wanted to know Him, to understandHim. I began to realize that He had his sharein the work, as well as I had mine, His missionto fulfil just as I had mine, that we were comradesafter all, that when the wrestling over a lifewas over and He had won, it was far better tolook each other fearlessly in the face and be friends.Later on, there even came a time when I thoughtHe was my only friend, when I longed for Himand almost loved Him, though He never seemedto take any notice of me. What could He notteach me if I only could learn to read His sombreface! What gaps in my scanty knowledge ofhuman suffering could He not fill, He who alonehad read the last missing chapter in my medicalhandbooks, where everything is explained, the solutionoffered to every riddle, the answer given toevery question!

But how could He be so cruel, He who couldbe so gentle? How could He take away so muchof youth and life with one hand, when He couldgive so much peace and happiness with the other?Why was the grip of His hand round the throatof one of His victims so slow and the blow Hedealt to another so swift? Why did He struggleso long with the life of the little child, while Hesuffered the life of the old to ebb away in mercifulsleep? Was it His mission to punish as well asto slay? Was He the Judge as well as the Executioner?What did He do with those He hadslain? Had they ceased to exist or were they onlyasleep? Whither did He take them? Was Hethe Supreme Ruler of the Kingdom of Death orwas He only a vassal, a mere tool in the hands ofa far mightier ruler, the Ruler of Life? He hadwon to-day, but was His victory to be final? Whowould conquer in the end, He or Life?

But was it really so that my mission was at anend when His was to begin? Was I to be animpassive spectator of the last unequal battle, tostand by helpless and insensible, while He wasdoing His work of destruction? Was I to turnmy face away from those eyes who implored myhelp, long after the power of speech had gone?Was I to loosen my hand from those quiveringfingers who clung to mine like a drowning manto a straw? I was defeated, but I was not disarmed,I had still in my hands a powerful weapon.He had his eternal sleeping-draught but I hadalso mine entrusted to me by benevolent MotherNature. When he was slow in dealing out Hisremedy, why should not I deal out mine with itsmerciful power to change anguish into peace,agony into sleep? Was it not my mission to helpthose to die I could not help to live?

The old nun had told me that I was committinga terrible sin, that Almighty God in His inscrutablewisdom had willed it so, that the more sufferingHe inflicted at the hour of death, the moreforgiving would He be on the Day of Judgment.Even sweet Soeur Philomène had looked at medisapprovingly when, alone among my comrades,I had come with my morphia syringe after theold padre had left the bed with his Last Sacrament.

They were still there in their big white cornets,in all the hospitals of Paris, the gentle, all-sacrificingsisters of St. Vincent de Paul. The crucifixwas still hanging on the wall of every ward, thepadre still read mass every morning before thelittle altar in Salle St. Claire. The Mother Superior,Ma Mère as they all called her, still wenther round from bed to bed every evening after theAve Maria had rung.

La Laicisation des Hôpitaux was not yet theburning question of the day, the raucous cry of:"away with the priests! away with the crucifix!à la porte les soeurs!" had not yet been raised.Alas! I saw them all go ere long and a pity itwas. No doubt they had their faults, these nuns.No doubt they were more familiar with handlingtheir rosaries than the nail-brush, more used todip their fingers in holy water than in carbolicacid solution, then the all-powerful panacea in oursurgical wards, soon to be replaced by another.But their thoughts were so clean, their hearts sopure, they gave their whole life to their work andasked for nothing in return but to be allowed topray for those under their care. Even their worstenemies have never dared to belittle their all-sacrificingdevotion and their all-enduring patience.People used to say that the sisters went about theirwork with sad, sullen faces, their thoughts moreoccupied with the salvation of the soul than thatof the body, with more words of resignation thanof hope on their lips. Indeed, they were greatlymistaken. On the contrary, these nuns, young andold, were invariably cheerful and happy, almostgay and full of childish fun and laughter, and itwas wonderful to watch the way they knew howto communicate their happiness to others. Theywere also tolerant. Those who believed and thosewho did not, were all the same to them. If anythingthey seemed even more anxious to help thelatter, for they felt so sorry for them and showedno signs of resentment even for their curses andblasphemies. To me they were all wonderfullykind and friendly. They well knew that I did notbelong to their creed, that I did not go to confessionand that I did not make the sign of thecross when I passed before the little altar. Atfirst the Mother Superior had made some timidattempts to convert me to the faith which hadmade her sacrifice her life for others, but she hadsoon given it up with a compassionate shaking ofher old head. Even the dear old padre had lostall hope of my salvation since I told him I waswilling to discuss with him the possibility of a purgatory,but point-blank refused to believe in hell,and that in any case I was determined to givemorphia in full dose to the dying when their agonywas too cruel and too long. The old padre wasa saint but argumentation was not his strong pointand we soon abandoned these controversial questionsaltogether. He knew the life of all the saints,and it was he who told me for the first time thesweet legend of St. Claire, who had given hername to the ward. It was also he who made mebehold for the first time the wonderful featuresof her beloved St. Francis of Assisi, the friendof all humble and forlorn creatures of sky andearth, who was to become my lifelong friend aswell. But it was Soeur Philomène, so young andfair in her white robe of novice of Soeur St. Augustin,who taught me most, for she taught me tolove her Madonna, whose features she wore.Sweet Soeur Philomène! I saw her die of choleraa couple of years later in Naples. Not even Deathdared disfigure her. She went to Heaven just asshe was.

The Frère Antoine who came to the hospitalevery Sunday to play the organ in the little chapelwas a particular friend of mine. It was the onlychance I had those days to hear any music andI seldom missed being there, I who am so fondof music! Although I could not see the sisterswhere they sat singing near the altar, I recognizedquite well the clear, pure voice of Soeur Philomène.The very day before Christmas FrèreAntoine caught a bad chill, and a great secret waswhispered from bed to bed in the Salle St.Claire that after a long consultation between theMother Superior and the old padre I had beenallowed to replace him at the organ to save thesituation.

The only other music I ever heard those dayswas when poor old Don Gaetano came to play tome twice a week on his worn-out barrel-organunder my balcony in the Hôtel de l'Avenir. The"Miserere" from the "Trovatore" was his showpiece,and the melancholy old tune suited himwell, both him and his half-frozen little monkey,who crouched on the barrel-organ in her redGaribaldi:

Ah che la morte ogn'ora
È tarda nel venir!

It suited equally well poor old Monsieur Alfredowho wandered about the snow-covered streets inhis threadbare frockcoat, with the manuscript ofhis last tragedy under his arms. Equally wellmy friends in the Italian poor quarter huddledtogether round their half-extinguished bracierowith no money to buy a half-penny worth of charcoalto keep themselves warm. There came daystoo, when the sad melody seemed just the rightaccompaniment to my own thoughts as well; whenI sat before my books in the Hôtel de l'Avenirwith no courage left to face a new day, wheneverything seemed so black and hopeless and thefaded old photograph of Capri so far away. ThenI used to throw myself on the bed and close myaching eyes, and soon Sant'Antonio set to workto perform another miracle. Soon I was sailingaway from all my worries to the enchanting islandof my dreams. Gioconda handed me smilingly aglass of Don Dionisio's wine, and once more theblood began to flow, rich and strong, through mytired brain. The world was beautiful and I wasyoung, ready to fight, sure to win. Mastro Vincenzo,still hard at work amongst his vines, wavedhis hand at me as I walked up the little lane behindhis garden to the chapel. I sat for a while onthe terrace and looked down spellbound on thefair island at my feet, just wondering how on earthI should manage to drag up my sphinx of redgranite to the top of the cliff. Indeed, it wouldbe a difficult job, but of course I would do it quiteeasily, all by myself! "Addio bella Gioconda!Addio e presto ritorno!" Yes, of course I wouldcome back soon, very soon, in my next dream!The new day came and looked hard at the dreamerthrough the window. I opened my eyes and sprangto my feet, and greeting the new-comer with asmile I sat down again at my table, book in hand.Then came spring and dropped the first twig ofchestnut flowers on my balcony from the buddingtrees of the avenue. It was the signal. I wentup for my exam and left the Hôtel de l'Avenirwith the hard-won diploma in my pocket, theyoungest M.D. ever created in France.

III
AVENUE DE VILLIERS

Avenue de Villiers. Dr. Munthefrom 2 till 3.

Door-bell ringing and messages coming day andnight with urgent letters and calls. Telephone,that deadly weapon in the hands of idle women,not yet started on its nerve-racking campaignagainst every hour of well-earned rest. Consultation-roomrapidly filling up with patients of allsorts and descriptions, mostly nervous cases, thefair sex in the majority. Many were ill, seriouslyill. I listened gravely to what they had to sayand examined them as carefully as I could, quitesure I could help them, whatever was the matter.Of these cases I do not feel inclined to speakhere. A day may come when I may have somethingto say about them. Many were not ill atall, and might never have become so, had theynot consulted me. Many imagined they were ill.They had the longest tale to tell, talked about theirgrandmother, their aunt or mother-in-law, or producedfrom their pockets a little paper and beganto read out an interminable list of symptoms andcomplaints—le malade au petit papier, as Charcotused to say. All this was new to me, who hadno experience outside the hospitals, where therewas no time for any nonsense, and I made manyblunders. Later on, when I began to know moreof human nature, I learned to handle these patientsa little better, but we never got on verywell together. They seemed quite upset when Itold them that they looked rather well and theircomplexion was good, but they rallied rapidly whenI added that their tongue looked rather bad—asseemed generally to be the case. My diagnosis,in most of these cases was over-eating, too manycakes or sweets during the day or too heavy dinnersat night. It was probably the most correctdiagnosis I ever made in those days, but it metwith no success. Nobody wanted to hear anythingmore about it, nobody liked it. What they allliked was appendicitis. Appendicitis was just thenmuch in demand among better-class people onthe look-out for a complaint. All the nervousladies had got it on the brain if not in the abdomen,thrived on it beautifully, and so did theirmedical advisers. So I drifted gradually intoappendicitis and treated a great number of suchcases with varied success. But when the rumourbegan to circulate that the American surgeons hadstarted on a campaign to cut out every appendixin the United States, my cases of appendicitis beganto fall off in an alarming way. Consternation:

"Take away the appendix! my appendix!"said the fashionable ladies, clinging desperately totheir processus vermicularis, like a mother to herinfant. "What shall I do without it!"

"Take away their appendices, my appendices!"said the doctors, consulting gloomily the list oftheir patients. "I never heard such nonsense!Why, there is nothing wrong with their appendices,I ought to know, I who have to examinethem twice a week. I am dead against it!"

It soon became evident that appendicitis wason its last legs, and that a new complaint had tobe discovered to meet the general demand. TheFaculty was up to the mark, a new disease wasdumped on the market, a new word was coined,a gold coin indeed, COLITIS! It was a neatcomplaint, safe from the surgeon's knife, alwaysat hand when wanted, suitable to everybody's taste.Nobody knew when it came, nobody knew whenit went away. I knew that several of my far-sightedcolleagues had already tried it on theirpatients with great success, but so far my luckhad been against me.[1]

[Footnote 1:] Colitis,as this word is used now, was not known in thosedays. Many sins have been committed both by doctors andpatients in the name of colitis during the early stage of itsbrilliant career. Even to-day there is not seldom somethingvague and unsatisfactory about this diagnosis.

One of my last cases of appendicitis was, Ithink, the Countess who came to consult me, onthe recommendation of Charcot, as she said. Heused to send me patients now and then and I wasof course most anxious to do my very best forher, even had she not been as pretty as she was.She looked at the young oracle with ill-concealeddisappointment in her large, languid eyes and saidshe wished to speak to "Monsieur le Docteurlui-même" and not to his assistant, a first greetingI was accustomed to from a new patient. Atfirst she did not know if she had appendicitis, nordid Monsieur le Docteur lui-même, but soon shewas sure that she had it, and I that she had not.When I told her so with unwise abruptness shebecame very agitated. Professor Charcot had toldher I was sure to find out what was the matterwith her and that I would help her, and insteadof that . . . she burst into tears and I felt verysorry for her.

"What is the matter with me?" she sobbed,stretching out her two empty hands towards mewith a gesture of despair.

"I will tell you if you promise to be calm."

She ceased to cry instantly. Wiping the lasttears from her big eyes she said bravely:

"I can stand anything, I have already stood somuch, don't be afraid, I am not going to cry anymore. What is the matter with me?"

"Colitis."

Her eyes grew even larger than before, thoughI would have thought that to be impossible.

"Colitis! That is exactly what I alwaysthought! I am sure you are right! Colitis!Tell me what is Colitis?" I took good care toavoid that question, for I did not know it myself,nor did anybody else in those days. But I toldher it lasted long and was difficult to cure, and Iwas right there. The Countess smiled amiablyat me. And her husband who said it was nothingbut nerves! She said there was no time to loseand wanted to begin the cure at once, so it wasarranged she should come to Avenue de Villierstwice a week. She returned the very next day,and even I who was already getting accustomedto sudden changes in my patients could not helpbeing struck by her cheerful appearance and brightface, so much so that I asked her how old she was.

She was just twenty-five. She only came to askme if colitis was catching.

Yes, very. The word was hardly out of mymouth before I discovered that this young personwas far cleverer than I.

Wouldn't I tell the Count it was safer theyshouldn't sleep in the same room?

I assured her it was not at all safer, that althoughI had not the honour to know Monsieur le Comte,I felt sure he would not catch it. It was onlycatching with impressionable and highly-strungpeople like herself.

Surely I would not call her highly-strung, sheobjected, her big eyes wandering restlessly roundthe room? . . .

Yes, decidedly.

Could I not cure her of that?

No.

"My dearest Ann,

Fancy my dear, I have got colitis! I am so glad . . . soglad you recommended me this Suédois, or was it Charcot? Inany case I told him it was Charcot, to make sure he would giveme more time and attention. You are right, he is very clever,though he does not look like it. I am already recommendinghim to all my friends, I am sure he can do any amount of goodto my sister-in-law who is still on her back after her nasty fallat your cotillon, I am sure she has got colitis! Sorry, my dear,we shall not meet at Joséphine's dinner to-morrow, I havealready written to her I have got colitis, and can't possiblycome. I wish she could put it off till after to-morrow.

Your loving Juliette.

P.S. It just struck me that the Suédois ought to have a lookat your mother-in-law, who is so worried about her deafness, ofcourse I know the Marquise doesn't want to see any more doctors,and who does! but could it not be arranged that he sawher in some sort of unofficial way? I would not at all be surprisedif the root of it all was colitis.

P.S. I would not mind asking the doctor to dinner here oneday if you could persuade the Marquise to dine here, en petitcomité, of course. Do you know he discovered I had colitisonly by looking at me through his spectacles? Besides, I wantmy husband to make his acquaintance, though he does not likedoctors more than does your mother-in-law. I am sure he willlike this one."

A week later I had the unexpected honour to beinvited to dinner at the Countess' hôtel in FaubourgSt. Germain, and to sit next to the DowagerMarquise, respectfully watching her with my eagleeye while she devoured an enormous plate of pâtéde foie gras in majestic aloofness. She never saida word to me, and my timid attempts to open aconversation came to a standstill when I discoveredthat she was stone-deaf. After dinner Monsieurle Comte took me to the smoking-room. He wasa most polite little man, very fat, with a placid,almost shy face, at least twice the age of his wife,every inch a gentleman. Offering me a cigarette,he said with great effusion:

"I cannot thank you enough for having curedmy wife of appendicitis—the very word is hatefulto me. I frankly confess I have taken a greatdislike to doctors. I have seen so many of themand so far none seems to have been able to do mywife any good, though I must add she never gaveany of them a fair chance before she was off toanother. I had better warn you, I am sure it willbe the same with you."

"I am not so sure of that."

"So much the better. She has evidently greatconfidence in you, which is a strong point in yourfavour."

"It is everything."

"As far as I am concerned, I frankly admitnot having taken to you very kindly at first, butnow, since we have met I am anxious to correctmy first impression and," he added politely, "Ibelieve we are en bonne voie. A propos, what iscolitis?"

I got out of my difficulties by his adding good-humouredly:

"Whatever it may be, it cannot be worse thanappendicitis, and, depend upon it, I shall soonknow as much about it as you do."

He did not ask for much. I liked so much hisfrank, polite manners that I ventured to put hima question in return.

"No," he answered with a slight embarrassmentin his voice, "I wish to God we had! Wehave now been married for five years and so farno sign of it. I wish to God we had! You know,I was born in this old house and so was my father,and my country-seat in Touraine has belonged tous for three centuries, I am the last of my family,and it is very hard, and . . . can nothing be donefor these confounded nerves? Have you nothingto suggest?"

"I am sure this enervating air of Paris is notgood for the Countess, why don't you go for achange to your castle in Touraine?"

His whole face lit up:

"You are my man," said the Count, stretchinghis hands towards me, "I do not ask for better!I have my shooting there, and my big estate tolook after, I love to be there, but it bores theCountess to death and of course it is rather lonelyfor her who likes to see her friends every day andgo to parties or to the theatre every night. Buthow she can have the strength to go on like thisfrom month to month, she who says she is alwaystired, is more than I can understand. It wouldkill me outright. Now she says she must remainin Paris to have her colitis attended to, it wasappendicitis before. But I do not want you tothink her selfish, on the contrary she is alwaysthinking of me and even wants me to go to theChâteau Rameaux alone, she knows how happy Iam there. But how can I leave her alone in Paris.She is so young and inexperienced."

"How old is the Countess?"

"Only twenty-nine. She looks even younger."

"Yes. She looks almost like a young girl."

He was silent a moment. "A propos, when areyou going to take your holiday?"

"I have not had a holiday for three years."

"So much the more reason for taking one thisyear. Are you a good shot?"

"I do not kill animals if I can help it. Whydid you ask me this question?"

"Because we have excellent shooting at ChâteauRameaux and I am sure a week's thoroughrest would do you any amount of good. That isat least what my wife says, she says you are awfullyoverworked and you look it besides."

"You are very kind, Monsieur le Comte, but Iam all right, there is nothing the matter with meexcept that I cannot sleep."

"Sleep! I wish I could give you some of mine!I have more than I need of it, and to spare. Doyou know, I have hardly time to put my head onthe pillow before I am fast asleep and nothingcan wake me up. My wife is an early riser, butnever once have I heard her get up, and my valet,who brings me my coffee at nine has to shake mebefore I wake up. I pity you indeed. A propos,I suppose you do not know of any remedy againstsnoring?"

It was a clear case. We joined the ladies in thedrawing-room. I was made to sit down by theside of the venerable Marquise for the unofficialconsultation so skilfully arranged by the Countess.After another attempt to open a conversation withthe old lady, I roared into her ear-trumpet thatshe had not got colitis, but that I was sure shewould get it if she did not give up her pâté defoi gras.

"I told you so," whispered the Countess, "isn'the clever?"

The Marquise wished to know at once all thesymptoms of colitis and smiled cheerfully at mewhile I dripped the subtle poison down the ear-trumpet.When I stood up to go, I had lost myvoice, but had found a new patient.

A week later an elegant coupé stopped at theAvenue de Villiers and a footman rushed upstairswith a hurriedly scribbled note from the Countessto come at once to the Marquise who had beentaken ill in the night with evident symptoms ofcolitis. I had made my entrée in Paris society.

Colitis spread like wildfire all over Paris. Mywaiting-room was soon so full of people that Ihad to arrange my dining-room as a sort of extrawaiting-room. It was always a mystery to mehow all these people could have time and patienceto sit and wait there so long, often for hours.The Countess came regularly twice a week, butoccasionally she felt seedy and had to come onextra days as well. It was evident that colitissuited her far better than appendicitis, her facehad lost its languid pallour and her big eyessparkled with youth.

One day, as I was coming out of the hôtel ofthe Marquise, she was leaving for the country, Ihad been there to bid her good-bye, I found theCountess standing by my carriage in friendlyconversation with Tom, who was sitting on a hugeparcel, half-hidden under the carriage-rug. TheCountess was on her way to the Magasins duLouvre to buy a little present for the Marquisefor her birthday to-morrow, and did not know inthe least what to give her. I suggested a dog.

"A dog! What a capital idea!" She rememberedthat when as a child she was taken to seethe Marquise, she always found her with a pugon her lap, a pug who was so fat that he couldhardly walk and who snored so terribly that onecould hear him all over the house. Her aunt hadbeen in tears for weeks when he died. A capitalidea indeed. We walked down the street to thecorner of Rue Cambon, where was the shop of awell-known dog-dealer. There, amongst half-a-dozenmongrels of all sorts and descriptions sat thevery dog I wanted, an aristocratic little pug, whosnored desperately at us to draw our attention tohis sad plight and implored us with his blood-shoteyes to take him away from this mixed societyinto which he had been thrown by sheer misfortuneand by no fault of his. He nearly suffocated withemotion when he realized his luck and was put intoa cab and sent to the hôtel in Faubourg St. Germain.The Countess was going anyhow to theMagasins du Louvre to try on a new hat. Shesaid she wanted to go on foot. Then she saidshe wanted a cab and I volunteered to take herthere in my carriage. She hesitated a moment—whatwill people say if they see me driving aboutin his carriage?—and then accepted with bonnegrâce. But was it not out of my way to driveher to the Louvre; not in the least, for I had nothingto do just then. What is in that parcel, askedthe Countess with feminine curiosity. I was justgoing to tell her another lie when Tom, his missionas sole guardian of the precious parcel being atan end, jumped to his usual place on the seat bymy side. The parcel split open and the head ofa doll popped out.

"Why on earth do you drive about with dolls,who are they for?"

"For the children."

She did not know I had any children and seemedalmost offended at my reticence about my privateaffairs. How many children had I got? Abouta dozen. There was no way of getting out of it,the whole secret had to come out.

"Come along with me," I said boldly, "and onthe way back I will take you to see my friendJack, the gorilla in the Jardin des Plantes. It isjust on our way." The Countess was evidentlyin her very best mood that day and up to anything,she said she was delighted. After passingGare Montparnasse she began to lose her bearingsand soon she did not know at all where she was.We drove through some sombre, evil-smellingslums. Dozens of ragged children were playingabout in the gutter, choked with filth and refuseof all sorts, and almost before every door sat awoman with a baby at her breast and other smallchildren at her side, huddled around the brazier.

"Is this Paris?" asked the Countess with analmost frightened look in her eyes.

Yes, this is Paris, la Ville Lumière! And thisis l'Impasse Rousselle, I added, as we stoppedbefore a blind alley, damp and dark like thebottom of a well. Salvatore's wife was sitting onthe family's only chair with Petruccio, her childof sorrow, on her lap, stirring the polenta for thefamily dinner, eagerly watched by Petruccio's twoeldest sisters, while the youngest child was crawlingabout on the floor in pursuit of a kitten. Itold Salvatore's wife I had brought a kind ladywho wanted to give the children a present. Iunderstood by her shyness it was the first timethe Countess had ever entered the house of thevery poor. She blushed scarlet as she handed thefirst doll to Petruccio's mother, for Petruccio himselfcould not hold anything in his withered hand,he had been paralyzed ever since he was born.Petruccio showed no sign of being pleased, forhis brain was as numb as his limbs, but his motherwas sure that he liked the doll very much. Histwo sisters received each a doll in their turn andran away in delight to hide themselves behind thebed to play at little mothers. When did I thinkSalvatore would come out of the hospital? Itwas now nearly six weeks since he had fallen fromthe scaffold and broken his leg. Yes, I had justseen him at the Hôpital Lariboisière, he was doingpretty well and I hoped he would come out soon.How was she getting on with her new landlord?Thank God, very well, he was very kind, he hadeven promised to put in a fireplace for next winter.And wasn't it nice of him to have opened that littlewindow under the ceiling, didn't I remember howdark the room was before?

"Look how bright and cheerful it is here now,siamo in Paradiso," said Salvatore's wife. Wasit true what Arcangelo Fusco told her that I hadsaid to the old landlord, the day he had turnedher out in the street and seized all her belongings,that the hour would come when God would punishhim for his cruelty to all of us poor people andthat I had cursed him so terribly that he had tohang himself a couple of hours later? Yes, itwas quite true and I did not regret what I haddone. As we were going away, my friend Arcangelo Fusco,who shared the room with the Salvatorefamily, was just returning from his day's work,his big broom on his shoulder. His profession wasto fare la scopa—in those days most of the street-sweepersin Paris were Italians. I was glad tointroduce him to the Countess, it was the least Icould do for him in return for the invaluableservice he had done to me when he had gone withme to the police-station to corroborate my evidenceconcerning the death of the old landlord. Godknows in what awkward entanglements I mighthave been involved had it not been for ArcangeloFusco. Even so, it was a close shave. I was verynearly arrested for murder.[2] Arcangelo Fusco whohad a rose tucked over his ear, Italian fashion,presented his flower with southern gallantry tothe Countess who looked as if she had never receiveda more graceful tribute to her fair youth.It was too late to go to the Jardin des Plantes,so I drove the Countess straight to her hôtel. Shewas very silent, so I tried to cheer her up by tellingher the funny story about the kind lady who hadby accident read a little paper of mine about dollsin 'Blackwood's Magazine' and had taken tomaking dolls by the dozen for the poor childrenI was speaking about. Hadn't she noticed howbeautifully some of the dolls were dressed up?Yes, she had noticed it. Was the lady pretty?Yes, very. Was she in Paris? No, I had had tostop her making more dolls, as I had ended byhaving more dolls than patients, and I had sentthe lady to St. Moritz for a change of air. Onsaying good-bye to the Countess before her hôtelI expressed my regrets that there had been no timeto visit the gorilla in the Jardin des Plantes butI hoped that anyhow she had not been sorry tohave come with me.

[Footnote 2:] I have related this strange story elsewhere.

"I am not sorry, I am so grateful, but, but,but . . . I am so ashamed," she sobbed as shesprang in through the gate of her hôtel.

IV
A FASHIONABLE DOCTOR

I had a standing invitation to dine at the hôtelin Faubourg St. Germain every Sunday. TheCount had long ago withdrawn his objections todoctors, in fact he was charming to me. Familydinner, only M. l'Abbé and occasionally the cousinof the Countess, the Vicomte Maurice, who treatedme with an almost insolent nonchalance. I dislikedhim from the first time I saw him, and Isoon discovered I was not the only one. It wasevident that the Count and he had very little tosay to each other. The Abbé was a priest of theold school and a man of the world who knew farmore of life and human nature than I did. Hewas at first very reserved towards me and often,when I noticed his shrewd eyes fixed on me,I felt as if he knew more about colitis than Idid. I felt almost ashamed before this old manand would have liked to talk openly to him andlay my cards on the table. But I never had thechance, I never had an opportunity of seeing himalone. One day, as I entered my dining-room tosnatch a rapid luncheon before beginning my consultation,I was surprised to find him there waitingfor me. He said he had come of his ownaccord, in his quality of an old friend of the familyand wished I should not mention his visit.

"You have been remarkably successful with theCountess," he began, "and we are all very gratefulto you. I must also compliment you aboutthe Marquise. I have just come from her, I amher confessor, and I must say I am astonishedto see how much better she is in every way. Butit is about the Count that I have come to speakto you to-day, I am greatly worried about him,I am sure il file un mauvais coton. He hardlyever leaves the house, spends most of his days inhis room smoking his big cigars, he sleeps for hoursafter luncheon and I often find him any time ofthe day asleep in his arm-chair with his cigar inhis mouth. In the country he is quite a differentman, he takes his morning-ride every day afterMass, is active and bright and takes much interestin the management of his big estates. His onlywish is to go to his château in Touraine and ifthe Countess cannot be persuaded to leave Paris,as I fear is the case, I have reluctantly come tothe conclusion that he should go alone. He hasgreat confidence in you and if you tell him it isnecessary for his health to leave Paris, he will do so.This is precisely what I have come to ask you to do."

"I am sorry, M. l'Abbé, but I cannot."

He looked at me with undisguised surprise, almostsuspicion.

"May I ask you the reason for your refusal?"

"The Countess cannot leave Paris now and itis only natural that she should accompany theCount."

"Why cannot she be treated for her colitis inthe country, there is a very good and safe doctorat the Castle who has often looked after her before,when she suffered from appendicitis."

"With what result?"

He did not answer.

"May I in return," I said, "ask you this question?Suppose the Countess could be suddenlycured of her colitis, could you make her leaveParis?"

"Honestly speaking, no. But why this supposition,since I understand that this disease is of longduration and difficult to cure?"

"I could cure the Countess of her colitis in aday."

He looked at me stupefied.

"And why, in the name of All the Saints, don'tyou? You are incurring a tremendous responsibility."

"I am not afraid of responsibility, I would notbe here if I were. Now let us speak openly.Yes, I could cure the Countess in a day, she nomore has colitis than you or I, nor has she everhad appendicitis. It is all in her head, in hernerves. If I took away her colitis from her toorapidly, she might lose her mental balance altogether,or take to something far worse, say,morphia, or a lover. Whether I shall be able tobe of any use to the Countess remains to be seen.To order the Countess to leave Paris now wouldbe a psychological error. She would probablyrefuse and, once having dared to disobey me, herconfidence in me would be at an end. Give me afortnight and she will leave Paris by her own wish—orat least she will think so. It is all a questionof tactics. To make the Count go alone would bean error of another order, and you, M. l'Abbé,know this as well as I do."

He looked at me attentively but said nothing.

"Now as to the Marquise. You were kindenough to compliment me for what I have donefor her and I accept the compliment. Medicallyspeaking I have done nothing nor could anybodyelse do anything. Deaf people suffer considerablyfrom their inforced isolation from others, speciallythose who have no mental resources of their ownand they are in the majority. To distract theirattention from their misfortune is the only thingone can do for them. The Marquise's thoughtsare occupied with colitis instead of with deafnessand you have yourself seen with what result. Imyself am beginning to have quite enough of colitis,and now since the Marquise is going to the country,I am replacing it with a lap-dog, more suitable tocountry-life."

As he was going away, the Abbé turned in thedoor and looked at me attentively.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-six."

"Vous irez loin, mon fils! Vous irez loin!"

"Yes," thought I. "I am going far, far away,away from this humiliating life of humbug anddeceit, from all these artificial people, back to theenchanting island, back to old Maria Porta-Lettere,to Mastro Vincenzo and to Gioconda, to clean mysoul in the little white house high up on the top ofthe cliff. How much longer am I going to wastemy time in this horrible town? When is Sant'Antoniogoing to work his new miracle?

On my table lay a letter of good-bye, not good-bye,but au revoir, from the Marquise, full ofgratitude and praise. It contained a big banknote.I looked at the faded photograph of Capriin the corner of my room and put the money inmy pocket. What has become of all the moneyI made in those days of prosperity and luck? Iwas supposed to save it all for Mastro Vincenzo'shouse, but the fact remains, I never had anymoney to save. Wages of sin? Maybe, but ifso, the whole faculty ought to have gone bankrupt,for we were all in the same boat, the professorsas well as my colleagues, with the samesort of clientèle as I. Luckily for me I had otherpatients as well, plenty of them and enough tosave me from becoming a charlatan altogether.There were in those days far fewer specialiststhan now. I was supposed to know everything,even surgery. It took me two years to realizethat I was not fit to be a surgeon, I fear it tookmy patients less time. Although I was supposedto be a nerve-doctor, I did everything a doctorcan be asked to do, even obstetrics, and Godhelped mother and child. In fact it was surprisinghow well the great majority of my patientsresisted the treatment. When Napoleon's eagleeye flashed down the list of officers proposed forpromotion to generals, he used to scribble in themargin of a name: "Is he lucky?" I had luck,amazing, almost uncanny luck with everything Ilaid my hands on, with every patient I saw. Iwas not a good doctor, my studies had been toorapid, my hospital training too short, but thereis not the slightest doubt that I was a successfuldoctor. What is the secret of success? To inspireconfidence. What is confidence? Wheredoes it come from, from the head or from theheart? Does it derive from the upper strata ofour mentality or is it a mighty tree of knowledgeof good and evil with roots springing from thevery depths of our being? Through what channelsdoes it communicate with others? Is it visiblein the eye, is it audible in the spoken word? I donot know, I only know that it cannot be acquiredby book-reading, nor by the bed-side of our patients.It is a magic gift granted by birth-right to one manand denied to another. The doctor who possessesthis gift can almost raise the dead. The doctorwho does not possess it will have to submit to thecalling-in of a colleague for consultation in a caseof measles. I soon discovered that this invaluablegift had been granted to me by no merit of mine.I discovered it in the nick of time, for I was beginningto become conceited and very pleased withmyself. It made me understand how little I knewand made me turn more and more to MotherNature, the wise old nurse, for advice and help. Itmight even have made me become a good doctor inthe end, had I stuck to my hospital work and tomy poor patients. But I lost all my chances, forI became a fashionable doctor instead. If youcome across a fashionable doctor, watch him carefullyat a safe distance before handing yourselfover to him. He may be a good doctor, but invery many cases he is not. First, because as arule he is far too busy to listen with patience toyour long story. Secondly, because he is inevitablyliable to become a snob, if he is not one already, tolet the Countess pass in before you, to examine theliver of the Count with more attention than thatof his valet, to go to the garden-party at the BritishEmbassy instead of to your last-born, whosewhooping-cough is getting worse. Thirdly, unlesshis heart is very sound he will soon show unmistakablesigns of precocious hardening of that organ;he will become indifferent and insensible to thesuffering of others, like the pleasure-seeking peoplearound him. You cannot be a good doctor withoutpity.

Often, when a long day's work was over, I, whohave always been interested in psychology, used toask myself why all these silly people sat and waitedfor me for hours in my consulting-room. Why didthey all obey me, why could I so often make themfeel better, even by a mere touch of my hand?Why, even after the power of speech had gone andthe terror of death was staring out of their eyes,did they become so peaceful and still when I laidmy hand on their forehead? Why did the lunaticsin the Asile St. Anne, foaming with rage andscreaming like wild animals, become calm and docilewhen I loosened their strait-jackets and held theirhand in mine? It was a common trick of mine, allthe warders knew it and many of my comrades andeven the professor used to say of me: Ce garçon-làa le diable au corps! I have always had a sneakingliking for lunatics, I used to wander aboutquite unconcerned in the Salle des Agités as amongfriends. I had been warned more than once thatit would end badly, but of course I knew better.One day, one of my best friends hit me on the backof the head with a hammer he had got hold of insome inexplicable way, and I was carried unconsciousto the infirmary. It was a terrible blow, myfriend was an ex-blacksmith who knew his business.They thought at first I had a fracture of the skull.Not I! It was only a commotion cérébrale andmy misadventure brought me a flattering complimentfrom the chef de clinique: "Ce sacré Suédoisa le crâne d'un ours, faut voir s'il n'a pas cassé lemarteau!"

"After all it may be in the head and not in thehand," said I to myself when my mental machineryset to work after a standstill of forty-eight hours.As I lay there in the infirmary a whole week withan ice-bag on my "head of a bear" and no visitorsor books to keep me company, I began to thinkhard on the subject, and not even the blacksmith'shammer could make me abandon my theory that itwas all in the hand.

Why could I put my hand between the bars ofthe black panther's cage in Ménagerie Pezon and,if nobody came near to irritate him, make the bigcat roll over on his back, purring amiably at me,with my hand between his paws and yawning atme with his big mouth wide open? Why could Ilance the abscess in Léonie's foot and pull out thesplinter of wood that had made the big lionesstramp about restlessly on three legs for a week inagonizing pain? The local anæsthetic had proved afailure, and poor Léonie moaned like a child whenI pressed the pus out of her paw. Only when Idisinfected the wound she got somewhat impatient,but there was no wrath in the subdued thunder ofher voice, only disappointment that she was notallowed to lick it herself with her sharp tongue.When the operation was over and I was leaving themenagerie with the baby baboon under my arm M.Pezon had presented to me as my fee, the famouslion-tamer said to me:

"Monsieur le Docteur, vous avez manquévotre profession, vous auriez du être dompteurd'animaux!"

And Ivan, the big Polar Bear at the Jardin desPlantes, did he not clamber out of his tub of wateras soon as he saw me, to come to the bars of hisprison and standing erect on his hind legs put hisblack nose just in front of mine and take the fishfrom my hand in the most friendly manner? Thekeeper said he did it with nobody else, no doubt helooked upon me as a sort of compatriot. Don't sayit was the fish and not the hand, for when I hadnothing to offer him he still stood there in the sameposition as long as I had time to remain, lookingsteadfastly at me with his shining black eyes undertheir white eye-lashes and sniffing at my hand. Ofcourse we spoke in Swedish, with a sort of Polaraccent I picked up from him. I am sure he understoodevery word I said when I told him in a lowmonotonous voice how sorry I was for him and thatwhen I was a boy I had seen two of his kinsmenswimming close to our boat amongst floating ice-blocksin the land of our birth.

And poor Jacques, the famous gorilla of theZoo, so far the only one of his tribe who had beentaken prisoner and brought to the sunless land ofhis enemies! Didn't he confidentially put his hornyhand in mine as soon as he saw me? Didn't he likeme to pat him gently on his back? He would sitquite still for minutes holding on to my hand withoutsaying anything. Often he would look at thepalm of my hand with great attention, as if he knewsomething about palmistry, bend my fingers oneafter another as if to see how the joints were working,then he would drop my hand and look with thesame attention at his own hand with a chuckle, asif to say that he saw no great difference betweenthe two and he was quite right there. Most of thetime he used to sit quite still fingering a straw, inthe corner of the cage where his visitors could notsee him, seldom using the swing provided for himin the clumsy hope that he might take it for theswinging branch of the sycamore-tree where he usedto take his siesta in the days of his freedom. Heused to sleep on a low couch made of bamboo, likethe sêrir of the Arabs, but he was an early riserand I never saw him in bed until he was taken ill.He had been taught by his keeper to eat his midday-mealseated before a low table, a napkin stuckunder his chin. He had even been provided witha knife and fork of hard wood, but had never takento them, he much preferred to eat with his fingers,as did our forefathers up till a couple of hundredyears ago and still does the majority of the humanrace. But he drank his milk with great gusto outof his own cup and also his morning coffee withmuch sugar in it. It is true that he blew his nosewith his fingers, but so did Petrarca's Laura, MaryQueen of Scots and Le Roi Soleil. Poor Jack!Our friendship lasted to the end. He had been ailingever since Christmas, his complexion becameashy grey, his cheeks hollow and his eyes sankdeeper and deeper into their sockets. He becamerestless and fretful, was losing flesh rapidly, andsoon a dry, ominous cough set in. I took his temperatureseveral times but had to be very carefulfor, like children, he was apt to break the thermometerto see what was moving inside. One day as hesat on my lap holding on to my hand, he had aviolent fit of coughing which brought on a slighthæmorrhage of the lungs. The sight of the bloodterrified him, as is the case with most people. Ioften noticed during the war how even the bravestTommies who looked quite unconcerned at theirgaping wounds could grow pale at the sight of afew drops of fresh blood. He lost more and morehis appetite and could only with great difficulty becoaxed to eat a banana or a fig. One morning Ifound him lying on his bed with the blanketpulled over his head, just as my patients in theSalle St. Claire used to lie, when they were tiredto death and sick of everything. He must haveheard me coming for he stretched out his handfrom under the blanket and got hold of mine. Ididn't want to disturb him and sat there for along while with his hand in mine, listening to hisheavy irregular respiration and to the phlegmrattling in his throat. Presently a sharp fit ofcoughing shook his whole body. He sat up inhis bed and put his two hands to his temples in agesture of despair. The whole expression of hisface had changed. He had cast off his animal disguiseand become a dying human being. So nearhad he come to me that he was deprived of theonly privilege our Mighty God has granted to theanimals in compensation for the sufferings maninflicts upon them—that of an easy death. Hisagony was terrible, he died slowly strangled by thesame Executioner I had so often seen at work inSalle St. Claire. I recognized him well by the slowgrip of his hand.

And after? What became of my poor friendJack? I know well that his emaciated body wentto the Anatomical Institution and that his skeleton,with its large brain-pan, still stands erect in theMusée Dupuytren. But is that all?

V
PATIENTS

I missed very much my Sunday dinners inFaubourg St. Germain. About a fortnightafter my interview with the Abbé the Countess,with her impulsive nature, had suddenly felt theneed of a change of air and decided to accompanythe Count to their château in Touraine. It cameas a surprise to us all, only the Abbé must havehad some inkling of it, for I noticed a merrytwinkling in his shrewd old eye the last Sunday Idined there. The Countess was kind enough tosend me a weekly report to say how she was gettingon and I also heard now and then fromthe Abbé. Everything was going on well. TheCount had his ride every morning, never sleptduring the day and smoked much less. TheCountess had taken up her music again, occupiedherself diligently with the poor of the village andnever complained about her colitis. The Abbéalso gave me good news about the Marquise, whosecountry-seat was a short hour's drive from thechâteau. She was doing very well. Instead ofsitting in her arm-chair in mournful seclusion thewhole day, worrying about her deafness, she nowtook a long walk twice a day in the garden for thesake of her beloved Loulou who was getting too fatand greatly in need of exercise.

"He is a horrible little brute," wrote the Abbé,"who sits in her lap and snarls and growls ateverybody; he has even bitten the maid twice.Everybody hates him, but the Marquise adoreshim and fusses about him the whole day. Yesterdayin the midst of the confession he wassuddenly sick all over her beautiful teagown andhis mistress was in such a state of alarm that Ihad to interrupt the function. Now the Marquisewants me to ask you if you think it mightpossibly develop into colitis and asks you to be sokind as to prescribe something for him, she saysshe feels sure you will understand his case betterthan anybody."

The Marquise was not far from the truth there,for I was already then beginning to be knownas a good dog-doctor, though I had not reachedthe eminent position I occupied later in my life,when I became a consulting dog-doctor famousamong all dog-lovers of my clientèle. I am awarethat the opinions as to my skill as a doctor to myfellow-creatures have been somewhat divided, butI dare to maintain that my reputation as a reliabledog-doctor has never been seriously challenged. Iam not conceited enough to wish to deny that thismay partly depend upon the absence of jalousie demétier I met with in the exercise of this branch ofmy profession—I got plenty of it in the otherbranches, I can assure you.

To become a good dog-doctor it is necessary tolove dogs, but it is also necessary to understandthem—the same as with us, with the differencethat it is easier to understand a dog than a manand easier to love him. Never forget that thementality of one dog is totally different from thatof another. The sharp wit that sparkles in thequick eye of a fox-terrier, for instance, reflects amental activity totally different from the serenewisdom which shines in the calm eye of a St.Bernard or an old sheep-dog. The intelligenceof dogs is proverbial, but there is a great differenceof degree, already apparent in the puppiesas soon as they open their eyes. There are evenstupid dogs, though the percentage is muchsmaller than in man. On the whole it is easy tounderstand the dog and to learn to read histhoughts. The dog cannot dissimulate, cannotdeceive, cannot lie because he cannot speak. Thedog is a saint. He is straightforward and honestby nature. If in exceptional cases there appearin a dog some stigmas of hereditary sin traceableto his wild ancestors, who had to rely on cunningin their fight for existence, these stigmas willdisappear when his experience has taught himthat he can rely upon straight and just dealingsfrom us. If these stigmas should remain in a dogwho is well treated, these cases are extremelyrare, this dog is not normal, he is suffering frommoral insanity and should be given a painlessdeath. A dog gladly admits the superiority of hismaster over himself, accepts his judgment as final,but, contrary to what many dog-lovers believe,he does not consider himself as a slave. Hissubmission is voluntary and he expects his ownsmall rights to be respected. He looks upon hismaster as his king, almost as his god, he expectshis god to be severe if need be, but he expectshim to be just. He knows that his god can readhis thoughts and he knows it is no good to try toconceal them. Can he read the thoughts of hisgod? Most certainly he can. The Society forPsychical Research may say what they like, buttelepathy between man and man has so far notbeen proved. But telepathy between dog andman has been proved over and over again. Thedog can read his master's thoughts, can understandhis varying moods, and foretell his decisions.He knows by instinct when he is not wanted, liesquite still for hours when his king is hard at workas kings often are, or at least ought to be. Butwhen his king is sad and worried he knows thathis time has come and he creeps up and lays hishead on his lap. Don't worry! Never mind ifthey all abandon you, I am here to replace allyour friends and to fight all your enemies! Comealong and let us go for a walk and forget allabout it!

It is strange and very pathetic to watch thebehaviour of a dog when his master is ill. Thedog warned by his infallible instinct is afraid ofdisease, afraid of death. A dog accustomed foryears to sleep on his master's bed is reluctant toremain there when his master is ill. Even in therare exceptions to this rule, he leaves his masterat the approach of death, hiding in a corner of theroom and whining pitifully. It has even happenedto me to be warned by the behaviour of adog of the approach of death. What does heknow about death? At least as much as we do,probably a good deal more. As I write this I amreminded of a poor woman in Anacapri, a strangerto the village, slowly dying of consumption, soslowly that one after another of the few comariwho used to go and see her had got tired of herand left her to her fate. Her only friend was amongrel dog, who, an exception to the rule I havejust mentioned, never left his place at the foot ofher bed. It was besides the only place to lie on,except on the damp earthen floor of the wretchedhole the poor woman lived and died in. One day,as I happened to pass by, I found Don Salvatorethere, the only one of the twelve priests of ourlittle village who took the slightest interest in thepoor and the sick. Don Salvatore asked me if Idid not think the time had come to bring her theLast Sacraments. The woman looked about asusual, her pulse was not worse, she even told usshe had felt a little better these last days—lamiglioria della morte, said Don Salvatore. Ihad often marvelled at the amazing tenacitywith which she clung to life and I told the priestshe might quite well last for another week or two.So we agreed to wait with the Last Sacraments.Just as we were leaving the room the dog jumpeddown from the bed with a howl of distress andcrouched in the corner of the room whining pitifully.I could see no change in the woman'slooks, but noticed with surprise that her pulsewas now almost imperceptible. She made adesperate effort to say something, but I could notunderstand at first what she meant. She lookedat me with wide-open eyes and raised her emaciatedarm several times pointing to the dog. Thistime I understood and I believe she also understoodme when I bent over her and said I wouldtake care of the dog. She nodded contentedly,her eyes closed and the peace of death spread overher face. She drew a deep breath, a few drops ofblood oozed out between her lips and it was allover. The immediate cause of this woman'sdeath was evidently an internal hæmmorhage.How did the dog know before I knew? Whenthey came in the evening to take her away thedog followed his mistress to the camposanto,the only mourner. Next day old Pacciale, thegrave-digger, already then my special friend, toldme that the dog was still lying on her grave. Itrained torrents the whole day and the followingnight, but in the morning the dog was still there.In the evening I sent Pacciale with a leash to tryto coax him away and take him to San Michele,but the dog growled savagely at him and refusedto move. On the third day I went to the cemeterymyself and succeeded with great difficulty inmaking him follow me home, he knew me besidesquite well. There were eight dogs in San Michelein those days and I felt very uneasy as to thereception awaiting the new-comer. But all wentwell, thanks to Billy, the baboon, for he, for someinexplicable reason, at first sight took a greatfancy to the stranger, who, once recovered fromhis stupefaction, soon became his inseparable friend.All my dogs hated and feared the huge monkeywho ruled supreme in the garden of San Micheleand soon even Barbarossa, the fierce Maremma dog,ceased to growl at the new-comer. He lived therehappily for two years and is buried there under theivy with my other dogs.

A dog can be taught to do almost anything withfriendly encouragement, patience and a biscuitwhen he has learned his lesson with right goodwill. Never lose your temper or use violence ofany sort. Corporal punishment inflicted on anintelligent dog is an indignity which reflects uponhis master. It is besides a psychological error.This being said, let me add that naughty puppiesas well as very small children before the age ofreason, but not after, are quite welcome to a littlespanking now and then when too recalcitrant tolearn the fundamental rules of good manners.Personally, I have never taught my dogs any sortof tricks, although I admit that many dogs, theirlesson once learned, take great pleasure in showingoff their tricks. To perform in a circus isquite another matter and a degradation to anintelligent dog. Anyhow these performing dogsare as a rule well looked after on account of themoney they bring in and are infinitely better offthan their wretched wild comrades in the menagerie.When a dog is ill, he will submit to almostanything, even a painful operation, if it is explainedto him in a kind but firm voice that itmust be done and why it must be done. Nevercoax a sick dog to eat, he often does so only tooblige you, even if his instinct warns him toabstain from food, which is as often as not hissalvation. Don't worry, dogs like very smallchildren can be without food for several days withoutfurther inconvenience. A dog can standpain with great courage, but of course he likesyou to tell him how sorry you are for him. Maybeit will be a comfort to some dog-lovers to be toldthat I do believe that on the whole their sensitivenessto pain is less acute than we think. Neverdisturb a sick dog when not absolutely necessary.As often as not your untimely interference onlydistracts nature in her effort to assist him to getwell. All animals wish to be left alone when theyare ill and also when they are about to die. Alas!the life of a dog is so short and there are none of uswho have not been in mourning for a lost friend.Your first impulse and your first words after youhave laid him to rest under a tree in the park, arethat you never, never wish to have another dog;no other dog could ever replace him, no other dogcould ever be to you what he has been. You aremistaken. It is not a dog we love, it is the dog.They are all more or less the same, they are allready to love you and be loved by you. Theyare all representatives of the most lovable and,morally speaking, most perfect creation of God.If you loved your dead friend in the right way,you cannot do without another. Alas! he alsowill have to part from you, for those beloved bythe gods die young. Remember when his timecomes what I am going to tell you now. Do notsend him to the lethal chamber or ask your kind-hearteddoctor to see that he is given a painlessdeath under an anæsthetic. It is not a painlessdeath, it is a distressing death. Dogs oftenresist the deadly effect of these gases and drugsin the most heartrending way. The dose whichwould kill a full-grown man often leaves a dogalive for long minutes of mental and bodily suffering.I have been present several times at thesemassacres in lethal chambers and I have myselfkilled many dogs under anæsthetics, and I knowwhat I am talking about. I shall never do itagain. Ask any man you can trust, who is fondof dogs, this condition is necessary, to take yourold dog in the park, to give him a bone and whilehe is eating it to shoot him with a revolverthrough the ear. It is an instantaneous andpainless death, life is extinguished like the candleyou blow out. Many of my old dogs have died soby my own hand. They all lie buried under thecypresses in Materita and over their graves standsan antique marble column. There also lies anotherdog, for twelve years the faithful friendof a gracious lady who, although she has to bethe mother of a whole country, my own country,has enough room left in her heart to bring a bunchof flowers to his grave every time she comes toCapri.

Fate has willed that the most lovable of allanimals should be the bearer of the most terribleof all diseases—hydrophobia. I witnessed at theInstitut Pasteur the early stages of the long-drawnbattle between science and the dreaded foeand I also witnessed the final victory. It wasdearly won. Hecatombs of dogs had to be sacrificedand maybe some human lives as well. Iused to visit the doomed animals and give themwhat little comfort I could, but it became sopainful to me that for some time I gave up goingto the Institut Pasteur altogether. Still I neverdoubted it was right, that what was done had tobe done. I was present at many failures, sawmany people die both before and after treatmentwith the new method. Pasteur was violentlyattacked not only by all sorts of ignorant andwell-meaning dog-lovers but also by many of hisown colleagues, he was even accused of havingcaused the death of several of his patients withhis serum. He himself went on his way undauntedby failure, but those who saw him inthose days knew well how much he suffered fromthe tortures he had to inflict upon the dogs, forhe was himself a great lover of dogs. He was themost kind-hearted of men. I once heard him saythat he could never have the courage to shoot abird. Everything that could possibly be done tominimize the sufferings of the laboratory dogs wasdone, even the keeper of the kennel at Villeneuvede l'Etang, an ex-gendarme called Pernier, hadbeen chosen for his post by Pasteur himself becausehe was known as a great lover of dogs.These kennels contained sixty dogs inoculatedwith serum and regularly taken to the kennels inthe old Lycée Rollin for bite tests. In thesekennels were kept forty rabid dogs. The handlingof these dogs, all foaming with rage, was avery dangerous affair, and I often marvelled atthe courage displayed by everybody. Pasteurhimself was absolutely fearless. Anxious to securea sample of saliva straight from the jawsof a rabid dog, I once saw him with the glass tubeheld between his lips draw a few drops of thedeadly saliva from the mouth of a rabid bull-dog,held on the table by two assistants, their handsprotected by leather gloves. Most of these laboratorydogs were homeless stray dogs pickedup by the police in the streets of Paris, but manyof them looked as if they had seen better days.Here they suffered and died in obscurity, UnknownSoldiers in the battle of the human mindagainst disease and death. Close by, at La Bagatelle,in the elegant dog-cemetery founded by SirRichard Wallace, lay buried hundreds of lap-dogsand drawing-room dogs, with the records of theiruseless and luxurious lives inscribed by lovinghands on the marble crosses over their graves.

Then came the terrible episode of the sixRussian peasants bitten by a pack of mad wolvesand sent to the Institut Pasteur at the expensesof the Tzar. They were all horribly mauled inthe face and hands and their chances from theoutset were almost nil. Moreover it was knowneven then that hydrophobia in wolves was farmore dangerous than in dogs and that thosebitten in the face were almost certain to die.Pasteur knew this better than anybody, andhadn't he been the man he was, he would nodoubt have declined to take them in hand. Theywere placed in a separate ward in the Hôtel Dieu inthe charge of Professor Tillaux, the most eminentand the most humane surgeon in Paris in thosedays and a staunch supporter and great friendof Pasteur's. Pasteur came himself every morningwith Tillaux to inoculate them, watchingthem anxiously from day to day. Nobody couldunderstand a word they said. One afternoon,it was on the ninth day, I was trying to pour adrop of milk down the lacerated throat of one ofthe moujiks, a giant whose whole face had almostbeen torn away, when suddenly something wildand uncanny flashed in his eyes, the muscles ofthe jaws contracted and opened spasmodicallywith a snapping sound and a ghastly cry I hadnever heard before either from man or animalrang out from his foaming mouth. He made aviolent effort to spring out of bed and nearlyknocked me down, as I tried to hold him back.His arms, strong as the paws of a bear, closedon me in a clasp, holding me tight as in a vice. Ifelt the foul breath from his foaming mouthclose to mine and the poisonous saliva drippingdown my face. I gripped at his throat, thebandage slipped off his ghastly wound and as Idrew back my hands from his snapping jaws, theywere red with blood. A convulsive tremblingpassed over his whole body, his arms relaxedtheir grasp and fell back inert at his side. Istaggered to the door in search of the strongestdisinfectant I could get hold of. In the corridorsat Soeur Marthe, drinking her afternoon coffee.She looked at me terrified and I gulped down hercup of coffee just as I was going to faint. ByGod's mercy there was not a scratch on my face norhands. Soeur Marthe was a great friend of mine.She kept her word; so far as I know, the secretnever leaked out. I had good reason to keep itsecret, strict orders had been given not to approachany of these men unless it was absolutely necessaryand if so, only with the hands protected by thickgloves. I told it later to the Professor himself, hewas quite rightly very angry with me, but he hada sneaking weakness for me and he soon forgaveme, as he had so often done before for many shortcomings.

"Sacré Suédois," he muttered, "tu es aussienragé que le moujik!" In the evening themoujik, tied hand and foot to the iron bars of thebed, was carried to a separate pavilion isolatedfrom the others. I went to see him next morningwith Soeur Marthe. The room was semi-dark.The bandage covered his whole face and I couldsee nothing but his eyes. I shall never forget theexpression of those eyes, they used to haunt mefor years afterwards. His breathing was shortand irregular, with intervals like the Cheyne-Stokesrespiration—the well-known precursorysymptom of death. He talked with vertiginousrapidity in a hoarse voice, now and then interruptedby a wild cry of distress or a hooting moan whichmade me shudder. I listened for a while to therush of unknown words half-drowned in the flow ofsaliva, and soon I thought I distinguished one sameword repeated incessantly, with an almost desperateaccent:

"Crestitsa! Crestitsa! Crestitsa!" I lookedattentively at his eyes, kind, humble, imploringeyes.

"He is conscious," I whispered to Soeur Marthe,"he wants something. I wish I knew what it is.Listen!"

"Crestitsa! Crestitsa! Crestitsa!" he called outincessantly.

"Run and fetch a crucifix," I said to the nun.

We laid the crucifix on the bed. The flow ofwords ceased instantly. He lay there quite silent,his eyes fixed on the crucifix. His breathing grewfainter and fainter. Suddenly the muscles of hisgiant body stiffened in a last violent contractionand the heart stood still.

The next day another moujik showed unmistakablesigns of hydrophobia, and soon another,and three days later they were all raving mad.Their screams and howls could be heard all overthe Hôtel Dieu, people said even below in PlaceNôtre Dame. The whole hospital was in emotion.Nobody wanted to go near the ward, eventhe courageous sisters fled in terror. I can seenow the white face of Pasteur as he passed insilence from bed to bed, looking at the doomedmen with infinite compassion in his eyes. He sankdown on a chair, his head between his hands. Accustomedas I was to see him every day I had notnoticed till then how ill and worn he looked, thoughI knew from an almost imperceptible hesitation inhis speech and a slight embarrassment in the gripof his hand that he had already then received thefirst warning of the fate that was to overtake himere long. Tillaux who had been sent for in themidst of an operation rushed into the ward, hisapron stained with blood. He went up to Pasteurand laid his hand on his shoulder. The two menlooked at each other in silence. The kind blue eyesof the great surgeon, who had seen so much horrorand suffering, glanced round the ward and his facegrew white like a sheet.

"I cannot stand it," he said in a broken voiceand sprang out of the room.

The same evening a consultation took place betweenthese two men. They are few who know thedecision they arrived at, but it was the only rightone and an honour to them both. The next morningall was silent in the ward. During the nightthe doomed men had been helped to a painlessdeath.

The impression in Paris was enormous. All thenewspapers were full of the most ghastly descriptionsof the death of the Russian moujiks and fordays nobody spoke of anything else.

Late one night the following week a well-knownNorwegian animal painter came rushing toAvenue de Villiers in a state of fearful agitation.He had been bitten in the hand by his beloveddog, an enormous bull-dog, most ferocious-looking,but hitherto most amiable and a great friendof mine—his portrait painted by his master hadbesides been in the Salon the year before. Wedrove at once to the studio in Avenue des Termes.The dog was locked up in the bedroom and hismaster wanted me to shoot him at once, he saidhe had not the courage to do it himself. The dogwas running to and fro, now and then hiding underthe bed with a savage growl. The room was sodark that I put the key in my pocket and decidedto wait till next morning. I disinfected anddressed the wound and gave the Norwegian asleeping-draught for the night. I watched thedog attentively the next morning and decided topostpone shooting him till the following day as Iwas not quite certain he really had hydrophobia,notwithstanding all the appearances. Errors ofdiagnosis in the early stages of rabies are verycommon. Even the classical symptom whichhas given its name to the dreaded disease—hydrophobiameans horror of water—is not to be reliedupon. The rabid dog does not abhor water. Ihave often seen a rabid dog drink with avidityfrom a bowl of water I had put in his cage. It isonly with human beings affected with rabies thatthis symptom holds good. A great number, ifnot the majority of dogs killed suspected of hydrophobia,are suffering from other relatively harmlessdiseases. But even if this can be proved bypost-mortem examination—not one in a dozen ofordinary doctors and vets is competent to do it—itis as a rule most difficult to convince the personwho has been bitten by the dog. The dread ofthe terrible disease remains, and to be hauntedby the fear of hydrophobia is as dangerous as thedisease itself. The right thing to do is to have thesuspected dog safely locked up and provided withfood and drink. If he is alive after ten days it iscertain that it is not rabies and all is well.

Next morning when I watched the dog throughthe half-open door he wagged his stump of a tailand looked at me with a quite friendly expressionin his blood-shot eyes. But just as I stretchedout my hand to pat him, he retired under the bedwith a growl. I did not know what to think.Anyhow I told his master I did not believe he wasrabid. He would not hear of it and again beggedme to shoot the dog at once. I refused and said Iwanted to wait another day. His master hadspent the night walking to and fro in the studioand on the table lay a medical handbook withthe symptoms of hydrophobia in man and dogmarked with a pencil. I threw the book in thefire. His neighbour, a Russian sculptor, who hadpromised me to remain with him the whole day,told me in the evening he had refused all foodand drink, was constantly wiping saliva fromhis lips and talked about nothing but hydrophobia.I insisted upon his drinking a cup ofcoffee. He looked at me desperately and said hecould not swallow and as I handed him the cup Iwas horrified to see the muscles of his jaw stiffenwith a convulsive cramp, his whole body began totremble and he sank down in his chair with a terriblecry of distress. I gave him a strong injectionof morphia and told him I was so sure that thedog was all right that I was willing to go into theroom again, but I don't believe I would have hadthe courage to do it. The morphia began to actand I left him half-asleep in his chair. When Ireturned late at night, the Russian sculptor toldme that the whole house had been in an uproar,that the landlord had sent the concierge to saythat the dog must be killed at once and that hehad just shot him through the window. The doghad crawled to the door, where he had finishedhim off with another bullet. He was lying therestill in a pool of blood. His master was sittingin his chair staring straight before him withoutsaying a word. I did not like the look in his eyes,I took his revolver from the table and put it inmy pocket, there was still one bullet left. I lit thecandle and asked the Russian sculptor to help me tocarry the dead dog down to my carriage, I wantedto take him straight to the Institut Pasteur for apost-mortem. There was a large pool of blood nearthe door, the dog was not there.

"Shut the door," shouted the sculptor behindme as the dog sprang at me from under the bedwith a horrible growl, his wide-open mouthstreaming with blood. The candlestick droppedfrom my hand, I fired at random in the dark andthe dog fell dead at my very feet. We put himin my carriage and I drove to the Institut Pasteur.Doctor Roux, Pasteur's right-hand man,and later on his successor, saying it looked verybad indeed, promised to make a post-mortemimmediately and to let me know as soon as possible.When I came to Avenue des Ternes nextday, I found the Russian standing outside thestudio floor. He had spent the night with hisfriend who had been walking up and down thewhole time in great agitation, till at last he hadfallen asleep in his chair an hour ago. The Russianhad gone to his own room to wash and on comingback a moment ago had found the studio doorlocked from the inside.

"Listen," he said, as if to excuse himself forhaving disobeyed the orders not to leave him asecond, "it is all right, he is still asleep, don't youhear his snoring?"

"Help me to break open the door," I shouted,"it is not snoring, it is the stertorous breathing,of . . ."

The door gave way and we rushed in the studio.He was lying on the couch breathing heayily, arevolver still clutched in his hand. He had shothimself through the eye. We carried him to mycarriage. I drove full speed to the Hôpital Beaujonwhere he was operated on at once by ProfessorLabbé. The revolver he had shot himself withwas of smaller calibre than the one I had takenfrom him, the bullet was extracted. He wasstill unconscious when I left. The same eveningI received a letter from Doctor Roux that theresult of the post-mortem examination was negative,the dog had not had hydrophobia. I droveat once to the Hôpital Beaujon. The Norwegianwas delirious—prognosis pessima, said the famoussurgeon. On the third day brain-fever set in.He did not die, he left the hospital a month later,blind. The last I heard of him was that he was ina lunatic asylum in Norway.

My own rôle in this lamentable affair was notsatisfactory. I did my best, but it was not enough.If it had happened a couple of years later, this manwould not have shot himself. I would have knownhow to master his fear, and would have been thestronger of the two as I have been in later yearsmore than once, when I have stayed a hand clutchinga revolver in fear of life.

When will the anti-vivisectionists realize thatwhen they are asking for total prohibition ofexperiments on living animals they are askingfor what it is impossible to grant them? Pasteur'svaccination against rabies has reduced themortality in this terrible disease to a minimumand Behring's anti-diphtheric serum saves thelives of over a hundred thousand children everyyear. Are not these two facts alone sufficient tomake these well-meaning lovers of animals understandthat discoverers of new worlds like Pasteur,of new remedies against hitherto incurable diseaseslike Koch, Ehrlich and Behring must beleft to pursue their researches unhampered byrestrictions and undisturbed by interference fromoutsiders. Those to be left a free hand arebesides so few that they can be counted on one'sfingers. For the rest no doubt most severerestrictions should be insisted upon, perhapseven total prohibition. But I go further. Oneof the most weighty arguments against several ofthese experiments on living animals is that theirpractical value is much reduced, owing to thefundamental difference from a pathological andphysiological point of view between the bodiesof men and the bodies of animals. But whyshould these experiments be limited to the bodiesof animals, why should they not be carried outon the living body of man as well? Why shouldnot the born criminals, the chronic evil-doers,condemned to waste their remaining life inprison, useless and often dangerous to others andto themselves, why should not these inveterateoffenders against our laws be offered a reductionof their penal servitude if they were willing tosubmit under anæsthetics to certain experimentson their living bodies for the benefit of mankind?If the judge, before putting on the blackcap, had in his power to offer the murderer thealternative between the gallows and penal servitudefor so and so many years, I have littledoubt there would be no lack of candidates.Why should not Doctor Woronoff, the practicalvalue of his invention be it what it may, beallowed to open up an enlisting office in theprisons for those willing to enroll themselves assubstitutes for his wretched monkeys? Why donot these well-meaning lovers of animals beginby concentrating their efforts on putting a stopto the exhibition of wild animals in circuses andmenageries? As long as this scandal is toleratedby our laws there is little chance for us to belooked upon as civilized by a future generation.If you want to realize what a set of barbarians wereally are, you have only to enter the tent of atravelling menagerie. The cruel wild beast isnot behind the bars of the cage, he stands in frontof it.

A propos of monkeys and menageries I venturewith due modesty to pride myself on having beenin the days of my strength a good monkey-doctoras well. This is an extremely difficult specialty,hampered by all sorts of unexpected complicationsand pitfalls, and where rapidity of judgmentand profound knowledge of human nature are essentialconditions for success. It is sheer nonsenseto say that as with children the chief difficulty liesin the fact that the patient cannot speak. Monkeyscan speak quite well if they choose to. Thechief difficulty is that they are far too clever forour slow brains. You can deceive a human patient—deception,alas, forms a necessary part of ourprofession, the truth is so often too sad to be told.You can deceive a dog who believes blindly everythingyou say, but you cannot deceive a monkey,for he sees through you at once. The monkey candeceive you whenever he chooses and he loves todo it, often for sheer fun. My friend Jules, theaged baboon in the Jardin des Plantes, puts hishands on his tummy with the most pitiful air ofdejection, and shows me his tongue—it is mucheasier to make a monkey show you his tongue thana small child—says he has completely lost his appetiteand has only eaten my apple to oblige me.Before I have time to open my mouth to say howsorry I am, he has snatched my last banana fromme, eaten it, and thrown the skin at me from thetop of the cage.

"Kindly look at this red spot on my back,"says Edward. "I thought at first it was only aflea-bite, but now it burns like a blister. I cannotstand it any longer, cannot you give me somethingto take away the pain?—no, not there, higherup, come closer, I know you are somewhat short-sighted,let me show you the exact spot!" Thesame instant he sits in his trapeze grinning maliciouslyat me through my spectacles beforebreaking them to pieces to be presented as souvenirsto admiring comrades. Monkeys love to make funof us. But the slightest suspicion that we aremaking fun of them irritates them profoundly.You must never laugh at a monkey, he cannotstand it. Their whole nervous system is extraordinarilysensitive. A sudden fright can bring themalmost into hysterics, convulsions are not very rareamongst them, I have even attended a monkeywho suffered from epilepsy. An unexpected noisecan make them turn pale. They blush very easily,not from modesty, for God knows they are notmodest, but from anger. To observe this phenomenon,however, you must not look only at themonkey's face, he often blushes in another, unexpectedplace. Why their Maker, for reasons ofhis own, should have chosen this very place forsuch a rich and sensitive carnation, such a prodigaldisplay of vivid colours, crimson, blue and orange,remains a mystery to our uneducated eyes. Manystartled spectators do not even hesitate to pronounceit at first sight to be very ugly. But wemust not forget that opinions as to what is beautifulor not are much at variance in different agesand countries. The Greeks, arbiters of beauty ifthere ever were any, painted the hair of theirAphrodite blue, how do you like blue hair?Amongst the monkeys themselves this rich carnationis evidently a sign of beauty, irresistibleto the ladies' eye, and the happy possessor of sucha glow of colours a posteriori is often seen withuplifted tail turning his back upon the spectatorsin order to be admired. The monkeys are excellentmothers, but you must never attempt to have anythingto do with their children, for like the Arabwomen folk and even Neapolitan women, theybelieve that you have got the evil eye. The strongersex is somewhat inclined to flirtation and terrible"drames passionels" are constantly enacted in thebig monkey-house at the Zoo, where even thetiniest little ouistiti becomes an infuriated Othello,ready to fight the biggest baboon. The ladieswatch the tournament with sympathetic side-glancesat their various champions and with furiousquarrels amongst themselves. Imprisoned monkeys,as long as they are in company, live on thewhole a supportable life. They are so busy infinding out all that is going on inside and outsidetheir cage, so full of intrigue and gossip thatthey have hardly time to be unhappy. The lifeof an imprisoned big ape, gorilla, chimpanzee, ororang-outang, is of course the life of a martyr,pure and simple. They all fall into profoundhypochondria if tuberculosis is too slow to killthem. Consumption is, as everybody knows, thecause of the death of most imprisoned monkeys,big and small. The symptoms, evolution andending of the disease, are exactly the same as withus. It is not the cold air, but the lack of air thatstarts the disease. Most of the monkeys standthe cold surprisingly well, if provided with ampleaccommodation for exercise and snug sleepingquarters for the night, shared with a rabbit as bedcompanion for the sake of warmth. As soon asautumn begins, ever vigilant Mother Nature whowatches over the monkeys as well as over us, sets towork to provide their shivering bodies with extrafur-coats, suitable for northern winters. This appliesto most tropical animals imprisoned in northernclimates, who would all live much longer if allowedto live in the open air. Most Zoological Gardensseem to ignore this fact. Perhaps it is better so.Whether the prolongation of the lives of these unhappyanimals is a thing to be desired I leave toyou to ponder over. My answer is in the negative.Death is more merciful than we are.

VI
CHÂTEAU RAMEAUX

Paris in summer-time is a very pleasant placefor those who belong to the Paris qui s'amuse,but if you happen to belong to the Paris quitravaille, it becomes another matter. Especiallyso if you have to cope with an epidemic of typhoidat the Villette among the hundreds of Scandinavianworkmen, and an epidemic of diphtheria in theQuartier Montparnasse among your Italian friendsand their innumerable children. Indeed, therewas no lack of Scandinavian children either in theVillette; and the few families who hadn't got anyseemed to have chosen this very time to bringthem to the world, as often as not with no otherassistance, sage-femme included, than myself.Most of the children too small to catch typhoidstarted scarlet fever and the rest whooping-cough.Of course there was no money to pay for a Frenchdoctor, so it fell upon me to look after them aswell as I could. It was no joke, there were overthirty cases of typhoid among the Scandinavianworkmen in the Villette alone. Anyhow I managedto go to the Swedish church in BoulevardOrnano every Sunday to please my friend theSwedish chaplain, who said it was to set a goodexample to others. The congregation had dwindleddown to half its usual number, the other half wasin bed or nursing somebody in bed. The chaplainwas on his legs from morning till night, assistingand helping the sick and the poor, a more kind-heartedman I have never set eyes on, and he waspenniless too. The only reward he ever got wasthat he brought the infection to his own home.The two eldest of his eight children caught typhoid,five had scarlet fever, and his last born swalloweda two-franc piece and nearly died of intestinalocclusion. Then the Swedish Consul, a mostpeaceful and quiet little man, suddenly becamea raving lunatic, and, for the matter of that,nearly killed me; but I will tell you this storyanother time.

Up in Quartier Montparnasse it was a far moreserious business, although in many ways it seemedalmost easier work to me. I am ashamed to saythat I got on much better with these poor Italiansthan with my own compatriots, who were oftendifficult to handle, sullen, dissatisfied and ratherexacting and selfish. The Italians on the otherhand, who had brought nothing with them fromtheir own country but their small means, theirall-enduring patience and cheerfulness and theircharming manners, were always satisfied and gratefuland extraordinarily helpful to each other. Whendiphtheria broke out in the Salvatore family,Arcangelo Fusco, the street-sweeper, stopped workat once and became a most devoted nurse to themall. All three little girls caught diphtheria, theeldest girl died and the following day the worn-outmother caught the terrible disease. Only thechild of sorrow, Petruccio, the helpless idiot, wasspared by the inscrutable will of God Almighty.The whole Impasse Rousselle became infected,there was diphtheria in every house and not afamily without several small children. Both thehospitals for children were over-crowded. Evenhad there been a vacant bed the chances ofgetting admission for these foreign children wouldhave been next to none. So they had to be attendedby Arcangelo Fusco and myself, and thosewe had no time to see, and they were many, hadto live or die as best they could. No doctor whohas gone through the ordeal of fighting single-handedan epidemic of diphtheria amongst thevery poor with no means of disinfection either forothers or for himself, can think of such an experiencewithout a shudder, however callous hemay be. I had to sit there for hours, paintingand scraping the throat of one child after another,there was not much more to be done in those days.And then when it was no longer possible to detachthe poisonous membranes obstructing the air passages,when the child became livid and on thepoint of suffocation and the urgent indication fortracheotomy presented itself, with lightning rapidity!Must I operate at once, with not evena table to put the child on, on this low bed oron its mother's lap, by the light of this wretchedoil-lamp and no other assistant than a street-sweeper!Can't I wait till to-morrow and try toget hold of somebody who is more of a surgeonthan I am? Can I wait, dare I wait? Alas! Ihave waited till to-morrow when it was too lateand seen the child die before my eyes. I havealso operated at once and no doubt saved the lifeof a child, but I have also operated at once andseen the child die under my knife. My case waseven worse than that of many other doctors ina similar plight, for I was myself in deadly fearof diphtheria, a fear I have never been able toovercome. But Arcangelo Fusco was not afraid.He knew the danger as well as I did, for he hadseen the terrible infection spreading from one toanother, but he had never a single thought forhis own safety, he only thought of the others.When all was over, I was complimented right andleft, even by the Assistance Publique, but nobodyever said a word to Arcangelo Fusco whohad sold his Sunday clothes to pay the undertakerwho took away the body of the little girl.

Yes, there came a time when all was over, whenArcangelo Fusco returned to his street sweepingand I to my fashionable patients. While I hadbeen spending my days at the Villette and Montparnasse,the Parisians had been hard at workpacking their trunks and departing to their châteauxor their favourite seaside watering-places.The Boulevards were in the hands of pleasure-seekingforeigners who had crowded to Paris fromall parts of the civilized and uncivilized world tospend their surplus money. Many were sittingin my waiting-room, impatiently reading theirBaedekers, always insisting on passing in first,seldom asking for anything more than a pick-me-up,from a man much more in need of it thanthey were. Others, comfortably established ontheir chaises-longue in their smartest tea-gowns,dernière création Worth, sent for me from theirfashionable hotels at the most awkward hours ofthe day and the night, expecting me to "fix themup" for the Bal Masqué de l'Opéra to-morrow.They did not send for me twice and I was notsurprised.

What a waste of time! thought I as I walkedhome, dragging my tired legs along the burningasphalt of the Boulevards under the dust-coveredchestnut-trees gasping with drooping leaves for abreath of fresh air.

"I know what is the matter with you and me,"said I to the chestnut-trees, "we need a changeof air, to get out of the atmosphere of the bigcity. But how are we to get away from this inferno,you with your aching roots imprisoned under theasphalt and with that iron ring round your feet,and I with all these rich Americans in my waiting-roomand lots of other patients in their beds? Andif I were to go away, who would look after themonkeys in the Jardin des Plantes? Who wouldcheer up the panting Polar Bear, now that hisworst time was about to come? He won't understanda single word other kind people may sayto him, he who only understands Swedish! Andwhat about Quartier Montparnasse? Montparnasse!I shuddered as the word flew through mybrain, I saw the livid face of a child in the dimlight of a little oil-lamp, I saw the blood oozingfrom the cut I had just made in the child's throat,and I heard the cry of terror from the heart ofthe mother. What would the Countess say? . . .The Countess! No, there was decidedly somethingwrong with me, it was high time to lookafter my own nerves instead of the nerves of others,if such things could be seen and heard on theBoulevard Malesherbes. And what the devil hadI to do with the Countess? She was getting onsplendidly in her château in Touraine, accordingto Monsieur l'Abbé's last letter, and I was gettingon splendidly in Paris, the most beautiful city inthe world. All I was in need of was a little sleep.But what would the Count say if I wrote him aletter to-night that I gladly accepted his kind invitationand was starting to-morrow? If I couldonly sleep to-night! Why shouldn't I take myselfone of those excellent sleeping-draughts I used toconcoct for my patients, a strong sleeping-draughtthat would send me to sleep for twenty-four hoursand make me forget everything, Montparnasse, thechâteau in Touraine, the Countess and all the rest?I lay down on my bed without taking off myclothes, I was so tired. But I did not take thesleeping-draught, les cuisiniers n'ont pas faim, asthey say in Paris. On entering my consulting-roomnext morning, I found a letter on the table.It was from Monsieur l'Abbé with a P.S. in thehandwriting of the Count:

"You said you liked the song of the skylarkthe best. He is singing still, but it will not be forlong, so you had better come soon."

The skylark! And I who had not heard anyother birds for two years but the sparrows in theTuileries Gardens!

******

The horses which took me from the station werebeautiful, the château dating from the time ofRichelieu, in its vast park of secular lime-trees,was beautiful, the Louis XVI furniture in mysumptuous room was beautiful, the big St. Bernarddog who followed me upstairs was beautiful—everythingwas beautiful. So was the Countessin her simple white frock with a single La Francerose in her waistband. I thought her eyes hadgrown bigger than ever. The Count was altogetheranother man, with his rosy cheeks and wide-awakeeyes. His charming welcome took awayat once my shyness, I was still a barbarian fromUltima Thule, I had never been in such sumptuoussurroundings before. M. l'Abbé greeted me as anold friend. The Count said there was just timefor a stroll in the garden before tea, or would Iprefer to have a look at the stables? I was givena basket full of carrots to give one to each of adozen magnificent horses who stood there in theirwell-groomed coats aligned in their boxes of polishedoak.

"You had better give him an extra carrot tomake friends at once," said the Count. "He belongsto you as long as you are here, and this isyour groom," he added, pointing to an Englishboy who lifted his hand to his cap to salute me.

Yes, the Countess was wonderfully well, saidthe Count as we strolled back through the garden.She hardly ever spoke about her colitis, went tovisit her poor in the village every morning andwas discussing with the village doctor the turningof an old farm into an infirmary for sick children.On her birthday all the poor children of the villagehad been invited to the Castle for coffee and cakeand before they left she had presented a doll toevery child. Wasn't it a charming idea of hers?

"If she speaks to you about her dolls, don'tforget to say something nice to her."

"No, I won't forget, je ne demande pas mieux."

Tea was served under the big lime-tree in frontof the house.

"Here is a friend of yours, my dear Ann," saidthe Countess to the lady sitting by her side, aswe walked up to the table. "I am sorry to sayhe seems to prefer the company of horses to ours;so far he hasn't had time to say a single word tome, but has been talking half-an-hour to the horsesin the stables."

"And they seemed to have liked the conversationimmensely," laughed the Count, "even myold hunter, you know how ill-tempered he is withstrangers, put his nose to the doctor's face andsniffed at him in the most friendly manner."

The Baroness Ann said she was glad to see meand gave me excellent news about her mother-in-law,the Marquise Douairière.

"She even thinks she can hear better, but ofthat I am not sure, for she cannot hear Loulou'ssnoring and gets quite angry when my husbandsays he can hear it down in the smoking-room.Anyhow, her beloved Loulou has been a blessingto us all, she could never stand being alone beforeand it was so fatiguing to talk to her the wholetime through her ear-trumpet. Now she sits quitealone for hours with her Loulou on her lap andif you could see her cantering about in the gardenevery morning to exercise Loulou, you wouldhardly believe your eyes, she who never left herarm-chair. I remember how you said that shemust walk a little every day and how angry youlooked when she said she hadn't got the strength.It is indeed a marvellous change. Of course yousay it is all the nasty medicine you have given her,but I say it is Loulou, bless him, he is welcome tosnore as much as he likes!"

"Look at Leo," said the Count changing theconversation, "look at him with his head on thedoctor's lap, as if he had known him ever sincehe was born. He has even forgotten to come andbeg for his biscuit."

"What is the matter with you, Leo?" said theCountess. "You had better look out, old boy,or the doctor will hypnotize you. He has beenworking with Charcot at the Salpêtrière and hecan make people do anything he likes only bylooking at them. Why don't you make Leo speakSwedish with you?"

"Certainly not, there is no language so sympatheticto my ears as his silence. I am not ahypnotizer, I am only a great lover of animals,and all animals understand this at once and loveyou in return."

"I suppose you are just trying to mesmerizethat squirrel on the branch over your head," saidthe Baroness, "you have been sitting staring athim the whole time without paying the slightestattention to us. Why don't you make him climbdown from his tree and come and sit on your lapbeside Leo?"

"If you will give me a nut and all go away, Ithink I can make him come down and take it outof my hand."

"You are polite, Monsieur le Suédois," laughedthe Countess, "come along, Ann dear, he wantsus all to go away and leave him alone with hissquirrel."

"Don't make fun of me, I am the last to wishyou to go away, I am so glad to see you again."

"Vous êtes très galant, Monsieur le Docteur,it is the first compliment you have ever paid me,and I like compliments."

"I am not a doctor here, I am your guest."

"And cannot your doctor pay you a compliment?"

"Not if the patient looks like you and the doctoris under the age of your father, not even if hewants to badly."

"Well, all I can say is that if ever you wantedto, you have jolly well resisted the temptation.You have bullied me almost every time I haveseen you. The first time I set eyes on you, youwere so rude to me that I nearly went away, don'tyou remember? Ann dear, do you know what hesaid to me? He looked sternly at me and saidwith his most atrocious Swedish accent: 'Madamela Comtesse, you are more in need of disciplinethan of drugs!' Discipline! Is that the way aSwedish doctor speaks to a young lady the firsttime she comes to consult him?"

"I am not a Swedish doctor, I have taken mydegree in Paris."

"Well, I have consulted dozens of Paris doctors,but no one has ever dared to speak to meabout discipline."

"That is the very reason why you have beenobliged to consult so many."

"Do you know what he said to my mother-in-law?"rejoined the Baroness. "He said in avery angry voice that if she didn't obey him, hewould go away and never come back, even if shehad colitis! I heard it myself from the drawing-roomand when I rushed in I thought the Marquisewas going to have a fit. You know I amrecommending you to all my friends, but don'ttake it amiss if I tell you that you Swedes aremuch too rough-handed for us Latin people. Ihave been told by more than one of your patientsthat your bed-side manners are deplorable. Weare not accustomed to be ordered about like school-children."

"Why don't you try to be a little moreamiable?" smiled the Countess enjoying the funimmensely.

"I will try."

"Tell us a story," said the Baroness, as wewere sitting in the drawing-room after dinner."You doctors come across so many odd peopleand are mixed up in so many strange situations.You know more of real life than anybody else,I am sure you have a lot to tell us if youwant to."

"Perhaps you are right, but we are not supposedto talk about our patients, and as to reallife, I am afraid I am too young to know muchabout it."

"Tell us at least what you do know," insistedthe Baroness.

"I know that life is beautiful, but I also knowthat we often make a mess of it and turn it intoa silly farce or a heart-rending tragedy, or both,so much so that one ends by not knowing whetherto cry or to laugh. It is easier to cry, but farbetter to laugh, so long as one doesn't laughaloud."

"Tell us an animal story," said the Countessto help me on to safer ground. "They say yourcountry is full of bears, tell us something aboutthem, tell us a Bear-story!"

"There was once a lady who lived in an oldmanor-house on the border of a big forest, highup in the North. This lady had a pet bear shewas very fond of. It had been found in theforest half-dead of hunger, so small and helplessthat it had to be brought up on the bottle by thelady and the old cook. This was several yearsago and now it had grown up to a big bear, sobig and strong that he could have slain a cowand carried it away between his two paws if hehad wanted to. But he did not want to, he wasa most amiable bear who did not dream of harminganybody, man or beast. He used to sit outsidehis kennel and look with his small intelligenteyes most amicably at the cattle grazing in thefield near by. The three shaggy mountain poniesin the stable knew him well and did not mindin the least when he shuffled into the stable withhis mistress. The children used to ride on his backand had more than once been found asleep in hiskennel between his two paws. The three Laplanddogs loved to play all sorts of games withhim, pull his ears and his stump of a tail andtease him in every way, but he did not mind itin the least. He had never tasted meat, he atethe same food as the dogs and often out of thesame plate, bread, porridge, potatoes, cabbages,turnips. He had a fine appetite, but his friendthe cook saw to it that he got his fill. Bears arevegetarians if they have a chance, fruit is whatthey like the best. In the autumn he used to sitand look with wistful eyes at the ripening applesin the orchard and in his young days he had beensometimes unable to resist the temptation to climbthe tree and help himself to a handful of them.Bears look clumsy and slow in their movements,but try a bear with an apple-tree and you willsoon find out that he can easily beat any school-boyat that game. Now he had learnt that itwas against the law, but he kept his small eyeswide-open for any apples that fell to the ground.There had also been some difficulties about thebeehives; he had been punished for this by beingput on the chain for two days with a bleedingnose and he had never done it again. Otherwisehe was never put on the chain except for the nightand quite rightly so, for a bear, like a dog, isapt to get somewhat ill-tempered if kept on thechain, and no wonder. He was also put on thechain on Sundays when his mistress went to spendthe afternoon with her married sister who livedin a solitary house on the other side of the mountain-lake,a good hour's walk through the denseforest. It was not supposed to be good for himto wander about in the forest with all itstemptations, it was better to be on the safeside. He was also a bad sailor and had oncetaken such a fright at a sudden gust of windthat he had upset the boat and he and his mistresshad had to swim to the shore. Now heknew quite well what it meant when his mistressput him on the chain on Sundays, with a friendlytap on his head and the promise of an apple onher return if he had been good during herabsence. He was sorry but resigned, like a gooddog when his mistress tells him he cannot comewith her for a walk. One Sunday when the ladyhad chained him up as usual and was abouthalf-way through the forest, she suddenly thoughtshe heard the cracking of a tree-branch on thewinding foot-path behind her. She looked backand was horrified to see the bear coming alongfull-speed. Bears look as if they move alongquite slowly but they shuffle along much fasterthan a trotting horse. In a minute he had joinedher, panting and sniffing, to take up his usualplace, dog-fashion, at her heels. The lady wasvery angry, she was already late for luncheon,there was no time to take him back home, shedid not want him to come with her, and it wasbesides very naughty of him to have disobeyedher and broken away from his chain. She orderedhim in her severest voice to go back at once, menacinghim with her parasol. He stopped a momentand looked at her with his cunning eyes,but did not want to go back and kept on sniffingat her. When the lady saw that he had even losthis new collar, she got still more angry and hithim on the nose with her parasol so hard that itbroke in two. He stopped again, shook his headand opened his big mouth several times as ifhe wanted to say something. Then he turnedround and began to shuffle back the way he hadcome, stopping now and then to look at the ladytill at last she lost sight of him. When the ladycame home in the evening, he was sitting in hisusual place outside his kennel looking very sorryfor himself. The lady was still very angry, andwent up to him and began to scold him mostseverely and said he would have no apple and nosupper and that he would have to be chained fortwo days as well. The old cook who loved thebear as if he had been her son rushed out fromthe kitchen very angry:

'What are you scolding him for, missus!' saidthe cook, 'he has been as good as gold thewhole day, bless him! He has been sitting herequite still on his haunches as meek as an angel,looking the whole time towards the gate for youto come back.'

It was another bear."

The clock in the tower struck eleven.

"Time to go to bed," said the Count. "I haveordered our horses for seven o'clock to-morrowmorning."

"Sleep well and pleasant dreams," said theCountess as I went up to my room.

I did not sleep much, but I dreamt a lot.

Leo scratched at my door at six next morningand punctually at seven the Count and I rodedown the avenue of splendid old lime-trees leadingto the woods. Soon we were in a real forestof elms and beeches with here and there a magnificentoak. The woods were silent, only nowand then we heard the rhythmic tapping ofthe wood-pecker or the cooing of a wild pigeon,the sharp cry of a nut-hatch or the deep altoof a blackbird singing the last strophes of hisballad. Soon we emerged on a vast open stretchof fields and meadows in full sunlight. Therehe was, the beloved skylark, quivering on invisiblewings high up in the sky, pouring out hisvery heart to heaven and earth with thrills of joyof life. I looked at the little bird and blessedhim again as I had so often done before in thefrozen North when as a child I used to sit andwatch with grateful eyes the grey little messengerof summer, sure at last that the long winterwas over.

"It is his last concert," said the Count. "Histime is up, he will soon have to set to work tohelp to feed his children and there will be no moretime for singing and skylarking. You are right,he is the greatest artist of them all, he sings fromhis very heart."

"To think that there are men capable of killingthis harmless little songster! You have onlyto go to Les Halles to find them in hundredsand hundreds for sale to other men who have thestomach to eat them. Their voices fill the wholesky overhead with gladness but their poor littledead bodies are so small that a child can claspthem in the palm of his hand, and yet we eat themwith gluttony as though there was nothing elseto eat. We shudder at the very word of cannibalismand we hang the savage who wants to indulgein this habit of his ancestors, but themurdering and eating of little birds remains unpunished."

"You are an idealist, my dear doctor."

"No, they call it sentimentality and only sneerat it. Let them sneer as much as they like, I donot care. But mark my words! The time willcome when they will cease to sneer, when theywill understand that the animal world was placedby the Creator under our protection, and not atour mercy: that animals have as much right tolive as we have, and that our right to taketheir lives is strictly limited to our right ofdefence and our right of existence. The time willcome when the mere pleasure of killing will dieout in man. As long as it is there, man has noclaim to call himself civilized, he is a mere barbarian,a missing link between his wild ancestorswho slew each other with stone axes for a pieceof raw flesh and the man of the future. Thenecessity of killing wild animals is indisputable,but their executioners, the proud hunters of to-day,will sink down to the same level as the butchersof domestic animals."

"Perhaps you are right," said the Count lookingup in the sky once more as we turned our horsesand rode back to the Castle.

While we were at luncheon, a valet brought theCountess a telegram which she handed to theCount who read it without saying a word.

"I think you have already met my cousinMaurice," said the Countess. "He will be herefor dinner if he can catch the four o'clock train,he is in garrison in Tours."

Yes, the Vicomte Maurice was with us fordinner, very much so. He was a tall, handsomeyoung fellow with a narrow, sloping forehead,enormous ears, a cruel jaw and a moustache à lagénéral Gallifet.

"Quel plaisir inattendu, Monsieur le Suédois,to meet you here, very unexpected I am sure!"This time he condescended to give me his hand,a small, flabby hand with a particularly unpleasantgrip which facilitated my classificationof the man. Remained only to hear him laughand he lost no time to offer me this opportunity.His loud monotonous giggle echoed throughthe room during the whole of dinner. He beganat once to tell the Countess a very risky story ofthe misadventure which had just happened toone of his comrades who had found his mistressin the bed of his orderly. Monsieur l'Abbé wasbeginning to look very uncomfortable when theCount cut him short by telling his wife acrossthe table about our morning-ride, that the wheatwas in excellent condition, the clover abundantand that we heard a belated skylark singing hislast concert.

"Nonsense," said the Vicomte. "There arestill plenty of them on the wing, I shot oneyesterday and a finer shot I never made, thelittle beast did not look bigger than a butterfly."

I got red in my face to the roots of my hairbut the Abbé stopped me in time by putting hishand on my knee.

"You are a brute, Maurice," said the Countess,"to kill a skylark."

"And why shouldn't I shoot a skylark?There are plenty of them and they are besidesan excellent target for practising, I know of nonebetter unless it be a swallow. You know, mydear Juliette, I am the crack shot of my regimentand unless I keep on practising I shall soon getrusty. Luckily there are any amount of swallowsround our barracks, hundreds and hundredsare nesting under the eaves of the stables, theyare busy feeding their young just now and dartingto and fro the whole time just before my window.It is great fun, I have a go at them every morningwithout even leaving my room. YesterdayI made a bet of a thousand francs with Gastonthat I would drop six out of ten and, would youbelieve it, I dropped eight! I know nothing betterfor daily practice than swallows. I always sayit ought to be made compulsory in all Écoles deTir." He stopped a moment carefully countingthe drops he was pouring in his wine-glass froma little bottle of medicine.

"Now, Juliette dear, don't be silly, come alongwith me to Paris to-morrow, you need a littlespree after having been here all alone for weeksin this out-of-the-way place. It will be a splendidsight, the finest tournament there has everbeen, all the best shots of France will be there,and as sure as my name is Maurice, you will seethe gold medal offered by the President ofthe Republic handed over to your cousin. Wewill have a jolly dinner at the Café Anglaisand then I will take you to the Palais Royal tosee 'Une nuit de noces.' It is a most charmingplay, very rigolo indeed, I have seen it alreadyfour times but I should love to see it again withyou at my side. The bed stands in the middleof the stage with the lover hidden under it andthe bridegroom who is an old . . ."

The Count, visibly annoyed, made a sign to hiswife and we stood up from the table.

"I could never kill a skylark," said the Countdrily.

"No, my dear Robert," roared the Vicomte, "Iknow you couldn't, you would miss it!"

I went up to my room almost in tears withsuppressed rage and shame of having suppressedit. While I was packing my bag, the Abbé enteredthe room. I begged him to tell the Count I hadbeen summoned to Paris and was obliged to takethe midnight train.

"I never want to set my eyes upon this confoundedbrute any more or I will smash his insolentmonocle out of his empty head!"

"You had better not attempt anything of thesort or he would kill you outright. It is quitetrue he is a famous shot, I do not know how manyduels he has fought, he is always quarrellingwith people, he has a very nasty tongue. All Iask of you is to keep your nerves in hand forthirty-six hours. He is going away to-morrownight for the tournament in Paris, and let me tellyou, entre nous, that I shall be as glad to see himgo as you are."

"Why?"

The Abbé remained silent.

"Well, Monsieur l'Abbé, I will tell you why.Because he is in love with his cousin and you dislikeand distrust him."

"Since you have guessed the truth, and Godknows how, I had better tell you, he wanted tomarry her, but she refused him. Luckily shedoesn't like him."

"But she fears him, which is almost worse."

"The Count dislikes very much his friendshipwith the Countess and that is why hedidn't want her to remain alone in Paris wherehe was always taking her out to parties andtheatres."

"I do not believe he is going away to-morrow."

"He is sure to go, he is much too keen ongetting his Gold Medal as he very likely will, itis quite true he is a crack shot."

"I wish I was, I would like to shoot downthis brute to avenge the swallows. Do you knowanything about his parents? I guess there is somethingwrong there."

"His mother was a German Countess and verybeautiful, he gets his good looks from her, butI understand it was a very unhappy marriage.His father was a heavy drinker and was knownas an irascible and queer man. He got almost madin the end. There are people who say he committedsuicide."

"I earnestly hope his son will follow his example,the sooner the better. As to being mad, he is notfar from it."

"You are right, it is true that the Vicomte isvery odd in many ways. For instance he, whoas you can see is as strong as a horse, isalways fussing about his health and in constantfear of catching all sorts of illnesses. Lasttime he was staying here, the son of the gardenercaught typhoid and he left at once. Heis always taking drugs, you may have noticedhe even helped himself to some medicine duringdinner."

"Yes, it was the only moment he held histongue."

"He is always consulting new doctors, it isunfortunate that he does not like you, otherwiseI am sure you would get a new patient. . . . Whaton earth are you laughing at?"

"I am laughing at something very funny that hasjust passed through my head. There is nothingbetter than a good laugh for a man who is angry!You saw in what a state I was when you came intomy room. You will be glad to hear that I am allright again now and in the best of tempers. I havechanged my mind, I am not going away to-night.Do let us go down and join the others in the smoking-room.I promise you to be on my very bestbehaviour."

The Vicomte, red in the face, was standingin front of the big mirror nervously twitchinghis moustache à la général Gallifet. TheCount was sitting near the window reading his'Figaro.'

"Quel plaisir inattendu to meet you here,Monsieur le Suédois!" giggled the Vicomte, screwingin his monocle as if to see better how much Iwould stand. "I hope no new case of colitis hasbrought you here."

"No, not so far, but one never knows."

"I understand you specialize in colitis, what apity nobody else seems to know anything aboutthis most interesting disease, you evidently keepit all to yourself. Will you oblige me by tellingme what is colitis? Is it catching?"

"No, not in the ordinary sense of the word."

"Is it dangerous?"

"No, not if taken in hand immediately, andproperly attended to."

"By you, I suppose?"

"I am not a doctor here, the Count has beenkind enough to invite me here as his guest."

"Really! But what will happen to all yourpatients in Paris while you are away?"

"I suppose they will recover."

"I am sure they will," roared the Vicomte.

I had to go and sit down beside the Abbé andget hold of a paper to steady myself. TheVicomte looked nervously at the clock over themantelpiece.

"I am going up to fetch Juliette for a strollin the park, it is a pity to remain indoors in thisbeautiful moonlight."

"My wife has gone to bed," said the Countdrily from his chair, "she was not feeling verywell."

"Why the devil didn't you tell me?" retortedthe Vicomte angrily, helping himself to anotherglass of brandy and soda.

The Abbé was reading the 'Journal des Débats,'but I noticed that his sly old eye never stoppedwatching us.

"Any news, Monsieur l'Abbé?"

"I was just reading about the tournament of'La Société du Tir de France' the day after to-morrowand that the President has offered a goldmedal to the winner."

"I will bet you a thousand francs that it willbe mine," shouted the Vicomte, banging his fiston his broad chest, "unless there is a railwaysmash on the Paris night-express to-morrow or,"he added with a malicious grin at me, "unless I getcolitis!"

"Stop that brandy, Maurice," said the Countfrom his corner, "you have had more than is goodfor you, tu es saoûl comme un Polonais!"

"Cheer up, Doctor Colitis," giggled the Vicomte,"don't look so dejected. Have a brandy andsoda, there may still be a chance for you! Iam sorry I cannot oblige you, but why don't youhave a go at the Abbé who is always complainingabout his liver and his digestion. Monsieur l'Abbé,won't you oblige Doctor Colitis, can't you see heis longing to have a look at your tongue?"

The Abbé kept reading his 'Journal des Débats'in silence.

"You won't! And what about you, Robert?You looked sulky enough during dinner. Whydon't you show your tongue to the Suédois?I am sure you have got colitis! Won't youoblige the doctor? No? Well, Doctor Colitis,you have no luck. But to put you in betterspirits I will show you mine, have a good lookat it."

He put out his tongue to me with a diabolicalgrin. He looked like one of the gargoyles ofNotre Dame.

I stood up and examined his tongue attentively.

"You have a very nasty tongue," said Igravely, after a moment's silence, "a very nastytongue!" He turned round immediately toexamine his tongue in the mirror—the ugly,coated tongue of the inveterate smoker. I tookhis hand and felt his pulse, slashed to fever speedby a bottle of champagne and three brandies andsodas.

"Your pulse is very quick," said I.

I put my hand on his sloping forehead.

"Any headache?"

"No."

"You will have it when you wake up to-morrowmorning, no doubt."

The Abbé dropped his 'Journal des Débats.'

"Unbutton your trousers," I said sternly.

He obeyed automatically, docile like a lamb.

I gave him a rapid tap over his diaphragm,which started a hiccup.

"Ah!" said I. Looking him fixedly in the eyes,I said slowly: "Thank you, that is enough."

The Count dropped his 'Figaro.'

The Abbé raised his arms to Heaven, his mouthwide open.

The Vicomte stood speechless before me.

"Button your trousers," I commanded, "andhave a brandy and soda, you will need it." Hebuttoned his trousers mechanically and gulpeddown the brandy and soda I handed him.

"To your health, Monsieur le Vicomte,"said I, raising my glass to my lips, "to yourhealth!"

He wiped the perspiration from his foreheadand turned again to look at his tongue in themirror. He made a desperate effort to laugh,which however did not succeed.

"Do you mean to say that, do you think, doyou mean to say . . ."

"I do not mean to say anything, I have notsaid anything, I am not your doctor."

"But what am I to do?" he stammered.

"You are to go to bed, the sooner the better,or you will have to be carried there." I went tothe mantelpiece and rang the bell.

"Take the Vicomte to his room," I said to thefootman, "and tell his valet to put him to bedat once."

Leaning heavily on the arm of the footman, theVicomte reeled to the door.

I went for a beautiful ride next morning allby myself, and there was the lark again high upin the sky, singing his morning hymn to the sun.

"I have avenged the murder of your brothers,"said I to the skylark. "We will see about theswallows later on."

While I was sitting in my room having breakfastwith Leo, there was a knock at the doorand in came a timid-looking little man who salutedme most politely. It was the village doctor whosaid he had come to pay his respects to his Pariscolleague. I was much flattered and begged himto sit down and have a cigarette. He told meabout some interesting cases he had had of late,the conversation began to languish and he stoodup to go.

"By-the-by, I was sent for last night toVicomte Maurice and have just called on himagain."

I said I was sorry to hear the Vicomte wasunwell, but hoped it was nothing serious, I hadthe pleasure to see him last night at dinner insplendid health and spirits.

"I don't know," said the Doctor, "the case issomewhat obscure, I think it is safer to postponea definite opinion."

"You are a wise man, mon cher confrère, ofcourse you keep him in bed?"

"Of course. It is unfortunate the Vicomte wasto leave for Paris to-day, but that is of courseout of the question."

"Of course. Is he lucid?"

"Fairly so."

"As much as can be expected from him, I suppose?"

"To tell you the truth I took it at first for asimple embarras gastrique, but he woke up witha violent headache and now a persistent hiccuphas set in. He looks wretched, he himself is convincedhe has got colitis. I confess I have neverattended a case of colitis, I wanted to give him adose of castor-oil, he has a very nasty tongue, butif colitis is anything like appendicitis, I supposeit is better to beware of the castor-oil. What doyou think? He is feeling his pulse the whole timewhen he is not looking at his tongue. Strange tosay he feels very hungry, he was furious when Idid not allow him his breakfast."

"You were quite right, you had better be firmand keep on the safe side, nothing but water forthe next forty-eight hours."

"Quite so."

"It is not for me to give you any advice, it isclear you know your business, but I do not shareyour hesitation about the castor-oil. If I were you,I would give him a stiff dose, no good mincing it,three table spoon-fulls would do him a lot of good."

"Did you really mean to say three table spoon-fulls?"

"Yes, at least, and above all no food whatsoever,only water."

"Quite so."

I liked the village doctor very much and weparted great friends.

In the afternoon the Countess drove me topay my respects to the Marquise Douairière.A beautiful drive through shadowy lanes full ofbird-twitter and humming insects. The Countesshad got tired of teasing me, but she was inexcellent spirits and seemed not to worry in theleast about the sudden illness of her cousin. TheMarquise was going on splendidly, she said, buthad been terribly upset a week ago by the suddendisappearance of Loulou, the whole householdhad been on their legs during the night in searchof him. The Marquise had not closed her eyesand was still prostrated in her bed when Loulouhad turned up in the afternoon with an ear splitin two and an eye nearly out of its socket. Hismistress had wired at once for the vet from Tours,and Loulou was all right again. Loulou and Iwere formally introduced to each other by the Marquise.Had I ever seen such a beautiful dog? No,never.

"Why," snored Loulou reproachfully at me,"you who pretend to be a great lover of dogs, youdon't mean to say you don't recognize me? Don'tyou remember when you took me out of that dreadfuldog-shop in . . ."

Anxious to change the conversation, I invitedLoulou to sniff at my hand. He stopped short,began to sniff attentively each finger in turn.

"Yes, of course I can smell quite distinctly yourown particular smell. I remember it quite wellsince I smelt it last time in the dog-shop, in factI rather like your smell. . . . Ah!" He sniffedeagerly. "By St. Rocco, the patron saint of alldogs, I smell a bone, a big bone! Where is thebone? Why didn't you give it to me? These sillypeople never give me a bone, they imagine it is badfor a little dog, aren't they fools! To whom didyou give the bone?" He jumped in one bound onto my lap, sniffing furiously. "Well, I never!Another dog! And only the head of a dog! A bigdog! An enormous dog, with the saliva drippingdown the corner of his mouth! Can it be a St. Bernard!I am a small dog and I suffer somewhat fromasthma, but my heart is in the right place, I amnot afraid, and you had better tell this big elephantof yours to mind his own business and not comenear me or my mistress or I will eat him alive!"He sniffed contemptuously. "Spratt's biscuits!So that is what you had for dinner last night, youbig vulgar brute, the very smell of those disgustinghard cakes they forced me to eat in the dog-shop,makes me feel quite sick! No Spratt's biscuits forme, thank you! I prefer Albert biscuits and gingernuts or a big slice of that almond cake on the table.Spratt's biscuits!" He crawled back on the lap ofhis mistress as fast as his fat little legs allowedhim.

"Do come back before you return to Paris," saidthe kind Marquise.

"Yes, do come back," snored Loulou, "you arenot such a bad sort after all! I say," signalledLoulou to me as I stood up to go, "it is full moonto-morrow, I am feeling very restless and wouldn'tmind a little spree." He blinked cunningly at me."Do you happen to know if there are any smallpug-ladies in the neighbourhood? Don't tell mymistress, she understands nothing about this sortof thing. . . . I say, never mind the size, any sizewill do if it comes to the worst!"

Yes, Loulou was right, it was full moon. I donot like the moon. The mysterious stranger hastaken too much sleep out of my eyes and whisperedtoo many dreams into my ears. There is no mysteryabout the sun, the radiant god of the day whobrought life and light to our dark world and stillwatches over us with his shining eye, long after allthe other gods, those seated on the banks of theNile, those of Olympus and those of Walhalla havevanished into gloom. But nobody knows anythingabout the moon, the pale night-wanderer amongstthe stars, who keeps staring at us from afar withher sleepless, cold glittering eyes and her mockingsmile.

The Count did not mind the moon, as long as hewas allowed to sit in peace in his smoking-roomwith his after-dinner cigar and his 'Figaro.' TheCountess loved the moon. She loved its mysterioustwilight, she loved its haunting dreams. She lovedto lie silent in the boat and look up at the starswhile I rowed her slowly across the shining lake.She loved to wander about under the old lime-treesin the park, now flooded with silvery light, nowshaded in a darkness so deep that she had to takemy arm to find the way. She loved to sit on alonely bench and stare with her big eyes into thesilent night. Now and then she spoke, but notoften, and I liked her silence just as much as herwords.

"Why don't you like the moon?"

"I don't know. I believe I am afraid ofit."

"What are you afraid of?"

"I don't know. It is so light that I can see youreyes like two luminous stars and yet it is so darkthat I fear I might lose my way. I am a strangerin this land of dreams."

"Give me your hand and I will show you theway. I thought your hand was so strong, why doesit tremble so? Yes, you are right, it is only adream, don't speak or it will fly away! Listen! doyou hear, it is the nightingale."

"No, it is the garden warbler."

"I am sure it is the nightingale, don't speak!Listen! Listen!"

Juliette sang with her tender voice, caressing likethe night wind among the leaves:

"Non, non, ce n'est pas le jour,
Ce n'est pas l'alouette,
Dont les chants ont frappé ton oreille inquiète,
C'est le rossignol
Messager de l'amour."

"Don't speak! Don't speak!"

An owl hooted its sinister warning from the treeover our heads. She sprang up with a cry of fear.We walked back in silence.

"Good night," said the Countess as she leftme in the hall. "To-morrow is full moon. Ademain."

Leo slept in my room, it was a great secret andwe felt both rather guilty about it.

"Where have you been and why are you sopale?" asked Leo as we crept stealthily upstairs."All the lights in the Castle are out and all thedogs in the village are silent. It must be verylate."

"I have been far away in a strange land full ofmystery and dreams, I nearly lost my way."

"I was just dropping off to sleep in my kennelwhen the owl woke me up in time to sneak into thehall when you came."

"It also woke me up just in time, Leo dear, doyou like the owl?"

"No," said Leo, "I prefer a young pheasant, Ihave just eaten one, I saw him running in the moonlightbefore my very nose. I know it is againstthe law, but I could not resist the temptation. Youwon't give me away to the game-keeper, willyou?"

"No, my friend, and you won't give me away tothe butler that we came home so late?"

"Of course not."

"Leo, are you at least sorry that you stole thatyoung pheasant?"

"I am trying to be sorry."

"But it is not easy," said I.

"No," muttered Leo, licking his lips.

"Leo, you are a thief, and you are not the onlyone here, and you are a bad watch-dog! You whoare here to keep thieves away, why don't you rouseyour master at once with that big voice of yoursinstead of sitting here looking at me with suchfriendly eyes?"

"I can't help it. I like you."

"Leo, my friend, it is all the fault of the drowsynight-watchman up there in the sky! Why didn'the turn his bull's eye lantern on every dark cornerof the park where there is a bench under an oldlime-tree instead of pulling his nightcap of cloudsover his bald old head and dozing off to sleep,handing over his job as a night-watchman to hisfriend the owl? Or did he only pretend he wasasleep and keep watching us the whole time fromthe corner of his wicked eye, the sly old sinner,decrepit old Don Juan, strutting about amongthe stars like le vieux marcheur on the boulevards,too worn out himself to make love but enjoyingstill to watch others making fools of themselves."

"Some people pretend the moon is a beautifulyoung lady," said Leo.

"Don't believe it, my friend! The moon isa dried-up old spinster spying from afar withtreacherous eyes the immortal tragedy of mortallove."

"The moon is a ghost," said Leo.

"A ghost? Who told you that?"

"An ancestor of mine heard it ages ago inthe pass of St. Bernard from an old bear whohad heard it from Atta Troll, who had heard itfrom the Great Bear himself who rules over allbears. Why, they are all afraid of the moon upthere in the sky. No wonder we dogs are afraidof it and bark at it, when even the brilliantSirius, the Dog star who rules over all dogs,turns pale when it creeps out of its grave andlifts its sinister face out of the darkness. Downhere on our earth do you think you are the onlyone who cannot sleep when the moon is up!Why, all wild animals and all creeping and crawlingthings in forests and fields leave their lairs andwander about in fear of its malicious rays. Indeed,you must have been looking hard at somebody elseto-night in the park or surely you would have seenthat it was a ghost that was watching you the wholetime. It likes to creep under the lime-trees in anold park, to haunt the ruins of a castle or a church,to roam about an old cemetery and bend over everygrave to read the name of the dead. It loves tosit and stare for hours with steel grey eyes on thedesolation of the snowfields which cover the deadearth like a shroud, or to peep in through a bedroomwindow to frighten the sleeper with a sinisterdream."

"Enough, Leo, don't let us talk any more aboutthe moon, or we shall not sleep a wink to-night, itmakes me feel quite creepy! Kiss me good-night,my friend, and let us go to bed."

"But you will close the shutters, won't you?"said Leo.

"Yes, I always do when there is a moon."

While we were having our breakfast next morning,I told Leo that I had to go back to Paris atonce, it was safest so, because it was full moonto-day and I was twenty-six and his mistress wastwenty-five—or was it twenty-nine? Leo had seenme pack my bag and every dog knows what thatmeans. I went down to Monsieur l'Abbé and toldhim the usual lie that I was summoned to an importantconsultation and had to leave the castleby the morning train. He said he was very sorry.The Count who was just getting into the saddlefor his morning ride also said he was sorry, and ofcourse it was out of the question to disturb theCountess at so early an hour. I was besides tocome back very soon.

As I drove to the station I met my friend thevillage doctor returning in his dog-cart from hismorning visit to the Vicomte. The patient wasfeeling very low and was yelling for food, but thedoctor had been firm in his refusal to take the responsibilityof allowing anything but water. Thepoultice on the stomach and the icebag on the headhad been kept going the whole night greatly interferingwith the patient's sleep. Had I anythingto suggest?

No, I felt sure he was in excellent hands. Maybe,if the condition remained stationary he mighttry for a change to put the icebag on the stomachand the poultice on the head.

How long did I think, if no complicationsset in, that the patient ought to be kept inbed?

"At least for another week, till the moon wasgone."

The day had been long. I was glad to be backin Avenue de Villiers. I went straight to bed. Idid not feel very well, I wondered if I had not gota bit of fever, but doctors never understand if theyhave fever or not. I fell asleep at once, so tireddid I feel. I do not know how long I had beensleeping when suddenly I became aware that I wasnot alone in the room. I opened my eyes and sawa livid face at the window staring at me with whitehollow eyes—for once I had forgotten to close theshutters. Slowly and silently something crept intothe room and stretched a long white arm like thetentacle of an enormous octopus, across the floortowards the bed.

"So you want to go back to the Château afterall!" it chuckled with its toothless mouth andbloodless lips. "It was nice and cosy last nightunder the lime-trees, wasn't it, with me as BestMan and choruses of nightingales singing aroundyou? Nightingales in August! Indeed you musthave been far away in a very distant land, youtwo! And now you want to get back there to-night,don't you? Well, put on your clothes andclimb on this white moonbeam of mine you werepolite enough to call the arm of an octopus andI will put you back under the lime-trees in lessthan a minute, my light travels as fast as yourdreams."

"I am not dreaming any more, I am wideawake and I do not want to go back, ghost ofMephisto!"

"So you are dreaming that you are awake, areyou! And you have not yet exhausted yourvocabulary of silly abuse! Ghost of Mephisto!You have already called me vieux marcheur, DonJuan and a spying old spinster! Yes, I did spyon you last night in the park and I should like toknow which of us two was made up as Don Juan,unless you wish me to call you Romeo? ByJupiter, you don't look like him! Blind Foolis your right name, fool who cannot even seewhat that beast of a dog of yours could see,that I have no age, no sex, no life, that I am aghost."

"The ghost of what?"

"The ghost of a dead world. Beware ofghosts! You had better stop your insults, or Iwill strike you blind with a flash of my subtle raysfar more deadly to the eye of man than the goldenarrow of the sun-god himself. It is my last wordto you, blasphemous dreamer! Dawn is alreadyapproaching from the eastern sky, I have to goback to my grave or I shall not see my way. Iam old and tired. Do you think it is easy workto have to wander about from night till morningwhen everything else is at rest? You call mesinister and sombre, do you think it is easy to becheerful when you have to live in a grave, if youcan call that living, as some of you mortals do?You will go to your grave yourself one day and sowill the earth you are standing upon now, doomedto death like yourself."

I looked at the ghost and saw for the first timehow old and weary it looked and I would have feltalmost sorry for it had not its threat to strike meblind roused my anger once more.

"Clear out from here, gloomy old Undertaker,"I shouted, "there is no chance of a job for youhere, I am full of life!"

"Do you know," it chuckled, creeping on thebed and putting its long white arm on my shoulder,"do you know why you put that fool of a Vicomteto bed with an ice bag on his stomach? To avengethe swallows? I know better. You are a humbug,Othello. It was to prevent him from strollingabout in the moonlight with the . . ."

"Draw in that claw of yours, venomous oldspider, or I shall spring out of bed and close withyou."

I made a violent effort to rouse my sleeping limbs,and I woke dripping with perspiration.

The room was filled with soft silvery light. Suddenlythe scales fell from my bewitched eyes andthrough the open window I saw the full moon, beautifuland serene, looking down upon me from acloudless sky.

Virginal goddess Luna! can you hear me throughthe stillness of the night? You look so mild, butyou look so sad, can you understand sorrow? Canyou forgive? Can you heal wounds with the balsamof your pure light? Can you teach forgetfulness?Come sweet sister and sit down by my side,I am so weary! Lay your cool hand on my burningforehead to put my unruly thoughts to rest! Whisperin my ears what I am to do and where I am togo to forget the song of the Sirens!

I went up to the window and stood a long whilewatching the Queen of the Night treading herpath among the stars. I knew them well frommany a sleepless night and one by one I calledthem by their names: the flaming Sirius, Castorand Pollux, beloved by the ancient mariners,Arcturus, Aldebaran, Capella, Vega, Cassiopeia!What was the name of that luminous star just overmy head beckoning to me with its steady, true light?I knew it well. Many a night had I steered myboat over angry seas, guided by its light, many aday had it shown me the way across snowfields andforests in the land of my birth—Stella Polaris, thePole Star!

This is the way, follow my light and you will besafe!

******

 +————————————————————————————————————————————————+ | Le docteur sera absent pendant un mois. | | Prière s'adresser à Dr. Norstrom. Boulevard | | Haussmann. 66. | +————————————————————————————————————————————————+

VII
LAPLAND

The sun had already gone down behind Vassojarvibut the day was still bright with flame-colouredlight slowly deepening into orange andruby. A golden mist descended over the blue mountainssparkling with patches of purple snow andbright yellow silver birches, glistening with the firsthoar-frost.

The day's work was over. The men werereturning to the camp with their lassos swungover their shoulders, the women with their hugebirch bowls of fresh milk. The herd of a thousandreindeer surrounded by their outposts ofvigilant dogs stood collected round the camp, safefor the night from wolf and lynx. The incessantcalling of the calves and the crepitating clatter ofthe hoofs gradually died away: all was silent butfor the occasional barking of a dog, the sharp cryof a nightjar or the loud hooting of an eagle owlfrom the far away mountains. I sat in the placeof honour by the side of Turi himself in thesmoke-filled tent. Ellekare, his wife, threw aslice of reindeer's cheese in the kettle suspendedover the fire and handed us in turn, the men firstand then the women and children, our plate ofthick soup which we ate in silence. What remainedin the kettle was divided amongst thedogs off duty who one by one had crept in andlain down by the fire. Then we drank eachin turn our cup of excellent coffee from thetwo cups of the household and they all took theirshort pipes from their leather pouches and beganto smoke with great gusto. The men pulled offtheir reindeer shoes and spread the tufts ofcarex grass to dry before the fire, Lapps wear nosocks. Again I admired the perfect shape of theirsmall feet with their elastic insteps and strong,protruding heels. Some of the women tooktheir sleeping babies from their cradles of birchbark, filled with soft moss and suspended from thetent-poles, to give them the breast. Others exploredthe heads of their half-grown children lyingflat in their laps.

"I am sorry you are leaving us so soon," saidold Turi, "it has been a good stay, I like you."

Turi spoke good Swedish, he had even manyyears ago been to Lulea to lay the grievances ofthe Lapps against the new settlers before thegovernor of the province who was a staunch defenderof their lost cause and besides an uncle ofmine. Turi was a mighty man, undisputed rulerover his camp of five Kator, containing his five marriedsons, their wives and children, all hard at workfrom morning till night to attend to his herd of athousand reindeer.

"We will have to break camp soon ourselves,"Turi went on, "I am sure we shall have an earlywinter. The snow will soon be too hard underthe birch-trees for the reindeer to get at themoss, we shall have to move down to the pine-forestbefore the month is over. I can hear bythe way the dogs are barking that they are alreadysmelling the wolf. Didn't you say you saw thetrail of the old bear when you crossed the Sulmögorge yesterday?" he asked a young Lapp whohad just entered the tent and huddled down bythe fire.

Yes, he had seen it and plenty of trails of wolvesas well.

I said I was delighted to hear there were stillbears about, I had been told there were so few ofthem left in this neighbourhood. Turi said Iwas quite right. This was an old bear who hadbeen living there for years, he was often seenshuffling about in the gorge. Three times theyhad ringed him when he was asleep in the winterbut he had always managed to escape, he was avery cunning old bear. Turi had even had ashot at him, he had only shaken his head andlooked at him with his cunning eyes, he knewquite well that no ordinary bullet could kill him.Only a silver bullet, cast on a Saturday night nearthe cemetery could kill him, for he was befriendedby the Uldra.

"The Uldra?"

Yes, didn't I know the Uldra, the Little Peoplewho lived under the earth? When the bearwent to sleep in the winter the Uldra broughthim food in the night, of course no animal couldsleep the whole winter without food, chuckledTuri. It was the law of the bear that he shouldnot kill a man. If he broke the law the Uldradid not bring him any food and he could not go tosleep in the winter. The bear was not cunningand treacherous like the wolf. The bear hadtwelve men's strength and one man's cunning.The wolf had twelve men's cunning and one man'sstrength. The bear liked clean fighting. If hemet a man and the man went up to him andsaid: "Come let us have a fight, I am not afraidof you," the bear only knocked him down andscrambled away without doing him any harm. Thebear never attacked a woman, all she had to dowas to show him that she was a woman and not aman.

I asked Turi if he had ever seen the Uldra.

No, he had not, but his wife had seen themand the children saw them often. But he hadheard them moving about under ground. TheUldra moved about during night, they slept duringthe day for they could not see anything whenit was daylight. Sometimes when it happenedthat the Lapps put up their tents just over aplace where the Uldra were living, the Uldra gavethem warning that they must put up their tentsfurther away. The Uldra were quite friendly aslong as you left them alone. If you disturbedthem they strewed a powder on the moss whichkilled the reindeer by the dozen. It had evenhappened that they carried away a Lapp babyand put one of their own babies in the cradleinstead. Their babies had their faces all coveredwith black hair and long pointed teeth in theirmouths. Some people said you should beat theirchild with a rod of burning birch branches untilits mother could not stand its screaming anylonger and brought you back your own baby andtook away hers. Other people said you shouldtreat their child as your own, the Uldra motherwould then feel grateful to you and give you backyour child. As Turi spoke a lively discussionwhich of the two methods was the best was goingon amongst the women hugging their own babieswith uneasy eyes. The wolf was the worst enemyof the Lapps. He dared not attack a herd ofreindeer, he stood quite still to let the wind carryhis smell to them. As soon as the reindeer smeltthe wolf they all dispersed in fear, then the wolfcame up and killed them one by one, often adozen in a single night. God had created all theanimals except the wolf, who was begotten bythe devil. If a man had the blood of anotherman upon him the devil often turned him into awolf if he had not confessed his sin. The wolfcould put to sleep the Lapps who were watchingthe herd at night simply by looking at themthrough the darkness with his glowing eyes. Youcould not kill a wolf with an ordinary bulletunless you had carried it in your pocket on twoSundays in church. The best way was to overtakehim on your skis on the soft snow and hithim with your staff on the top of his nose. Hewould then roll over and die at once. Turi himselfhad killed dozens of wolves in this way, onlyonce had he missed his blow and the wolf hadbitten him in the leg, he showed me the ugly scaras he spoke. Last winter a Lapp had been bittenby a wolf just as he was rolling over to die, theLapp had lost so much blood that he had fallenasleep in the snow, they had found him thefollowing day frozen to death by the side of thedead wolf. Then there was the wolverine whosprings to the throat of the reindeer just by thebig vein and hangs on for miles till the reindeerhas lost so much blood that he falls down dead.There was also the eagle who carried away in hisclaws the new-born calves if they were left alonefor a moment by their mothers. Then there wasthe lynx who crept up stealthily as a cat to jumpat a reindeer who had gone astray from the herdand lost its way.

Turi said he could never understand how theLapps had managed to keep their herds togetherin old times before they had associated themselveswith the dog. In former days the dogused to hunt the reindeer in company of the wolf.But the dog who is the cleverest of all animalshad soon found out that it would suit him betterto work with the Lapps instead of with thewolves. So the dog offered to enter into theservice of the Lapps on condition that he shouldbe treated as a friend as long as he lived and thatwhen he was about to die he should be hanged.That is why even to-day the Lapps alwayshanged their dogs when they were too old to work,even the new-born puppies who had to be destroyedfor want of food were always hanged.The dogs had lost the power of speech when itwas given to man but they could understand everyword you said to them. In former days allanimals could speak and so could the flowers, thetrees and the stones and all lifeless things whowere all created by the same God who had createdman. Therefore man should be kind to allanimals, and treat all lifeless things as if theycould still hear and understand. On the day ofthe Last Judgment the animals would be calledin first by God to give evidence against the deadman. Only after the animals had had theirsay his fellow creatures would be called in aswitnesses.

I asked Turi if there were any stalo in the neighbourhood,I had heard so much about them in mychildhood, I would give anything to meet one ofthose big ogres.

"God forbid," said Turi uneasily. "You knowthe river you are to ford to-morrow is still calledthe Stalo river after the old ogre who lived therein former days with his witch of a wife. Theyhad only one eye between them, so they werealways quarrelling and fighting who was to havethe eye to see with. They always ate their ownchildren, but they ate many Lapp children as wellwhen they had a chance. Stalo said he liked theLapp babies better, his own children tasted toomuch of sulphur. Once when they were drivingacross the lake in a sledge drawn by twelve wolvesthey began to quarrel about their eye as usualand Stalo got so angry that he knocked a holein the bottom of the lake and all the fishes gotout of the lake and not one of them has ever comeback again. That is why it is still called the Sivalake, you will row across it to-morrow and you willsee for yourself that there is not a single fishleft."

I asked Turi what happened when the Lappswere taken ill and how they could get on withoutseeing the doctor. He said they were very seldomill and specially not during the winter except invery severe winters when it happened not soseldom that the new-born baby was frozen todeath. The doctor came to see them twice ayear by order of the king and Turi thought thatwas about enough. He had to ride on horsebackacross the marshes for two days, it took himanother day to cross the mountain on foot andlast time he forded the river he was nearlydrowned. Luckily there were many healersamongst them who could cure most of their ailmentsmuch better than the king's doctor. Thehealers were befriended by the Uldra who hadtaught them their art. Some of these healerscould take away the pain simply by laying theirhand on the aching spot. What helped for mostailments was bleeding and rubbing. Mercuryand sulphur was also very good and so was a teaspoonfulof snuff in a cup of coffee. Two frogscooked in milk for two hours was very goodagainst the cough, a big toad was still betterwhen you could lay your hands on one. Thetoads came from the clouds, when the cloudswere low the toads fell down in hundreds on thesnow. You could not explain it otherwise for youwould find them on the most desolate snow-fieldswhere there was no trace of any living thing.Ten lice boiled in milk with plenty of salt andtaken on an empty stomach was certain to curejaundice, a very common complaint among theLapps in the spring. Dog bites were cured byrubbing the wound with the blood of the samedog. To rub the sore place with a little lamb'swool would take away the pain at once, for JesusChrist had often spoken of the lamb. Whensomebody was going to die you were alwayswarned beforehand by a raven or a crow whocame and sat down upon the tent pole. You mustnot speak or utter a sound lest you might frightenaway Life and the dying man might be doomed tolive between two worlds for a week. If you gotthe smell of a dead person in your nostrils youmight die yourself.

I asked Turi if there was any of these healersin the neighbourhood; I would like very much tospeak to him.

No, the nearest was an old Lapp called Mirkowho lived on the other side of the mountain, hewas very old, Turi had known him since he wasa boy. He was a marvellous healer, much befriendedby the Uldra. All animals came up tohim without fear, no animal would ever harm himfor the animals recognize at once those who arebefriended by the Uldra. He could take awayyour pain by a mere touch of his hand. You couldalways recognize a healer by the shape of his hand.If you put a wing-shot bird in the hand of a healerthe bird would sit quite still because he understoodhe was a healer.

I put forth my hand to Turi who had no idea Iwas a doctor. He looked at it attentively withoutsaying a word, bent the fingers one afteranother most carefully, measured the span betweenthe thumb and the first finger and mutteredsomething to his wife who in her turn took myhand in her brown, little claw of a bird withan uneasy glance in her small, almond-shapedeyes.

"Did your mother tell you you were born witha caul? Why didn't she give you the breast?Who gave you the breast? What tongue didyour nurse speak? Did she ever put the blood ofa raven in your milk? Did she hang the claw ofa wolf round your neck? Did she ever make youtouch the skull of a dead man when you were achild? Did you ever see the Uldra? Have youever heard the bells of their white reindeer faraway in the forest?"

"He is a healer, he is a healer," said Turi's wifewith a quick, uneasy glance at my face.

"He is befriended by the Uldra," they allrepeated with an almost frightened expression intheir eyes.

I felt almost frightened myself as I drew backmy hand.

Turi said it was time to go to sleep, the day hadbeen long, I was to start at daybreak. We all laydown round the smouldering fire. Soon all wasdark in the smoke-filled tent. All I could see wasthe Pole Star shining down upon me through thesmoke-hole of the tent. I felt in my sleep thewarm weight of a dog over my breast and the softtouch of his nose in my hand.

We were all on our legs at daybreak, the wholecamp was astir to see me off. I distributedamong my friends my much appreciated littlepresents of tobacco and sweets, and they allwished me God-speed. If all went well I was toarrive the next day at Forsstugan, the nearesthuman habitation in the wilderness of marshes,torrents, lakes and forests which was the home ofthe homeless Lapps. Ristin, Turi's sixteen-yearold granddaughter, was to be my guide. Sheknew a few words of Swedish, she had been oncebefore to Forsstugan, she was to push on fromthere to the nearest church village to join the Lappschool once more.

Ristin walked in front of me in her long whitereindeer tunic and red woollen cap. Round herwaist she wore a broad leather belt, embroideredwith blue and yellow thread and studded withbuckles and squares of solid silver. Suspendedfrom her belt hung her knife, her tobacco pouchand her mug. I also noticed a small axe for cuttingwood stuck under the belt. She wore leggingsof soft, white reindeer-skin, fastened to herwide skin-breeches. Her small feet were stuckin dainty, white reindeer shoes neatly trimmedwith blue thread. On her back she carried herlaukos, a knapsack of birch-bark containing hervarious belongings and our provisions. It wastwice as big as my own rucksack but she did notseem to mind it in the least. She moved down onthe steep slope with the rapid, noiseless step ofan animal, jumped, swift as a rabbit over a fallentree-trunk or a pool of water. Now and then shesprang, agile as a goat, on to a steep rock, lookinground in all directions. At the foot of the hillwe came upon a broad stream, I had hardly timeto wonder how we were to get across before shewas in the water up to her hips, there was nothingfor me to do but to follow her in the ice-cold water.I soon got warm again as we ascended the steepopposite slope at an amazing speed. She hardlyever spoke and it mattered little, for I had thegreatest difficulty to understand what she said.Her Swedish was as bad as my Laplandish. Wesat down on the soft moss to an excellent mealof rye biscuits, fresh butter and cheese, smokedreindeer's tongue and delicious cool water fromthe mountain brook in Ristin's mug. We lit ourpipes and tried again to understand each other'sspeech.

"Do you know the name of that bird?" said I.

"Lahol," smiled Ristin recognizing at once thesoft, flute-like whistle of the dotterel, who sharestheir solitude with the Lapps and is much belovedby them.

From a willow-bush came the wonderful songof the bluethroat.

"Jilow! Jilow!" laughed Ristin.

The Lapps say that the bluethroat has a bellin his throat and that he can sing one hundreddifferent songs. High over our heads hung ablack cross, riveted to the blue sky. It was theroyal eagle, surveying on motionless wings his desolatekingdom. From the mountain lake came theweird call of the loon.

"Ro, ro, raik," repeated Ristin faithfully. Shesaid it meant: "fine weather to-day, fine weatherto-day!" When the loon said: "Var luk, varluk, luk, luk," it meant: "it is going to rain again,it is going to rain again, again," Ristin informedme.

I lay there stretched out full length on the softmoss, smoking my pipe and watching Ristin carefullyarranging her belongings in her laukos. Asmall blue woollen shawl, an extra pair of neat,little reindeer shoes, a pair of beautiful embroideredred gloves to wear in church, a Bible. AgainI was struck with the refined shape of her smallhands, common to all Lapps. I asked her whatwas in the little box cut out of a birch-root?As I could not understand a word of her longexplanation in her mixed tongue of Swedish,Finnish and Laplandish I sat up and opened thebox. It contained what looked like a handful ofearth. What was she going to do with it?

Again she tried her best to explain, again Ifailed to understand her. She shook her headimpatiently, I am sure she thought I was verystupid. Suddenly she stretched herself full lengthon the moss and lay quite still and stiff withclosed eyes. Then she sat up and scratched themoss for a handful of earth which she handed mewith a very serious face. Now I understood whatwas in the birch-root box. It contained a littleearth from the grave in the wilderness where aLapp had been buried last winter under the snow.Ristin was to take it to the priest who was to readthe Lord's prayer over it and sprinkle it over thechurchyard.

We shouldered our knapsacks and set off again.As we descended the slope, the aspect of thelandscape changed more and more. We wanderedover immense tundras covered with carex grassand here and there patches of bright yellowclusters of cloud-berries which we picked and ateas we passed along. The solitary Dwarf-birches,the betula nana of the heights, grew into grovesof silver birches, intermixed with aspen andash and thickets of willow-elder, bird-cherry andwild currant. Soon we entered a dense forestof stately fir trees. A couple of hours later wewere walking through a deep gorge walled inby steep, moss-covered rocks. The sky over ourheads was still bright with evening sun but itwas already almost dark in the ravine. Ristinglanced uneasily around her, it was evident thatshe was in a hurry to get out of the gorge beforenight-fall. Suddenly she stood still. I heard thecrashing of a broken tree-branch and I saw somethingdark looming in front of me at a distanceof less than fifty yards.

"Run," whispered Ristin, white in the face, herlittle hand grasping the axe in her belt.

I was quite willing to run had I been able todo so. As it was, I stood still, riveted to the spotby a violent cramp in the calf of my legs. Icould now see him quite well. He was standingknee-deep in a thicket of bilberries, a twig fullof his favourite berries was sticking out of hisbig mouth, we had evidently interrupted him inthe midst of his supper. He was of uncommonlylarge size, by the shabby look of his coat evidentlya very old bear, no doubt the same bear Turi hadtold me about.

"Run," I whispered in my turn to Ristin withthe gallant intention of behaving like a man andcovering her retreat. The moral value of thisintention was however diminished by the fact thatI was still completely unable to move. Ristindid not run. Instead of running away she mademe witness an unforgettable scene, enough torepay a journey from Paris to Lapland. Youare quite welcome to disbelieve what I am goingto tell you, it matters little to me. Ristin, onehand on her axe, advanced a few steps towardthe bear. With her other hand raising her tunic,she pointed out the wide leather breeches whichare worn by the Lapp women. The bear droppedhis bilberry twig, sniffed loudly a couple of timesand shuffled off among the thick firs.

"He likes bilberries better than me," said Ristinas we set off again as fast as we could.

Ristin told me that when her mother had broughther back from the Lapp school in the spring, theyhad come upon the old bear almost at the sameplace in the midst of the gorge and that he hadscrambled away as soon as her mother had shownhim she was a woman.

Soon we emerged from the gorge and wanderedthrough the darkening forest on a carpet of silverygrey moss, soft as velvet and interwoven withbunches of Linnaea and Pyrola. It was neitherlight nor dark, it was the wonderful twilight ofthe northern summer night. How Ristin couldfind her way through the trackless forest was incomprehensibleto my stupid brain. All of asudden we came upon our friend the brook again,I had just time to bend down to kiss his night-coolface as he rushed past us. Ristin announcedit was time for supper. With incredible rapidityshe chopped some wood with her axe and lit thecamp fire between two boulders. We ate oursupper, smoked our pipes and were soon fastasleep, our rucksacks under our heads. I wasawakened by Ristin presenting me her red capfull of bilberries, no wonder the old bear likedbilberries, I never had a better breakfast. Onwe went. Hallo! there was our friend the brookagain joyously dancing along over hillocks andstones and singing in our ears that we had bettercome along with him down to the mountain lake.So we did lest he should lose his way in the gloom.Now and then we lost sight of him but we heardhim singing to himself the whole time. Now andthen he stopped to wait for us by a steep rock ora fallen tree to rush away again faster than everto make up for lost time. A moment later therewas no longer any fear he might lose his way inthe gloom for the night had already fled on swiftgoblin feet deeper into the forest. A flame ofgolden light quivered in the tree-tops.

"Piavi!" said Ristin, "the sun is rising!"

Through the mist of the valley at our feet amountain lake opened its eyelid.

I approached the lake with uneasy forebodingsof another ice-cold bath. Luckily I was mistaken.Ristin stopped short before a small eka,a flat-bottomed boat, half-hidden under a fallenfir-tree. It belonged to nobody and to everybody,it was used by the Lapps on their rarevisits to the nearest church-village to exchangetheir reindeer skins for coffee, sugar and tobacco,the three luxuries of their lives. The water ofthe lake was cobalt blue, even more beautiful thanthe sapphire blue of the Blue Grotto in Capri.It was so transparent that I thought I almostcould see the hole the terrible Stalo had knockedin its bottom. Half across the lake we met twostately travellers swimming side by side, theirsuperb antlers high out of the water. Luckilythey mistook me for a Lapp so we could comeup so close to them that I could see theirsoft beautiful eyes looking fearlessly at us. Thereis something very strange about the eyes ofthe elk as about those of the reindeer, theyalways seem to be looking straight at your owneyes at whatever angle you see them. We climbedrapidly the steep opposite shore and wanderedonce more over an immense marshy plain withnothing to guide us but the sun. My attemptsto explain to Ristin the use of my pocket compasshad met with so little success that I had givenup looking at it myself, putting my trust inRistin's instinct of a half-tame animal. It wasevident that she was in a great hurry, ere long Ihad the impression that she was not sure of ourway. Now and then she set off as fast as shecould in one direction, stopped short to sniff thewind with quivering nostrils, then she darted offin another direction to repeat the same manoeuvre.Now and then she bent down to smell the groundlike a dog.

"Rog," she said suddenly pointing to a lowcloud moving towards us with extraordinary rapidityacross the marshes.

Fog indeed! In a minute we were enveloped ina thick mist as impenetrable as a November fogin London. We had to hold each other by thehand not to lose sight of one another. Westruggled on for another hour or two, knee deepin the ice-cold water. At last Ristin said she hadlost our direction, we must wait till the fog wasover. How long might it last?

She did not know, perhaps a day and a night,perhaps an hour, it all depended upon the wind.It was one of the worst experiences I have evergone through. I knew quite well that with ourscanty equipment the encounter with a fog on theimmense swamps was far more dangerous thanthe encounter with a bear in the forest. Ialso knew that there was nothing to do but towait where we were. We sat for hours on ourknapsacks, the fog sticking to our skin as a sheetof ice-cold water. My misery was complete whenI was going to light my pipe and found mywaistcoat pocket full of water. While I was stillstaring dejectedly at my soaked match box,Ristin had already struck fire with her tinder-boxand lit her pipe. Another defeat for civilizationwas when I wanted to put on a pair ofdry socks and discovered that my waterproofknapsack of best London make was soaked throughand through and that all Ristin's belongings inher home-made laukos of birch-bark were dry ashay. We were just waiting for the water to boilfor a well-needed cup of coffee when a suddengush of wind blew out the flame of my littlespirit lamp. Ristin was off in an instant in thedirection of the wind and back again to order meto put on my rucksack at once. In less than aminute a strong steady wind was blowing straightin our faces and the curtain of mist liftedrapidly over our heads. Deep below in the valleyat our very feet we saw a huge river glisteningin the sun like a sword. Along the oppositeshore stretched out a dark pine forest as far asthe eye could see. Ristin lifted her hand andpointed to a thin column of smoke rising over thetree-tops.

"Forsstugan," said Ristin.

She sprang down the slope and without a moment'shesitation she plunged into the river upto her shoulders and I after her. Soon we lostour footing and swam across the river as the elkshad swum across the forest lake. After half-an-hour'swalk through the forest on the other sideof the river we reached a clearing evidently madeby the hand of man. A huge Lapland dog camerushing towards us full-speed barking fiercely.After much sniffing at us he was overjoyed to seeus and proceeded to lead the way with a friendlywagging of his tail.

******

In front of his red painted house stood LarsAnders of Forsstugan in his long sheepskin coat,six feet six in his wooden shoes.

"Good day in the forest!" said Lars Anders."Where dost thou come from? Why didst thounot let the Lapp child swim alone across the riverto fetch my boat? Put another log on the fire,Kerstin," he called out to his wife inside the house."He has swum the river with a Lapp child, theymust dry their clothes."

Ristin and I sat down on the low bench beforethe fire.

"He is wet as an otter," said Mother Kerstinhelping me to pull off my stockings, my knickerbockers,my sweater and my flannel shirt from mydripping body and hanging them to dry on therope across the ceiling. Ristin had already takenoff her reindeer coat, her leggings, her breechesand her woollen vest, shirt she had none. Therewe sat, side by side on the wooden bench beforethe blazing fire, stark naked as our Creator hadmade us. The two old folk thought it was all rightso, and so it was.

An hour later I was inspecting my new quartersin Uncle Lars' long black Sunday coat of homespuncloth and wooden shoes while Ristin sat bythe oven in the kitchen where Mother Kerstin washard at work baking the bread. The strangerwho had come there yesterday with a Finn Lapphad eaten up all the bread in the house. Theirson was away cutting timber on the other sideof the lake, I was to sleep in his little room overthe cow-stable. They hoped I would not mindthe smell of the cows. Not in the least, I ratherliked it. Uncle Lars said he was going to theherbre to fetch a sheepskin to put over my bed,he was sure I would need it for the nights werealready cold. The herbre stood on four poles ofstout timber, a man's height over the ground, asa protection against four-footed visitors and thedeep snow of the winter. The store-room was fullof clothes and furs neatly hung on the antlersnailed to the walls. Uncle Lars' fur coat of wolf'sskin, his wife's winter furs, half-a-dozen wolf-skins.On the floor lay a sledge rug of splendidbear skin. On another peg hung Mother Kerstin'swedding dress, her gaily coloured silk bodicebeautifully embroidered with silver thread, herlong green woollen skirt, her tippet of squirrelskin, her bonnet trimmed with old lace, her redleather belt with buckles of solid silver. As weclimbed down the ladder of the herbre I toldUncle Lars he had forgotten to lock the door. Hesaid it did not matter, wolves, foxes and weaselswould not carry off their clothes, there were noeatables in the herbre. After a stroll in the forestI sat down under the big fir by the kitchen doorto a splendid supper, Lapland trout, the best inthe world, home-made bread just out of the oven,fresh cheese and home-brewed ale. I wantedRistin to share my supper, it was evidently againstetiquette, she was to have her supper in thekitchen with the grandchildren. The two old folkwere sitting by my side watching me while I waseating.

"Hast thou seen the King?"

No, I had not, I had not come by Stockholm,I had come straight from another land, from anothertown many times bigger than Stockholm.

Uncle Lars did not know there was a townbigger than Stockholm.

I told Mother Kerstin how much I had admiredher beautiful wedding dress. She smiled and saidher mother had worn it at her own wedding, Godknows how many years ago.

"But surely you don't leave the herbre openat night?" I asked.

"Why not?" said Uncle Lars. "There isnothing to eat in the herbre, I told you the wolvesand foxes are not likely to carry away ourclothes."

"But somebody else might carry them away,the herbre stands all by itself in the wood, hundredsof yards away from your house. Thatbear-skin rug alone is worth a lot of money, anyantiquarian in Stockholm would be glad to payseveral hundred riksdaler for your wife's weddingdress."

The two old folk looked at me with evident surprise.

"But didn't you hear me tell you that I hadshot that bear myself and all the wolves as well?Don't you understand that it is my wife's weddingdress and that she got it from her ownmother? Don't you understand it all belongs tous as long as we are alive, and when we die, itgoes to our son? Who would carry it away? Whatdo you mean?"

Uncle Lars and Mother Kerstin looked at me,they seemed almost vexed at my question. SuddenlyLars Anders scratched his head with a cunningexpression in his old eyes.

"Now I understand what he means," hechuckled to his wife, "he means those people theycall thieves!"

I asked Lars Anders about the Siva lake,whether it was true what Turi had told me thatthe big Stalo had knocked a hole in its bottomand made all the fishes escape. Yes, it was quitetrue, there was not a single fish in the lake whileall the other mountain lakes were full of them,but if the mischief had been done by a Stalo hecould not say. The Lapps were superstitiousand ignorant. They were not even Christians,nobody knew where they came from, they spokea language unlike any other tongue in the wholeworld.

Were there any Giants or Trolls about on thisside of the river?

"There certainly were in former days," saidUncle Lars. When he was a boy he had heard alot about the big Troll who lived in the mountainover there. The Troll was very rich, he had hundredsof ugly dwarfs who kept watch over hisgold under the mountain and thousands of cattle,all snow-white with bells of silver round theirnecks. Now since the King had begun to blastthe rocks for iron ore and started building a railwayhe had not heard anything more about theTroll. There was of course still the Skogsrå, theforest witch, who was always trying to allurepeople deeper into the woods where they wouldmiss their way. Sometimes she called with thevoice of a bird, sometimes with the soft voice ofa woman. Many people said she was a real womanvery wicked and very beautiful. If you met herin the forest, you must run away at once, if youturned your head to look at her a single time youwere lost. You must never sit down under atree in the forest when the moon is full. Shewould then come and sit down by your side andthrow her arms round you like a woman doeswhen she wants a man to love her. All shewanted to do was to suck the blood out of yourheart.

"Had she very large, dark eyes?" I asked uneasily.

Lars Anders did not know, he had never seenher but his wife's brother had met her one moon-litnight in the woods. He had lost his sleep, hehad never been right in the head ever since.

Were there any Goblins in this neighborhood?

Yes, there were plenty of Little People sneakingabout in the dusk. There was one little goblinliving in the cow-stable, the grandchildren hadoften seen him. He was quite harmless as longas he was left in peace and had his bowl of porridgeput out for him in its usual corner. Itwould not do to scoff at him. Once a railway engineerwho was to build the bridge over the riverhad spent the night in the Forsstugan. He gotdrunk and spat in the bowl of porridge and saidhe would be damned if there was any such thingas a goblin. When he drove back in the eveningacross the frozen lake his horse slipped and fellon the ice and was torn to pieces by a pack ofwolves. He was found in the morning by somepeople returning from church, sitting in the sledge,frozen to death. He had shot two of the wolveswith his gun and had it not been for the gun theywould have eaten him as well.

How far was it from Forsstugan to the nearesthabitation?

"Eight hours' ride across the forest on a goodpony."

"I heard the sound of bells when I was strollingabout in the woods an hour ago, there must beplenty of cattle round here."

Lars Anders spat the snuff from his mouth andsaid abruptly that I was mistaken, there were nocattle in the woods, nearer than a hundred miles,his own four cows were in the stable.

I repeated to Lars Anders that I was sure Ihad heard the bells far away in the forest, I hadeven noticed how beautifully they sounded as ifof silver.

Lars Anders and Mother Kerstin glanced uneasilyat each other but nobody spoke. I badethem good-night and went to my room over thecow-stable. The forest stood silent and dark outsidethe window. I lit the tallow candle on thetable and lay down on the sheep-skin tired andsleepy after my long wanderings. I listened for awhile to the munching of the cows in their sleep.I thought I heard the hooting of an owl far awayin the woods. I looked at the tallow candle burningdimly on the table, it did my eyes good tolook at it, I had never seen a tallow candle sinceI was a child in my old home. I thought Isaw through my closing eyelids a little boy ploddingin the deep snow on a dark winter morningon his way to school with a bundle of books in astrap on his back and just such a tallow candlein his hand. For each boy had to bring his owncandle to be lit on his own desk in the schoolroom.Some boys brought a thick candle, some broughta thin candle, as thin as the one now burning onthe table. I was a rich boy, on my desk burnt athick candle. On the desk next to mine burntthe thinnest candle in the whole class, for themother of the boy who sat next to me was verypoor. But I was plucked in my exam at Christmasand he passed his exam at the top of us allfor he had more light in his brain.

I thought I heard something rattle on the table.I must have slept for a while, for the tallow candlewas just flickering out. But I could see quitedistinctly a little man as big as the palm of myhand sitting cross-legged on the table carefullypulling at my watch-chain and bending his greyold head on one side to listen to the tickingof my repeater. He was so interested that hedid not notice that I was sitting up in my bedand looking at him. Suddenly he caught sightof me, dropped the watch-chain, glided downthe leg of the table, sailor fashion, and sprangtowards the door as fast as his tiny legs couldcarry him.

"Don't be afraid, little goblin," said I, "it isonly me. Don't run away, and I will show youwhat is inside that gold box you were so interestedin. It can ring a bell as they do in churchon Sundays."

He stopped short and looked at me with hissmall, kind eyes.

"I cannot make it out," said the goblin, "Ithought I smelt a child in this room or I wouldnever have come in, and you look like a big man.Well, I never . . ." he exclaimed hoisting himselfup on the chair by the bed. "Well, I neverheard of such good luck as to find you here in thisfar-away place. You are just the same child aswhen I saw you last time in the nursery of yourold home or you could never have seen me to-nightsitting on the table. Don't you recognizeme? It was I who came to your nursery everynight when the whole house was asleep to putthings straight for you and smooth away all yourworries of the day. It was to me you alwaysbrought a slice of your birthday cake and all thosewalnuts, raisins and sweets from the Christmastree and you never forgot to bring me my bowlof porridge. Why did you ever leave your oldhome in the midst of the big forest? You werealways smiling then, why do you look so sad now?"

"Because I have no rest in my head, I cannotstay anywhere, I cannot forget, I cannot sleep."

"That is like your father. How often have Inot watched him wandering up and down in hisroom the whole night!"

"Tell me something about my father, I rememberso little of him."

"Your father was a strange man, sombre andsilent. He was kind to all the poor and to allanimals, but he seemed often hard to those aroundhim. He used to flog you a lot but it is trueyou were a difficult child. You obeyed nobody,you did not seem to care for either your fatheror your mother or your sister or your brother orfor anybody. Yes, I think you cared for yournurse, don't you remember her, Lena? Nobodyelse liked her, everybody was afraid of her. Shehad been taken on as your nurse for sheer necessityas your mother could not give you thebreast. Nobody knew where she came from. Herskin was dark like the skin of the Lapp childwho brought you here yesterday, but she was verytall. She used to sing to you in an unknowntongue while she gave you the breast, she kept ongiving you the breast till you were two years old.Nobody, not even your mother, dared to gonear her, she growled like an angry she-wolf ifanybody wanted to take you from her arms. Atlast she was sent away but she returned in thenight and tried to steal you. Your mother gotso frightened that she had to take her back. Shebrought you all sorts of animals to play with, bats,hedge-hogs, squirrels, rats, snakes, owls andravens. I once saw her with my own eyes cuttingthe throat of a raven and putting some dropsof his blood in your milk. One day when youwere four years old the sheriff came with twocountry policemen and carried her away, handcuffed.I heard it had something to do with herown child. The whole house was delighted, butyou were delirious for several days. Most ofyour troubles had to do with your animals.Your room was full of all sorts of animals, youeven slept with them in your bed. Don't youremember how mercilessly you were flogged forlying on eggs? Every bird's egg you could gethold of you used to try to hatch out in yourbed. Of course a small child cannot keep awake,every morning your bed was all in a mess withsmashed eggs and every morning you were floggedfor it but nothing helped. Don't you rememberthe evening your parents came home late from ahouse-party and found your sister in her nightgownsitting on the table under an umbrellascreaming with terror? All your animals hadescaped from your room, a bat had caught herclaw in your sister's hair, all your snakes, toadsand rats were crawling about on the floor andin your own bed they found a whole litter of mice.Your father gave you a tremendous thrashing,you flew at him and bit your own father in thehand. The next day you stole out of the houseat daybreak after breaking into the pantry in thenight to fill your knapsack with what eatables youcould lay hands on, and smashing your sister'smoney-box and stealing all her savings—you neverhad any savings of your own. The whole dayand the whole night all the servants were huntingfor you in vain. At last your father whohad galloped off to the village to speak to thepolice found you fast asleep in the snow by theroadside, your dog had barked as he rode past.I overheard your father's hunter telling the otherhorses in the stable how your father lifted youup in the saddle without saying a word and rodehome with you and locked you up in a dark roomon bread and water for two days and nights. Onthe third day you were taken to your father'sroom, he asked you why you had stolen outof the house? You said you were misunderstoodby everybody in the house and wanted to emigrateto America. He asked you if you weresorry you had bitten him in the hand, you saidno. The next day you were sent to school inthe town and were only allowed to return homefor the Christmas holidays. On Christmas dayyou all drove to church for the morning serviceat four o'clock. A whole pack of wolves gallopedbehind the sledge as you drove across thefrozen lake, the winter was very severe andthe wolves were very hungry. The church wasall ablaze with light with two big Christmas treesbefore the High Altar. The whole congregationstood up to sing "Hail, happy morn." Whenthey had finished the hymn you told your fatheryou were sorry you had bitten him in the handand he patted you on the head. On the way backacross the lake you tried to jump from the sledge,you said you wanted to follow the trails of thewolves to see where they had gone. In the afternoonyou were missing again, everybody wassearching for you in vain the whole night. Thegamekeeper found you in the morning in theforest asleep under a big fir. There were trailsof wolves all round the tree, the gamekeeper saidit was a miracle you had not been eaten by thewolves. But the worst of all happened duringyour summer holidays when the housemaid founda human skull under your bed, a skull with a tuftof red hair still hanging on to the back of the head.The whole house was in commotion. Your motherfainted and your father gave you the severestthrashing you had ever had so far and you wereagain locked up in a dark room on water andbread. It was discovered that the night beforeyou had ridden on your pony to the villagechurchyard, had broken into the charnel houseand stolen the skull from a heap of bonesdeposited in the cellar. The parson who hadbeen the headmaster of a boy's school told yourfather that it was an unheard-of thing that a boyof ten should have committed such an atrocioussin against God and man. Your mother, whowas a very pious woman, never got over it. Sheseemed almost afraid of you and she was not theonly one. She said she could not understandthat she could have given birth to such a monster.Your father said that surely you had not beenbegotten by him but by the devil himself. Theold housekeeper said it was all the fault of yournurse who had bewitched you by putting somethingin your milk and had hung the claw of a wolfround your neck."

"But is all this really true what you have toldme about my childhood? I must have been astrange child indeed!"

"What I have told you is true, every word ofit," answered the goblin. "What you may tellto others I am not responsible for. You alwaysseem to mix up reality with dreams as all childrendo."

"But I am not a child, I shall be twenty-sevennext month."

"Of course you are a big child or you could nothave seen me, only children can see us goblins."

"And how old are you, little man?"

"Six hundred years. I happen to know becauseI was born the same year as the old fir-tree outsideyour nursery window where the big owl had itsnest. Your father always said it was the oldesttree in the whole forest. Don't you remember thebig owl, don't you remember how it used to sitand blink at you through the window with its roundeyes?"

"Are you married?"

"No. I am single," said the goblin. "Andyou?"

"Not so far, but . . ."

"Don't! My father always told us that marriagewas a very risky undertaking, and that itwas a wise saying that one could not be too carefulin the choice of one's mother-in-law."

"Six hundred years old! Really? You do notlook it! I would never have believed it by theway you slid down the leg of the table and ranacross the floor when you caught sight of me sittingup in bed."

"My legs are all right, thank you, only myeyes are getting somewhat tired, I can hardly seeanything in the daytime. I have also strange noisesin my ears ever since you big people began thatdreadful blasting in the mountains around us.Some goblins say you want to rob the Trolls oftheir gold and iron, others say it is to make a holefor that huge, yellow snake with the two blackstripes on his back who is wriggling his way overfields and forests and across the rivers, his mouthfoaming with smoke and fire. We are all afraidof him, all the animals in the forests and fields,all the birds in the sky, all the fishes in rivers andlakes, even the Trolls under the mountains areflying north in terror of his approach. What willbecome of us poor goblins? What will becomeof all the children when we are no more in thenurseries to put them to sleep with our fairy talesand keep watch over their dreams? Who will lookafter the horses in the stable, who will see to itthat they do not fall on the slippery ice and breaktheir legs? Who will wake the cows and helpthem to look after their new-born calves? I tellyou times are hard, there is something wrongwith your world, there is no peace anywhere. Allthis incessant rattle and noise is getting on mynerves. I dare not stay with you any longer. Theowls are already getting sleepy, all the creepingthings in the forest are going to bed, the squirrelsare already crunching their fir-cones, the cock willsoon crow, the terrible blasting across the lakewill soon begin again. I tell you I cannot standit any longer. It is my last night here, I haveto leave you. I have to work my way up to Kebnekajsebefore the sun rises."

"Kebnekajse! Kebnekajse is hundreds of milesfurther north, how on earth are you going to getthere with your short little legs?"

"I dare say a crane or a wild goose will giveme a lift, they are all collecting there now forthe long flight to the land where there is no winter.If it comes to the worst I shall ride part of theway on the back of a bear or a wolf, they are allfriends to us goblins. I must go."

"Don't go away, stay with me a little longerand I will show you what is inside that gold boxyou were so interested in."

"What do you keep in the gold box? Is it ananimal? I thought I heard the beating of its heartinside the box."

"It is the beating of the heart of Time youheard."

"What is Time?" asked the goblin.

"I cannot tell you, nor can anybody else tellyou what Time means. They say it is made upof three different things, the past, the present andthe future."

"Do you always carry it about with you in thatgold box?"

"Yes, it never rests, it never sleeps, it neverceases to repeat the same word in my ears."

"Do you understand what it says?"

"Alas! only too well. It tells me every second,every minute, every hour of the day and of thenight that I am getting older, and that I am goingto die. Tell me, little man, before you go, areyou afraid of Death?"

"Afraid of what?"

"Afraid of the day when the beating of yourheart will cease, the cogs and wheels of the wholemachinery fall to pieces, your thoughts stand still,your life flicker out like the light of that dimtallow candle on the table."

"Who has put all that nonsense in your head?Don't listen to the voice inside the gold box withits silly past, present and future, don't you understandthat it all means the same thing! Don't youunderstand that somebody is making fun of youinside that gold box! If I were you, I wouldthrow your uncanny gold box in the river anddrown the evil spirit locked up in it. Don't believea word of what it tells you, it is nothing butlies! You will always remain a child, you willnever grow old, you will never die. You just liedown and get to sleep for a while! The sun willsoon rise again over the fir-tops, the new day willsoon look in through the window, you will soon seemuch clearer than you ever saw by the light ofthat tallow candle.

"I must be off. Good-bye to you, dreamer,and well met!"

"Well met, little goblin!"

He glided down from the chair by my bed andclattered away towards the door in his little woodenshoes. As he was fumbling in his pocket for hislatch-key he suddenly burst into such a roar oflaughter that he had to hold his stomach with histwo hands.

"Death!" he chuckled. "Well, I never! Itbeats anything I have ever heard before! Whatshortsighted fools are they not, these big monkeys,compared with us small goblins. Death!By Robin Goodfellow, I never heard such nonsense!"

When I woke and looked out through the windowthe ground was white with fresh snow. Highoverhead I heard the beating of wings and the callof a flock of wild geese. God speed, little goblin!

I sat down to my breakfast, a bowl of porridge,milk fresh from the cow and a cup of excellentcoffee. Uncle Lars told me he had been up twicein the night, the Lapland dog had been growlinguneasily the whole time as if he saw or heardsomething. He himself had thought he saw thedark form of what might have been a wolf sneakingabout outside the house. Once he had thoughthe heard the sound of voices from the cow-stable,he was quite relieved when he heard it was metalking in my sleep. The hens had been cacklingand restless the whole night.

"Do you see that?" said Uncle Lars pointingto a trail in the fresh snow leading up to my window."There must have been at least three ofthem. I have lived here for over thirty yearsand I have never seen the trail of a wolf so nearthe house. Do you see that?" he said pointingto another trail in the snow as big as the footstepof a man. "I thought I was dreaming whenI saw it first. As sure as my name is Lars Andersthe bear has been here to-night and this is thetrail of her cub. It is ten years since I shot abear in this forest. Do you hear that chatteringin the big fir by the cow-stable? There mustbe a couple of dozens of them, I never saw somany squirrels in one tree in my whole life. Didyou hear the hooting of the owl in the forest andthe calling of the loon from the lake the wholenight? Did you hear the nightjar spinning roundthe house at daybreak? I cannot make it out,as a rule the whole forest is silent as a grave afterdark. Why have all these animals come here thisnight? Neither Kerstin nor I have slept a wink.Kerstin thinks it is the Lapp child who has bewitchedthe house, but she says she had beenbaptized in Rukne last summer. But one neverknows with these Lapps, they are all full of witchcraftand devil's tricks. Anyhow I sent her offat daybreak, she is swift on foot, she will be atthe Lapp school in Rukne before sunset. Whenare you going?"

I said I was in no hurry, I would like to remaina couple of days, I liked the Forsstugan verymuch.

Uncle Lars said his son was to return from histimber-cutting in the evening, there would be noroom for me to sleep in. I said I did not mindsleeping in the barn, I liked the smell of hay.Neither Uncle Lars nor Mother Kerstin seemedto cherish the idea. I could not help feeling asif they wanted to get rid of me, they hardly spokea word to me, they almost seemed afraid of me.

I asked Uncle Lars about the stranger who hadcome to Forsstugan two days ago and who hadeaten all the bread. He could not speak a wordof Swedish, said Lars Anders, the Finn Lapp whowas carrying his fishing tackle and rods said theyhad lost their way. They were half dead of hungerwhen they came, they had eaten up everything inthe house. Uncle Lars showed me the coin he hadinsisted on giving to the grandchildren, was itpossible that it was real gold?

It was an English sovereign. On the floor bythe window lay a 'Times' addressed to Sir JohnScott. I opened it and read in huge letters:

TERRIBLE OUTBREAK OF CHOLERA
IN NAPLES;
OVER A THOUSAND CASES A DAY

One hour later Pelle, Uncle Lars' grandson,stood in front of the house with the shaggy littleNorwegian pony. Uncle Lars was dumbfoundedwhen I wanted to pay him at least for the provisionsin my rucksack, he said he had never heardsuch a thing. He said I had nothing to worryabout, Pelle knew the direction quite well. It wasquite an easy and comfortable journey this timeof the year. Eight hours' ride through the forestto Rukne, three hours downstream in LissJocum's boat, six hours on foot across the mountainto the church village, two hours across thelake to Losso Jarvi, from there eight hours' easydrive to the new railway station. No passengertrains as yet but the engineer would be sure tolet me stand on the locomotive for two hundredmiles till I could catch the goods' train.

Uncle Lars was quite right, it was an easy andcomfortable journey, at least it seemed so to methen. What would it have seemed to me today?Equally easy and comfortable was the journeyacross Central Europe in the wretched trains ofthose days with hardly any sleep. Lapland toNaples, look at the map!

VIII
NAPLES

If anybody would care to know about my stayin Naples, he must look it up in 'Letters froma Mourning City' if he can get hold of a copy,which is not probable, for the little book is longago out of print and forgotten. I have just beenreading myself with considerable interest these'Letters from Naples' as they were called in theSwedish original. I could not write such a bookto-day to save my life. There is plenty of boyishboisterousness in these letters, there is also plentyof self-consciousness, not to say conceit. I wasevidently rather pleased with myself for havingrushed from Lapland to Naples at the momentwhen everybody else had left it. There is a gooddeal of swaggering how I went about night andday in the infected poor quarters, covered withlice, feeding on rotten fruit, sleeping in afilthy locanda. All this is quite true, I have nothingto retract, my description of Naples incholera times is exact as I saw it with the eyes ofan enthusiast.

But the description of myself is far less exact.I had the cheek to put in writing that I was notafraid of the cholera, not afraid of Death. I tolda lie. I was horribly afraid of both from the firsttill the last. I described in the first letter how,half-faint from the stench of carbolic acid in theempty train I stepped out on the deserted Piazzalate in the evening, how I passed in the streetslong convoys of carts and omnibuses filled withcorpses on the way to the cholera cemetery, howI spent the whole night amongst the dying in thewretched fondaci of the slums. But there is nodescription of how a couple of hours after myarrival I was back once more in the station eagerlyinquiring for the first train for Rome, for Calabria,for the Abruzzi, for anywhere, the further thebetter, only to get out of this hell. Had therebeen a train there would have been no 'Lettersfrom a Mourning City.' As it was, there wasno train till noon the next day, the communicationswith the infected city having been almost cut off.There was nothing to do but to have a swim atSanta Lucia at sunrise and to return to the slumswith a cool head but still trembling with fear.In the afternoon my offer to serve on the staff ofthe cholera hospital of Santa Maddalena was accepted.Two days later I vanished from the hospitalhaving discovered that the right place forme was not among the dying in the hospital, butamong the dying in the slums.

How much easier it would have been for themand for me, thought I, if only their agony wasnot so long, so terrible! There they were lyingfor hours, for days in stadium algidum, cold ascorpses, with wide-open eyes and wide-openmouths, to all appearances dead and yet still alive.Did they feel anything, did they understand anything?So much the better for the few who couldstill swallow the tea-spoonful of laudanum one ofthe volunteers of the Croce Bianca rushed into pour into their mouths. It might at least finishthem off before the soldiers and the half-drunkbeccamorti came at night to throw them all ina heap in the immense pit on the Camposantodei Colerosi. How many were thrown there alive?Hundreds, I should say. They all looked exactlyalike, I myself was often unable to say if theywere dead or alive. There was no time to lose,there were dozens of them in every slum, the orderswere strict, they all had to buried in thenight.

As the epidemic approached its climax I hadno longer any reason for complaining that theiragony was so long. Soon they began to fall downin the streets as if struck by lightning, to bepicked up by the police and driven to the cholerahospital to die there a few hours later. The cabbywho drove me in the morning in tearing spiritsto the convict prison of Granatello, near Porticiand was to take me back to Naples, was lyingdead in his cab when I came to look for him inthe evening. Nobody wanted to have anythingto do with him in Portici, nobody wanted to helpme to get him out of the cab. I had to climbon to the box and drive him back to Naples myself.Nobody wanted to have anything to do withhim there either, it ended by my having to drivehim to the cholera cemetery before I could getrid of him.

Often when I returned in the evening to thelocanda, I was so tired that I threw myself onthe bed as I was, without undressing, without evenwashing myself. What was the good of washingin this filthy water, what was the good of disinfectingmyself when everybody and everythingaround me was infected, the food I ate, the waterI drank, the bed I slept in, the very air I breathed!Often I was too frightened to go to bed, toofrightened to be alone. I had to rush out intothe street again, to spend the remainder of thenight in one of the churches. Santa Maria delCarmine was my favourite night-quarter, the bestsleep I have ever had I have had on a bench inthe left-side aisle of that old church. There wereplenty of churches to sleep in when I dared notgo home. All the hundreds of churches andchapels of Naples were open the whole night,ablaze with votive candles and thronged withpeople. All their hundreds of Madonnas andsaints were hard at work night and day to visitthe dying in their respective quarters. Woe tothem if they ventured to appear in the quarterof one of their rivals! Even the venerable Madonnadella Colera who had saved the city in theterrible epidemic of 1834, had been hissed a fewdays before at Bianchi Nuovi.

But it was not only of the cholera I was afraid.I was also terrified from first to last of the rats.They seemed just as much at home in the fondaci,bassi and sotterranei of the slums as the wretchedhuman beings who lived and died there. To bejust, they were on the whole inoffensive and well-behavedrats, at least with the living, attendingto their business of scavengers, handed over tothem alone since the time of the Romans, the onlymembers of the community who were sure to gettheir fill. They were as tame as cats and almostas big. Once I came upon an old woman, nothingbut skin and bones, almost naked, lying on arotten straw-mattress in a semi-dark sort of grotto.I was told she was the 'vavama,' the grandmother.She was paralysed and totally blind, she had beenlying there for years. On the filthy floor of thecave sat on their haunches half-a-dozen enormousrats in a circle round their unmentionable morningmeal. They looked quite placidly at me,without moving an inch. The old woman stretchedout her skeleton arm and screamed in a hoarsevoice: "pane! pane!"

But when the sanitary commission started onits vain attempt to disinfect the sewers, the situationchanged, my fear grew into terror. Millionsof rats who had been living unmolested inthe sewers since the time of the Romans, invadedthe lower part of the town. Intoxicated by thesulphur fumes and the carbolic acid, they rushedabout the slums like mad dogs. They did notlook like any rats I had ever seen before, theywere quite bald with extraordinarily long red tails,fierce blood-shot eyes and pointed black teeth aslong as the teeth of a ferret. If you hit them withyour stick, they would turn round and hang onto the stick like a bull-dog. Never in my life Ihave been so afraid of any animal as I was ofthese mad rats, for I am sure they were mad. Thewhole Basso Porto quarter was in terror. Overone hundred severely bitten men, women and childrenwere taken to the Pellegrini hospital the veryfirst day of the invasion. Several small childrenwere literally eaten up. I shall never forget anight in a fondaco in Vicolo della Duchessa. Theroom, the cave is the better word, was almostdark, only lit up by the little oil-lamp before theMadonna. The father had been dead for twodays but the body was still lying there under aheap of rags, the family having succeeded in hidinghim from the police in search of the dead to betaken to the cemetery, a common practice in theslums. I was sitting on the floor by the side ofthe daughter, beating off the rats with my stick.She was already quite cold, she was still conscious.I could hear the whole time the rats crunching atthe body of the father. At last it made me sonervous that I had to put him upright in the cornerlike a grandfather clock. Soon the rats beganagain eating ravenously his feet and legs. I couldnot stand it any longer. Faint with fear I rushedaway.

The Farmacia di San Gennaro was also afavourite haunt of mine when I was afraid to bealone. It was open night and day. Don Bartolowas always on his legs concocting his variousmixtures and miraculous remedies from his rowof seventeenth-century Faenza jars with Latininscriptions of drugs, mostly unknown to me. Acouple of large glass bottles with snakes and afoetus in alcohol adorned the side-board. By theshrine of San Gennaro, the patron saint of Naples,burned the sacred lamp and among the cobwebs inthe ceiling hung an embalmed cat with two heads.The speciality of the Farmacia was Don Bartolo'sfamous anti-cholerical mixture, labelled with apicture of San Gennaro on one side and a skullon the other with the words "Morte alla coléra"underneath. Its composition was a family secrethanded down from father to son ever since theepidemic of 1834 when, in collaboration with SanGennaro, it had saved the city. Another specialityof the Farmacia was a mysterious bottlelabelled with a heart pierced by Cupid's arrow,a filtro d'amore. Its composition also was afamily secret, it was much in demand, I understood.Don Bartolo's clients seemed chieflydrawn from the many convents and churchesround his street. There were always a couple ofpriests, monks or frati sitting on the chairs beforethe counter in animated discussion about theevents of the day, the last miracles performed bythis or that saint and the efficacy of the variousMadonnas, La Madonna del Carmine, la Madonnadell'Aiuto, la Madonna della Buona Morte, laMadonna della Coléra, l'Addolorata, la MadonnaEgiziaca. Seldom, very seldom, I heard thename of God mentioned, the name of His Sonnever. I once ventured to express my surpriseto a shabby old Frate who was a particular friendof mine over this omission of Christ in their discussions.The old Frate made no secret of hisprivate opinion that Christ owed his reputationsolely to His having the Madonna for His Mother.As far as he knew, Christ had never saved anybodyfrom the cholera. His Blessed Mother hadcried her eyes out for Him. What had He donefor Her in return? "Woman," He said, "whathave I to do with Thee?"

"Perciò ha finito male, that's why He came toa bad end."

As Saturday approached the names of thevarious saints and Madonnas dropped more andmore from the conversation. On Friday night theFarmacia was full of people gesticulating wildly inanimated discussion about their chances for theBanco di Lotto of to-morrow.

Trentaquattro, sessantanove, quarantatre, diciasette!

Don Antonio had dreamt his aunt had died suddenlyand left him five thousand lire, sudden death—49,money—70! Don Onorato had consultedthe hunchback in Via Forcella, he was sure of histerno—9, 39, 20! Don Bartolo's cat had had sevenkittens in the night—numbers 7, 16, 64! DonDionisio had just read in the 'Pungolo' that acamorrista had stabbed a barber at Immacolatella.Barber—21, knife—41! Don Pasquale had gothis numbers from the custodian of the cemeterywho had heard them distinctly from a grave—ilmorto che parla—48!

It was at the Farmacia di San Gennaro I firstmade the acquaintance of Doctor Villari. I hadbeen told by Don Bartolo that he had come toNaples two years ago as an assistant to oldDoctor Rispù, the well-known doctor of all theconvents and congregations in the quarter, whoat his death had handed over his large practice tohis young assistant. I was always glad to meetmy colleague, I took a great liking to him fromthe very first. He was a singularly handsomeman with nice, quiet manners, very unlike theordinary type of Neapolitan. He came from theAbruzzi. It was through him I first heard of theConvent of the Sepolte Vive, the grim old buildingin the corner of the street with its small Gothicwindows and huge massive iron gates, sombre andsilent like a grave. Was it true that the nunsentered through these gates wrapped in the shroudof the dead and laid in a coffin, and that they couldnever get out as long as they were alive?

Yes, it was quite true, the nuns had no communicationwith the outer world. He himself duringhis rare professional visits to the convent waspreceded by an old nun ringing a bell to warn thenuns to shut themselves up in their cells.

Was it true what I had heard from Padre Anselmo,their confessor, that the cloister-garden wasfull of antique marbles?

Yes, he had noticed lots of fragments lyingabout, he had been told that the convent stood onthe ruins of a Greek temple.

My colleague seemed to like to talk to me, hesaid he had no friends in Naples, like all his countrymenhe hated and despised the Neapolitans.What he had witnessed since the outbreak of thecholera made him loathe them more than ever.It was difficult not to believe that it was thepunishment of God that had fallen on their rottencity. Sodom and Gomorrha were nothing comparedto Naples. Did I not see what was goingon in the poor quarters, in the streets, in the infectedhouses, even in the churches while theywere praying to one saint and cursing another?A frenzy of lust was sweeping all over Naples,immorality and vice everywhere in the very faceof Death. Assaults on women had become sofrequent that no decent woman dared to leave herhouse.

He did not seem to be afraid of the cholera, hesaid he felt quite safe under the protection of theMadonna. How I envied him his faith! Heshowed me the two medallions his wife had hunground his neck the day the cholera broke out, onewas a Madonna del Carmine, the other was SantaLucia, the patron saint of his wife, his wife's namewas Lucia. She had worn the little medallionever since she was a child. I said I knew SantaLucia well, I knew she was the patron saint of theeyes. I had often wished to light a candle beforeher shrine, I who had lived for years in fear oflosing my sight. He said he would tell his wifeto remember me in her prayers to Santa Lucia,who had lost her own eyes but had restored thelight to so many others. He told me that fromthe moment he left his house in the morning, hiswife was sitting by the window looking out forhis return. She had nobody but him in the world,she had married him against the wish of herparents, he had wanted to send her away fromthe infected city but she had refused to leave him.I asked him if he was not afraid of death. Hesaid not for himself but for the sake of his wife.If only death from cholera was not so hideous!Better to be taken at once to the cemetery than tobe seen by eyes that loved you!

"I am sure you will be all right," I said, "youhave at least somebody who prays for you, I havenobody."

A shadow passed over his handsome face.

"Promise me if . . ."

"Don't let us talk about death," I interruptedhim with a shudder.

The little Osteria dell'Allegria behind PiazzaMercato was a favourite resting-place of mine.The food was abominable but the wine was excellent,six sous the litre, I had plenty of it. I oftenspent half of the night there when I dared not gohome. Cesare, the night-waiter, soon became agreat friend of mine. After the third case ofcholera in my locanda it ended by my movinginto an empty room in the house he lived in. Mynew quarters were as dirty as the locanda, butCesare was right, it was much better to be "incompagnia." His wife was dead, but Mariuccia,his daughter, was alive, very much so. Shebelieved she was fifteen, but she was already infull bloom, black-eyed and red-lipped, she lookedlike the little Venus of the Capitol Museum. Shewashed my linen, cooked my macaroni, and madeup my bed when she did not forget it. Shehad never seen a forestiere before. She wasalways coming into my room with a bunch ofgrapes, a slice of water-melon or a plate of figs.When she had nothing else to offer me she tookthe red rose from her black curls and handed itto me with her enchanting smile of a siren and asparkling question in her eyes, whether I wouldnot like to have her red lips as well? The wholeday she was singing from the kitchen in herstrong, shrill voice:

"Amore! Amore!"

In the night I heard her tossing about in herbed on the other side of the partition wall. Shesaid she could not go to sleep, she said she wasafraid to be alone at night, she was afraid to dormiresola. Was I not afraid to dormire solo?

"Dormite, signorino?" she whispered from herbed.

No, I did not sleep, I was wide awake, I did notlike to dormire solo more than she did.

What new fear was making my heart beat sotumultuously and making the blood rush throughmy veins with fever speed? Why, when sittinghalf-asleep in the side aisle of Santa Maria delCarmine, had I not noticed before all these beautifulgirls in their black mantillas kneeling on themarble floor by my side and smiling at me on thesly in the midst of their prayers and incantations?How could I have passed every day for weeks infront of the fruttivendola in the street corner withoutstopping to chat with Nannina, her beautifuldaughter, with the same colour on her cheeks asthe peaches she was selling? Why had I notdiscovered before that the fioraia in Piazza Mercatohad the same enchanting smile as Botticelli'sPrimavera? How could I have spent somany evenings in the Osteria dell'Allegria unawarethat it was not the vino di Gragnano butthe sparkle in Carmela's eyes that went to myhead? How was it possible that I had only heardthe groans of the dying and the tolling of thechurch-bells when from every street sounded laughterand love-songs, when under every portico stooda girl whispering to her amoroso?

"O Mari', O Mari', quanto sonno ho perso pez te.Fammi dormire.Abbracciato un poco con te."

sang a youth under Mariuccia's window.

"O Carmé! O Carmé!" sang another outsidethe osteria.

"Vorrei baciare i tuoi capelli neri,"rang out from Piazza Mercato.

"Vorrei baciare i tuoi capelli neri,"echoed in my ears as I lay in my bed listening tothe respiration of Mariuccia asleep on the otherside of the partition wall.

What had happened to me? Was I bewitchedby a strega? Had one of these girls poured somedrops of Don Bartolo's filtro d'amore in my wine?What had happened to all these people aroundme? Were they all drunk with the new wine orhad they gone mad with lust in the very face ofDeath?

Morto la coléra, evviva la gioia!

I was sitting at my usual table in the Osteriahalf-asleep before my bottle of wine. It wasalready past midnight, I thought I had better waitwhere I was, to return home with Cesare when hehad finished his job. A boy ran up to my tableand handed me a piece of paper.

"Come," was scribbled on the paper in almostillegible letters.

Five minutes later we stopped before the hugeiron gates of the convent of the Sepolte Vive. Iwas let in by an old nun who preceded me acrossthe cloister garden ringing a bell. We passedalong an immense, deserted corridor, another nunheld up a lantern to my face and opened the doorto a dimly-lit room. Doctor Villari was lying ona mattress on the floor. I hardly recognized himat first. Padre Anselmo was just giving him theLast Sacraments. He was already in stadiumalgidum, his body was quite cold but I could seeby his eyes that he was still conscious. I lookedat his face with a shudder, it was not my friend Ilooked at, it was Death, terrible, repulsive Death.He raised his hands several times pointing at me,his ghastly face twitching under a desperate effortto speak. From his grimacing lips came distinctlythe word: "specchio!" A nun brought after somedelay a little mirror, I held it before his half-closedeyes. He shook his head several times, it was thelast sign of life he gave, an hour later the heartstood still.

The cart stood before the gate to take away thebodies of the two nuns who had died during theday. I knew it rested with me whether he wasto be taken away at the same time or left where hewas till the next evening. They would havebelieved me had I said he was still alive, helooked exactly the same as when I had come. Isaid nothing. Two hours later his body wasthrown with hundreds of other bodies in thecommon grave in the cholera cemetery. I hadunderstood why he had raised his hand andpointed at me and why he had shaken his headwhen I had held the mirror before his eyes. Hedid not want his wife to see what he had seen inthe mirror, and he wanted me to go and tell herwhen all was over.

As I stood before his house I saw the whiteface of a woman, almost a child, in the window.She reeled back with terror in her eyes as I openedthe door.

"You are the foreign doctor he has told me somuch about, he has not come back, I have beenstanding in the window the whole night. Whereis he?"

She threw a shawl over her shoulders and rushedto the door.

"Take me to him at once, I must see him atonce!"

I held her back, I said I must speak to her first.I told her he had been taken ill in the convent ofthe Sepolte Vive, the whole place was infected, shecould not go there, she must think of the child shewas going to give birth to.

"Help me downstairs, help me downstairs! Imust go to him at once, why don't you help me?"she sobbed.

Suddenly she gave a piercing scream and sankdown on the chair on the point of fainting.

"It is not true, he is not dead, why don't youspeak, you are a liar, he cannot be dead withoutmy seeing him."

She sprang to the door once more.

"I must see him, I must see him!"

Once more I held her back.

"You cannot see him, he is no longer there, heis . . ."

She sprang at me like a wounded animal.

"You had no right to have him taken awaybefore I had seen him," she screamed, mad withrage. "He was the light of my eyes, you havetaken the light from my eyes! You are a liar, amurderer! Holy Lucia, take the light from hiseyes as he has taken the light from my eyes!Sting out his eyes as you stung out your owneyes!"

An old woman rushed into the room and sprangat me with uplifted hands as if she wanted toscratch my face.

"Holy Lucia, take the sight away from him!Blind him!" she screamed at the top of her voice.

"Potess' essere ciecato, potess' essere ciecato,"she was still shouting from the landing as I reeleddown the stairs.

The terrible curse, the most terrible that evercould have been hurled against me, was ringing inmy ears the whole night. I dared not go home,I was afraid of the dark. I spent the remainderof the night in Santa Maria del Carmine, I thoughtthe day would never come.

When I staggered into the Farmacia di SanGennaro in the morning for my usual pick-me-up,another of Don Bartolo's specialities of extraordinaryefficacy, Padre Anselmo had just left amessage for me to come to the convent at once.

The whole convent was in commotion, there hadbeen three fresh cases of cholera. Padre Anselmotold me that after a long conversation betweenthe Abbess and himself, it had been decided toask me to replace my dead colleague, no otherdoctor being available. Panic-stricken nuns wererunning to and fro through the corridors, otherswere praying and singing incantations in thechapel. The three nuns were lying on theirstraw mattresses in their cells. One of themdied in the evening. In the morning, the oldnun who had been assisting me was struck downin her turn. She was replaced by a young nunI had already noticed during my first visit,indeed it was difficult not to notice her, for shewas very young and strikingly beautiful. Shenever said a word to me. She did not evenanswer when I asked her what was her name,but I found out from Padre Anselmo that she wasSuora Ursula. Later in the day I asked tospeak to the Abbess and was taken by SuoraUrsula to her cell. The old Abbess looked at mewith her cold, penetrating eyes, severe and scrutinizingas those of a judge. Her face was rigidand lifeless as if cut in marble, her thin lips lookedas if they had never parted in a smile. I told herthe whole convent was infected, the sanitary conditionswere appalling, the water in the garden wellwas polluted, the whole place must be evacuatedor they would all die of cholera.

She answered it was impossible, it was againstthe rules of their order, no nun, once inside theirconvent, had ever left it alive. They all had toremain where they were, they were in the handsof the Madonna and of San Gennaro.

Except for a rapid visit to the Farmacia for asteadily increased dose of Don Bartolo's miraculouspick-me-up, I never left the convent forseveral unforgettable days of terror. I had totell Padre Anselmo I must have some wine, andsoon I had plenty of it, probably too much.Sleep I had next to none, I did not seem to needany sleep. I do not even believe I could haveslept had I had the chance, fear and innumerablecups of black coffee had roused my whole mentalmachinery into an extraordinary state of excitementwhich took away all fatigue. My onlyrelaxation was when I could steal into thecloister-garden where I sat smoking endlesscigarettes on the old marble bench under thecypresses. Fragments of antique marbles werelying all over the garden, even the well-headwas made out of what had once been a cippo, aRoman altar. It is now in the courtyard ofSan Michele. At my very feet lay a mutilatedfawn of rosso antico, and half-hidden amongstthe cypresses stood a little Eros still erect on hiscolumn of African marble. A couple of timesI had found Suora Ursula sitting on the bench,she said she had to come out for a breath offresh air or she would faint from the stench allover the building. Once she brought me a cupof coffee and stood in front of me waiting for thecup while I drank my coffee as slowly as possibleto make her stand there a little longer. It seemedto me as if she had become a little less shy, as ifshe did not mind that I was so slow in handingback my empty cup to her. It seemed a rest tomy tired eyes to look at her. It soon became ajoy for she was very beautiful. Did she understandwhat my eyes said to her but my lips darednot say, that I was young and she was fair?There were moments when I almost thought shedid.

I asked her why she had come here to buryher young life in the grave of the Sepolte Vive.Did she not know that outside this place ofterror and death the world was as beautiful asbefore, that life was full of joy and not only ofsorrow?

"Do you know who is this boy?" I said pointingto the little Eros under the cypresses.

She thought it was an angelo.

No, it is a god, the greatest of all gods and perhapsthe oldest of all gods. He ruled over Olympusand he still rules over our world to-day.

"Your convent stands on the ruins of anantique temple, its very walls had crumbled todust destroyed by time and man. This little boyalone has remained where he stood with thequiver of arrows in his hand, ready to raise hisbow. He is indestructible because he is immortal.The ancients called him Eros, he is the god ofLove."

As I spoke the blasphemous word the bell fromthe chapel called the nuns to their evening prayer.She crossed herself and hurried out of the garden.

A moment later another nun came rushingto take me to the Abbess, she had fainted in thechapel, they had just carried her to her cell.The Abbess looked at me with her terrible eyes.She raised her hand and pointed to the Crucifixon the wall, they brought her the Last Sacraments.She never rallied, she never spoke, theaction of the heart grew weaker and weaker, shewas sinking rapidly. She lay there the whole day,the Crucifix on her breast, her rosary in her hands,her eyes closed, her body slowly growing cold.Once or twice I thought I heard a faint beatingof the heart, soon I heard nothing. I looked atthe rigid, cruel face of the old Abbess which evendeath had not been able to soften. It was almosta relief to me that her eyes were closed for ever,there was something in those eyes that hadfrightened me. I looked at the young nun by myside.

"I cannot stay here any longer," I said, "I havenot slept since I came here, my head is swimming,I am not myself, I do not know what I am doing,I am afraid of myself, I am afraid of you, I amafraid of . . ."

I had not time to finish the word, she had nottime to draw back, my arms had closed round her,I felt the tumultuous beating of her heart againstmy heart.

"Pietà!" she murmured.

Suddenly she pointed towards the bed and sprangout of the room with a cry of terror. The eyes of theold Abbess were looking straight at me, wide-open,terrible, menacing. I bent over her, I thought Iheard a faint fluttering of the heart. Was she deador alive? Could those terrible eyes see, had theyseen? Would those lips ever speak again? I darednot look at those eyes, I pulled the sheet over herface and sprang from the cell, from the SepolteVive, never to return there any more.

The next day I fainted in Strada Piliero. WhenI regained consciousness I was lying in a cab witha terrified policeman sitting on the seat oppositeme. We were on our way to Santa Maddalena, thecholera hospital.

I have described elsewhere how that drive ended,how three weeks later my stay in Naples ended witha glorious sail across the bay in Sorrento's bestsailing-boat together with a dozen stranded Caprifishermen, how we lay a whole unforgettable dayoff the Marina of Capri unable to land on accountof the quarantine.

I took good care not to describe in 'TheLetters from a Mourning City' what happenedin the convent of the Sepolte Vive. I havenever dared to tell it to anybody, not even to myfaithful friend Doctor Norstrom, who was keepinga catalogue of most of the shortcomings of myyouth. The memory of my disgraceful conducthaunted me for years. The more I thought ofit, the more incomprehensible it seemed to me.What had happened to me? What unknownforce had been at work to make me lose thecontrol over my senses, strong, but so far lessstrong than my head? I was no newcomer toNaples, I had chattered and laughed with thosefiery girls of the south before. I had danced thetarantella with them many a summer evening inCapri. I may have stolen a kiss or two fromthem if it came to the worst, but I had alwaysremained the captain of the ship, quite capableof suppressing any sign of insubordination of thecrew. In my student days in Quartier Latin Ihad almost fallen in love with Soeur Philomène,the beautiful young sister in Salle St. Claire, allI had dared to do had been to stretch out myhand timidly to bid her good-bye the day I wasleaving the hospital for good, and she did not eventake it. Now in Naples I had wanted to throwmy arms round every girl I set eyes on, and nodoubt I would have done it had I not fainted inStrada Piliero the day I had kissed a nun at thedeath-bed of an Abbess!

In looking back upon my Naples days after alapse of so many years I can no more excuse myconduct to-day than I could then, but maybe I canto a certain extent explain it.

I have not been watching during all these yearsthe battle between Life and Death without gettingto know something of the two combatants. WhenI first saw Death at work in the hospital wards itwas a mere wrestling match between the two, amere child's play compared with what I saw later.I saw Him at Naples killing more than a thousandpeople a day before my very eyes. I saw Him atMessina burying over one hundred thousand men,women and children under the falling houses in asingle minute. Later on I saw Him at Verdun,His arms red with blood to the elbows, slaughteringfour hundred thousand men, and mowing down theflower of a whole army on the plains of Flandersand of the Somme. It is only since I have seenHim operating on a large scale that I have begunto understand something of the tactics of the warfare.It is a fascinating study, full of mysteryand contradictions. It all seems at first a bewilderingchaos, a blind meaningless slaughter full ofconfusion and blunders. At one moment Life,brandishing a new weapon in its hand, advancesvictoriously, only to retire the next moment, defeatedby triumphant Death. It is not so. Thebattle is regulated in its minutest details by animmutable law of equilibrium between Life andDeath. Wherever this equilibrium is upset by someaccidental cause, be it pestilence, earthquake or war,vigilant Nature sets to work at once to readjustthe balance, to call forth new beings to take theplace of the fallen. Compelled by the irresistibleforce of a Natural Law men and women fall ineach other's arms, blindfolded by lust, unaware thatit is Death who presides over their mating, hisaphrodisiac in one hand, his narcotic in the other.Death, the giver of Life, the slayer of Life, the beginningand the end.

IX
BACK TO PARIS

I had been away three months instead of one.I felt sure that many of my patients wouldstick to my friend Doctor Norstrom, who had beenlooking after them during my absence. I wasmistaken, they all came back to me, some better,some worse, all speaking very kindly of mycolleague but equally kindly of me. I shouldnot have minded in the least if they had stuckto him, I had my hands full in any case and Iknew that his practice was dwindling away moreand more, that he had even had to move fromBoulevard Haussmann to a more modest apartmentin Rue Pigalle. Norstrom had alwaysbeen a loyal friend, had helped me out of manyscrapes in the beginning of my career when Iwas still dabbling in surgery, always ready toshare the responsibility for my many blunders.I well remember, for instance, the case of BaronB. I think I had better tell you this story tomake you understand what sort of man myfriend was. Baron B., one of the oldest membersof the Swedish colony, always in indifferenthealth, had been attended by Norstrom foryears. One day Norstrom with his fatal timiditysuggested that I should be called in in consultation.The Baron took a great liking to me.A new doctor is always believed to be a gooddoctor until he has been proved the contrary.Norstrom wanted an immediate operation, I wasagainst it. The Baron wrote to me he was gettingtired of Norstrom's gloomy face and asked me totake him in hand. Of course I refused, but Norstrominsisted upon retiring and my taking overthe case. The Baron's general condition improvedrapidly, I was congratulated on all sides. A monthlater it became clear to me that Norstrom wasright in his diagnosis, but that it was now too latefor an operation, that the man was doomed. Iwrote to his nephew in Stockholm to come outto bring him home to die in his own country. Itwas with the greatest difficulty I succeeded inpersuading the old gentleman. He did notwant to leave me; I was the only doctor whounderstood his case. A couple of months laterhis nephew wrote to me that his uncle had leftme in his will a very valuable gold repeaterin remembrance of what I had done for him.I often make it strike the hour to remind mewhat sort of stuff the reputation of a doctor ismade of.

Of late the position between Norstrom and mehad somewhat changed. I was more and morecalled in consultation by his patients, much toooften. I had just seen one of them die rather unexpectedlythat very afternoon, the worse luck forNorstrom as the patient was one of the best knownmembers of the colony. Norstrom was very muchupset about it. I took him to dine with me atCafé de la Régence to cheer him up a little.

"I wish you could explain to me the secret ofyour success and of my failure," said Norstromlooking gloomily at me across the bottle of St.Julien.

"It is above all a question of luck," said I."There is also a temperamental difference betweenyou and me which enables me to seize Fortune byher hair while you sit still and let her fly past, yourhands in your pockets. I am convinced that youknow more than I do about the human body inhealth and disease; it is just possible that althoughyou are twice my age, I know more than you doabout the human mind. Why did you tell the Russianprofessor I handed over to you that he hadangina pectoris, why did you explain to him all thesymptoms of his fatal disease?"

"He insisted upon knowing the truth, I had totell him or he would not have obeyed me."

"I did not tell him anything of the sort, heobeyed me anyhow. He told you a lie when hetold you he wanted to know everything and that hewas not afraid of death. Nobody wants to knowhow ill he is, everybody is afraid of death and forgood reason. This man now is far worse. Hisexistence is paralysed by fear, it is all your fault."

"You are always talking about nerves and mindas if our body was made of nothing else. The causeof angina pectoris is arterio-sclerosis of the coronariarteries."

"Ask Professor Huchard what happened in hisclinic last week while he was demonstrating to usa case of angina pectoris! The woman suddenlystarted a terrible attack which the Professor himselfthought would be fatal. I asked his permissionto try to stop it with mental treatment, he said itwas useless but he consented. I laid my hand on herforehead, and told her it would pass off immediately,a minute later the terror went out of her eyes,she drew a deep breath and said she felt all right.Of course you say it was a case of pseudo-angina,fausse angine de poitrine; I can prove you the contrary.Four days later she had another to all appearancequite similar attack, she died in less thanfive minutes. You are always trying to explain toyour patients what you cannot even explain toyourself. You forget that it is all a question offaith not of knowledge, like the faith in God. TheCatholic Church never explains anything and remainsthe strongest power in the world, the ProtestantChurch tries to explain everything and is crumblingto pieces. The less your patients know thetruth, the better for them. It was never meant thatthe working of the organs of our body should bewatched by the mind, to make your patients thinkabout their illness is to tamper with the laws ofNature. Tell them that they must do so and so,take such and such a remedy in order to get better,and that if they don't mean to obey you, they mustgo to somebody else. Do not call on them exceptwhen they are in absolute need of you, do nottalk too much to them or they will soon find youout and how little we know. Doctors like royaltiesshould keep aloof as much as possible, or theirprestige will suffer, we all look our best in a somewhatsubdued light. Look at the doctor's ownfamily, who always prefer to consult somebodyelse! I am actually attending, on the sly, the wifeof one of the most celebrated physicians in Paris,not later than to-day she showed me his last prescriptionto ask me if it would do her any good."

"You are always having women around you. Iwish women would like me as much as they seemto like you, even my old cook is in love with yousince you cured her of shingles."

"I wish to goodness they did not like me, Iwould gladly hand over all these neurotic femalesto you. I know that I owe them to a considerableextent my reputation as a so-called fashionable doctor,but let me tell you they are a great nuisance,often even a danger. You say you want women tolike you, well don't tell them so, don't make toomuch of them, don't let them order you about asthey please. Women, though they do not seem toknow it themselves, like far better to obey than tobe obeyed. They pretend to be our equals, but theyknow jolly well themselves that they are not—luckilyfor them, for if they were our equals we shouldlike them far less. I think on the whole much betterof women than of men, but I do not tell it to them.They have far more courage, they face disease anddeath much better than we do, they have more pityand less vanity. Their instinct is on the whole asafer guide through their life than our intelligence,they do not make fools of themselves as often as wedo. Love means to a woman far more than it meansto a man, it means everything. It is less a questionof senses than man generally understands. Awoman can fall in love with an ugly man, even anold man if he rouses her imagination. A man cannotfall in love with a woman unless she rouses hissexual instinct, which, contrary to nature's intention,survives in modern man his sexual power.There is therefore no age limit for falling in love,Richelieu was irresistible at the age of eighty whenhe could hardly stand on his legs and Goethe wasseventy when he lost his head for Ulrike von Levetzow.

"Love itself is short-lived like the flower. Withman it dies its natural death in marriage, withwoman it often survives to the last transformed ina purely maternal tenderness for the fallen hero ofher dreams. Women cannot understand that manis by nature polygamous. He may be tamed toenforced submission to our recent code of socialmorals, but his indestructible instinct is only dormant.He remains the same animal his Creatormade him, ready to carry on business as usual regardlessof undue delay.

"Women are not less intelligent than men, perhapsthey are as a rule more intelligent. But theirintelligence is of different order. There is no gettingover the fact that the weight of the man's brainis superior to that of the woman's. The cerebralconvolutions already visible in the new-born childare quite different in the two brains. The anatomicaldifferences become even more striking when youcompare the occipital lobe of the two brains, it isprecisely on account of the pseudo-atrophy of thislobe in the brain of the woman that Husche attributesto it such great psychical importance. Thelaw of differentiation between the sexes is an immutablelaw of Nature which runs through thewhole creation to become more and more accentuatedthe higher the types are developed. We aretold that it can all be explained by the fact that wehave kept all culture as a sex monopoly to ourselves,that the women have never had a fair chance.Haven't they? Even in Athens the situation of thewomen was not inferior to that of the men, everybranch of the culture was at their disposition. TheIonic and Doric races always recognized their freedom,it was even too great with the Lacedoemonians.During the whole Roman Empire, four hundredyears of high culture, the women enjoyed a greatdeal of freedom. It is enough to remember thatthey disposed entirely of their own property. Duringthe Middle Ages the instruction of the womenwas far superior to that of men. The knights knewbetter how to handle the sword than the pen, themonks were learned but there were plenty of nunneriesas well, with equal opportunities to learn fortheir inmates. Look at our own profession wherethe women are no newcomers! There were alreadywomen professors at the school of Salerno, LouiseBourgeois physician to Marie de Medicis the wifeof Henry IV wrote a bad book on midwifery, Margueritela Marche was sage-femme en chef at theHôtel Dieu in 1677, Madame La Chapelle andMadame Boivin wrote endless books on women'sdiseases, all very poor stuff. During the seventeenthand eighteenth centuries there were plentyof women professors in the famous Italian universities,Bologna, Pavia, Ferrara, Naples. Theynever did anything to advance their special science.It is just because obstetrics and gynecology wereleft in the hands of women that these two branchesof our profession remained for so long at a hopelessstandstill. The advance only began whenthey were taken in hand by men. Even to-dayno woman when her life or the life of her child isin danger will stick to a doctor of her own sex.

"Look at music! All the ladies of the Renaissanceplayed the lute and later on the harpsichord,the harp, the clavecin. For a century all better-classgirls have been hard at work at their pianosbut so far I know of no first class piece of musiccomposed by a woman, nor do I know a womanwho can play to my liking the Adagio Sostenuto ofBeethoven's Op. 106. There is hardly a young ladywho does not go in for painting, but as far as Iknow no gallery in Europe contains a picture of thefirst rank signed by a woman except perhaps RosaBonheur, who had to shave her chin and who dressedas a man.

"One of the greatest poets of old times was awoman. Of the wreath of flowers round theenchantress-brow all that remains are a few petalsof roses, fragrant with eternal spring. What immortaljoy and what immortal sadness does not echoin our ears in this far-away siren-song from theshore of Hellas! Beautiful Sappho, shall I everhear your voice again? Who knows if you are notsinging still in some lost fragment of the anthology,safe under the lava of Herculaneum!"

"I do not want to hear anything more aboutyour Sappho," growled Norstrom, "what I knowof her and her worshippers is more than enough forme. I do not want to hear anything more aboutwomen. You have had more wine than is good foryou, you have been talking a lot of nonsense, let usgo home!"

Half-way down the Boulevard my friend wanteda bock, so we sat down at a table outside a café.

"Bonsoir, chéri," said the lady at the next tableto my friend. "Won't you stand me a bock, I havehad no supper." Norstrom told her in an angryvoice to leave him alone.

"Bonsoir, Chloe," said I. "How is Flopette?"

"She is doing the back streets, she is no good onthe Boulevard till after midnight."

As she spoke Flopette appeared and sat down bythe side of her comrade-in-arms.

"You have been drinking again, Flopette," saidI, "do you want to go to the devil altogether?"

"Yes," she answered in a hoarse voice, "it cannotbe worse than here."

"You are not very particular about your acquaintances,"growled Norstrom, looking horrifiedat the two prostitutes.

"I have had worse acquaintances than thesetwo," said I. "I am besides their medical adviser.They both have syphilis, absinthe will do the rest,they will end in St. Lazare or in the gutter ere long.At least they do not pretend to be anything butwhat they are. Do not forget that what they are,they have to thank a man for, and that anotherman is standing in the street corner opposite to takefrom them the money we give them. They are notso bad as you think, these prostitutes, they remainwomen to the last, with all their faults but alsowith some of their virtues surviving their collapse.Strange to say, they are even capable of falling inlove, in the highest significance of the word and amore pathetic sight you never saw. I have had aprostitute in love with me, she became timid andshy as a young girl, she could even blush under hercoating of rouge. Even this loathsome creature atthe next table might have been a nice woman hadshe had a chance. Let me tell you her story."

"Do you remember," said I as we strolled downthe Boulevard arm in arm, "do you remember thegirls' school in Passy kept by the Soeurs St. Thérèsewhere you took me last year to see a Swedish girlwho died of typhoid fever? There was another casein the same school shortly afterwards attended byme, a very beautiful French girl about fifteen. Oneevening as I was leaving the school I was accostedin the usual way by a woman patrolling the trottoiropposite. As I told her roughly to leave me alone,she implored me in a humble voice to let her say afew words to me. She had been watching me comingout of the school every day for a week, she hadnot had the courage to speak to me as it was stilldaylight. She addressed me as Monsieur le Docteurand asked in a trembling voice how was theyoung girl with typhoid fever, was it dangerous?

"'I must see her before she dies,'" she sobbed,the tears rolling down her painted cheeks, "I mustsee her, I am her mother." The nuns did not know,the child had been put there when she was threeyears old, the money was paid through the bank.She herself had never seen the child since then exceptwhen watching her from the street corner everyThursday when the girls were taken out for theirafternoon walk. I said I was very worried aboutthe child, that I would let her know if she got worse.She did not want to give me her address, she beggedme to let her wait for me in the street every eveningfor news. For a week I found her there tremblingwith anxiety. I had to tell her the child was gettingworse, I knew well it was out of the questionto make this wretched prostitute see her dying child,all I could do was to promise her to let her knowwhen the end was near, whereupon she consented atlast to give me her address. Late the next eveningI drove to her address in a street of evil repute, behindthe Opéra Comique. The cabman smiled significantlyat me and suggested he should come backto fetch me in an hour. I said a quarter of an hourwould do. After a rapid scrutiny by the matronof the establishment, I was admitted to the presenceof a dozen half-naked ladies in short tunics of red,yellow or green muslin. Would I make my choice?I said my choice was made, I wanted MademoiselleFlopette. The matron was very sorry, MademoiselleFlopette had not yet come down, she had oflate been very negligent of her duties, she was stilldressing in her bedroom. I asked to be taken thereat once. It was twenty francs payable in advanceand a souvenir à discretion to Flopette if I wassatisfied with her, which I was sure to be, she wasune fille charmante, prête à tout and very rigolo.Would I like a bottle of champagne taken up toher room?

Flopette was sitting before her mirror hard atwork to cover her face with rouge. She sprangfrom her chair, snatched a shawl to hide her appallingfull undress uniform and stared at me with aface of a clown, with patches of rouge on her cheeks,one eye black with kohl, the other red with tears.

"'No, she is not dead, but she is very bad. Thenun who is on night duty is worn out, I have toldher I would bring one of my nurses for tonight.Scrape off that horrible paint from your face,straighten out your hair with oil or vaseline or whateveryou like, take off your dreadful muslin gownand put on the nurse's uniform you will find in thisparcel. I have just borrowed it from one of mynurses, I think it will do, you are about the samesize. I shall come back and fetch you in half-an-hour.'"She stared speechless at me as I wentdownstairs.

"'Already,'" said the matron looking very surprised.I told her I wanted Mademoiselle Flopetteto spend the night with me, I was coming back tofetch her. As I drove up before the house half-an-hourlater Flopette appeared in the open door inthe long cloak of a nurse surrounded by all theladies in their muslin uniforms of Nothing-at-all.

"'Aren't you lucky, old girl,'" they giggled inchorus, "'to be taken to the Bal Masqué the lastnight of carnival, you look very chic and quite respectable,I wish your monsieur would take us all!'"

"'Amusez-vous, mes enfants,'" smiled the matronaccompanying Flopette to my cab, "'it is fiftyfrancs payable in advance.'"

"There was not much nursing to be done. Thechild was sinking rapidly, she was quite unconscious,it was evident that the end was near. Themother sat the whole night by the bedside staringthrough her tears at her dying child.

"'Kiss her good-bye,'" said I as the agony setin, "'it is all right, she is quite unconscious.'"

She bent over the child but suddenly she drewback.

"'I dare not kiss her,'" she sobbed, "'you knowI am rotten all over.'"

"The next time I saw Flopette she was blinddrunk. A week later she threw herself into theSeine. She was dragged out alive, I tried to gether admitted to St. Lazare, but there was no bedavailable. A month later she drank a bottle oflaudanum, she was already half-dead when I came,I have never forgiven myself for pumping the poisonout of her stomach. She was clutching in herhand the little shoe of a small child, and in the shoewas a lock of hair. Then she took to absinthe, asreliable a poison as any, though, alas, slow to kill.Anyhow she will soon be in the gutter, a safer placeto drown herself in than is the Seine."

We stopped before Norstrom's house, RuePigalle.

"Good-night," said my friend. "Thank you fora pleasant evening."

"The same to you," said I.

X
THE CORPSE-CONDUCTOR

Perhaps the less said the better about thejourney I made to Sweden in the summerof that year. Norstrom, the placid recorder ofmost of the adventures of my youth, said that sofar it was the worst story I had ever told him. To-dayit can harm nobody but myself and I may aswell tell it here.

I was asked by Professor Bruzelius, the leadingphysician of Sweden in those days, to go to SanRemo and accompany home a patient of his, a boyof eighteen who had spent the winter there in anadvanced stage of consumption. He had hadseveral hæmorrhages of late. His condition wasso serious that I only consented to take him homeif he were accompanied by a member of the familyor at least a competent Swedish nurse, the possibilityof his dying on the way having to be considered.Four days later his mother arrived atSan Remo. We were to break our journey inBasel and Heidelberg and to take the Swedishsteamer from Lübeck to Stockholm. We arrivedat Basel in the evening after a very anxious journey.In the night the mother had a heart attackwhich nearly killed her. The specialist I calledin in the morning agreed with me, that she wouldin no case be able to travel for a couple of weeks.The choice lay between letting the boy die in Baselor continuing the journey with him alone. Likeall those who are about to die he was longing toget home. Rightly or wrongly I decided to go onto Sweden with him. The day after our arrivalat the Hôtel Victoria in Heidelberg he had anothersevere hæmorrhage from the lungs and allhope of continuing the journey had to be abandoned.I told him we were to wait where we werea couple of days for his mother. He was veryreluctant to postpone our journey a single day.He was eagerly studying the trains in the evening.He was sleeping peacefully when I went to havea look at him after midnight. In the morning Ifound him dead in his bed, no doubt from an internalhæmorrhage. I wired my colleague in Baselto communicate the news to the mother of the boyand let me have her instructions. The professorwired back that her condition was so serious thathe dared not tell her. Convinced as I was thatshe wanted her son to be buried in Sweden I putmyself in communication with an undertaker forall the necessary arrangements. I was informedby the undertaker that according to the law thebody must be embalmed, price two thousandmarks. I knew the family was not rich. I decidedto embalm the body myself. There was notime to lose, it was the end of July, the heat wasextreme. With the aid of a man from the AnatomicalInstitution I made a summary embalmmentin the night at the cost of about two hundredmarks. It was the first embalmment I had everdone, I am bound to say it was not a success, veryfar from it. The lead coffin was soldered in mypresence, the outer oak coffin was enclosed in anordinary deal packing-case according to the railwayregulations. The rest was to be done by theundertaker in charge of the transport of the bodyby rail to Lübeck and from there by ship to Stockholm.The sum of money I had received fromthe mother for the journey home was hardly sufficientto pay the bill of the hotel. I protested invain against the exorbitant charge for the beddingand the carpet in the room the boy had diedin. When all was settled I had barely enoughmoney left to pay my own journey to Paris. Ihad never been out of the house since my arrival,all I had seen of Heidelberg had been the gardenof the Hôtel de l'Europe under my windows. Ithought I might at least have a look at the famousold ruined castle before leaving Heidelberg whereI hoped never to return. As I was standing bythe parapet of the castle terrace looking downupon the Neckar valley at my feet, a dachshundpuppy came rushing up to me as fast as his crookedlittle legs could carry his long, slender body, andstarted licking me all over the face. His cunningeyes had discovered my secret at the firstglance. My secret was that I had always beenlonging to possess just such a little Waldmannas these fascinating dogs are called in their ownnative country. Hard up though I was I boughtWaldmann at once for fifty marks and we returnedin triumph to the Hôtel Victoria, Waldmanntrotting close to my heels without a leash,quite certain that his master was I and nobodyelse. There was an extra charge in the morningfor something about the carpet in my room. Mypatience was at an end, I had already spent eighthundred marks on carpets in the Hôtel Victoria.Two hours later I presented the carpet in the boy'sroom to an old cobbler I had seen sitting mendinga pair of boots outside his poor home full of raggedchildren. The director of the hotel was speechlesswith rage, but the cobbler got his carpet. Mymission in Heidelberg was ended, I decided totake the morning train for Paris. In the nightI changed my mind and decided to go to Swedenanyhow. My arrangements for being away fromParis for a fortnight were already made, Norstromwas to look after my patients during myabsence, I had already wired to my brother thatI was coming to stay with him in the old homefor a couple of days, surely such an opportunityfor a holiday in Sweden would never return. Myone thought was to clear out from the HôtelVictoria. It was too late to catch the passengertrain for Berlin, I decided to take the goods trainin the evening, the same that was conveying thebody of the boy to Lübeck and to go on with thesame Swedish steamer to Stockholm. As I wassitting down to my supper in the buffet of thestation I was informed by the waiter that dogswere "verboten" in the restaurant. I put afive-mark piece in his hand and Waldmann underthe table, and was just beginning to eat my supperwhen a stentorian voice from the door calledout:

"Der Leichenbegleiter!"

All the occupants of the tables looked up fromtheir plates scanning each other, but nobodymoved.

"Der Leichenbegleiter!"

The man banged the door to return a momentlater with another man whom I recognized asthe undertaker's clerk. The owner of the stentorianvoice came up to me and roared in myface:

"Der Leichenbegleiter!"

Everybody looked at me with interest. I toldthe man to leave me alone, I wanted to have mysupper. No, I must come at once, the stationmasterwanted to speak to me on most urgentbusiness. A giant with bristling porcupine moustachesand gold-rimmed spectacles handed me apile of documents and shrieked in my ear somethingabout the van having to be sealed and thatI must take my place in it at once. I told himin my best German that I had already reservedmy place in a second-class compartment. He saidit was "verboten," I must be locked up with thecoffin in the van at once.

"What the devil do you mean?"

"Aren't you der Leichenbegleiter? Don't youknow that it is 'verboten' in Germany for a corpseto travel without his Leichenbegleiter and thatthey must be locked up together?"

I showed him my second-class ticket for Lübeck,I told him I was an independent traveller goingfor a holiday to Sweden. I had nothing whatsoeverto do with the coffin.

"Are you or are you not the Leichenbegleiter?"he roared angrily.

"I am certainly not. I am willing to try myhand at any job but I refuse to be a Leichenbegleiter,I do not like the word."

The stationmaster looked bewildered at hisbundle of papers, and announced that unless theLeichenbegleiter turned up in less than five minutesthe van containing the coffin for Lübeck wouldbe shunted off on the side-track and remain inHeidelberg. As he spoke, a little hunchback withrestless eyes and a face ravaged with small-poxrushed up to the stationmaster's desk with a pileof documents in his hands.

"Ich bin der Leichenbegleiter," he announcedwith unmistakable dignity.

I nearly embraced him, I have always had asneaking liking for hunchbacks. I said I was delightedto make his acquaintance, I was going onto Lübeck with the same train as he and to takethe same steamer to Stockholm. I had to hold onto the stationmaster's desk when he said he wasnot going to Stockholm, but to St. Petersburgwith the Russian general and from there to Nijni-Novgorod.

The stationmaster looked up from his bundle ofdocuments, his porcupine moustache bristling withbewilderment.

"Potzdonnerwetter!" he roared, "there are twocorpses going on to Lübeck by this train! I haveonly one coffin in the van, you cannot put twocorpses in one coffin, it is 'verboten.' Where isthe other coffin?"

The hunchback explained that the coffin ofthe Russian general was just being unloadedfrom the cart to be put in the van, it was all thefault of the carpenter who had only finishedthe second packing-case in the nick of time.Who could have dreamt that he was to providetwo such huge packing-cases on the same day!

The Russian general! I suddenly rememberedhaving been told that an old Russian generalhad died of an apoplectic stroke in the hotelopposite ours the same day as the boy. I evenremembered having seen from my window a fierce-lookingold gentleman with a long grey beard in abath chair in the hotel gardens. The porter hadtold me that he was a famous Russian general, ahero of the Crimean war. I had never seen a morewild-looking man.

While the stationmaster returned to the perusalof his entangled documents, I took the hunchbackaside, patted him cordially on the back andoffered him fifty marks cash and another fiftymarks I meant to borrow from the SwedishConsul in Lübeck if he would undertake to bethe Leichenbegleiter of the coffin of the boy aswell as of that of the Russian general. Heaccepted my offer at once. The stationmastersaid it was an unprecedented case, it raised adelicate point of law, he felt sure it was "verboten"for two corpses to travel with oneLeichenbegleiter between them. He must consultthe Kaiserliche Oberliche Eisenbahn AmtDirektion Bureau, it would take at least a weekto get an answer. It was Waldmann who savedthe situation. Several times during our discussionsI had noticed a friendly glance from thestationmaster's gold-rimmed spectacles in thedirection of the puppy and several times he hadstretched his enormous hand for a gentle strokeon Waldmann's long, silky ears. I decided ona last desperate attempt to move his heart.Without saying a word I deposited Waldmannon his lap. As the puppy licked him all overthe face and started pulling at his porcupinemoustaches, his harsh features softened graduallyinto a broad, honest smile at our helplessness.Five minutes later the hunchback had signed adozen documents as the Leichenbegleiter of thetwo coffins, and I with Waldmann and myGladstone bag was flung into a crowded second-classcompartment as the train was starting.Waldmann offered to play with the fat ladynext to us, she looked sternly at me and saidthat it was "verboten" to take a dog in asecond-class compartment, was he at least "stubenrein"?Of course he was "stubenrein," he hadnever been anything else. Waldmann now turnedhis attention to the basket on the fat lady's lap,sniffed eagerly and started barking furiously.He was barking still when the train stopped atthe next station. The fat lady called the guardand pointed to the floor. The guard said it was"verboten" to travel with a dog without amuzzle. In vain did I open Waldmann's mouthto show to the guard that he had hardly any teeth,in vain did I put my last five-mark piece in theguard's hand, Waldmann must be taken at onceto the dog-box. Bent on revenge I pointed tothe basket on the fat lady's lap and asked theguard if it was not "verboten" to travel with acat without a ticket? Yes, it was "verboten."The fat lady and the guard were still quarrellingwhen I climbed down on the platform. Thetravelling accommodation for dogs was in thosedays shamefully inadequate, a dark cell just overthe wheels, saturated with fumes from the locomotive,how could I put Waldmann there? Irushed to the luggage van and implored theguard to take charge of the puppy, he said itwas "verboten." The sliding doors of the nextvan were cautiously drawn aside, just enough tolet the head of the Leichenbegleiter pop out, along pipe in his mouth. With the agility of a catI climbed into the van with Waldmann and theGladstone bag.

Fifty marks payable on arrival if he would hideWaldmann in his van till Lübeck! Before hehad time to answer the doors were bolted fromoutside, a sharp whistle from the locomotiveand the train began to move. The big van wasquite empty but for the two packing-cases containingthe two coffins. The heat was tremendousbut there was ample room to stretch out one'slegs. The puppy fell asleep immediately on mycoat, the Leichenbegleiter produced a bottle ofhot beer from his provision basket, we lit ourpipes and sat down on the floor to discuss thesituation. We were quite safe, nobody had seenme jump in with the dog, I was assured that noguard ever came near the van. When an hourlater the train slowed down for the next stop Itold the Leichenbegleiter that nothing but sheerforce could make me part company with him,I meant to remain where I was till we reachedLübeck. The hours passed in agreeable conversationchiefly kept going by the Leichenbegleiter,I speak German very badly though Iunderstand it quite well. My friend said he hadmade this same journey many times, he evenknew the name of each station we stopped at althoughwe never saw anything of the outside worldfrom our prison van. He had been a Leichenbegleiterfor more than ten years, it was a pleasantand comfortable job, he liked travelling and seeingnew countries. He had been in Russia six timesbefore, he liked the Russians, they always wantedto be buried in their own country. A large numberof Russians were coming to Heidelberg to consultits many famous Professors. They were their bestclients. His wife was by profession a Leichenwäscherin.Hardly any embalmment of importancewas made without their assistance. Pointingto the other packing-case he said he felt rathervexed that neither he nor his wife had been called infor the Swedish gentleman. He suspected that hewas the victim of some intrigue, there was muchprofessional jealousy between him and his two othercolleagues. There was a certain mystery about thewhole affair, he had not even been able to find outwhat doctor had made the embalmment. They werenot all equally good about it. Embalmment was avery delicate and complicated business, one neverknew what might happen during a long journey inhot weather like this. Had I assisted at many embalmments?

Only at one, said I with a shudder.

"I wish you could see the Russian general," saidthe Leichenbegleiter enthusiastically, pointing withhis pipe to the other packing-case. "He is perfectlywonderful, you would never believe it was acorpse, even his eyes are wide-open. I wonder whythe stationmaster was so particular about you," hewent on. "It is true you are rather young to be aLeichenbegleiter but so far as I can see you arerespectable enough. All you need is a shave and abrush-up, your clothes are all covered with dog'shair and surely you cannot present yourself to-morrowat the Swedish Consulate with such a chin,I am sure you have not shaved for a week, you lookmore like a brigand than a respectable Leichenbegleiter.What a pity I have not got my razors withme or I would shave you myself at the next stop."

I opened my Gladstone bag and said I would bemuch obliged if he would spare me the ordeal, Inever shaved myself if I could help it. He examinedmy razors with the eyes of a connoisseur, saidthe Swedish razors were the best in the world, henever used any others himself. He had a very lighthand, he had shaved hundreds of people and neverheard a word of complaint.

I have never been better shaved in my life and Itold him so with my compliments when the trainbegan to move again.

"There is nothing like travelling in foreign countries,"said I as I washed the soap off my face,"every day one learns something new and interesting.The more I see of this country the more Irealize the fundamental differences between theGermans and other people. The Latin and theAnglo-Saxon races invariably adopt the sitting-upposition for being shaved, in Germany you aremade to lie flat on your back. It is all a matter oftaste, chacun tue ses puces à sa façon, as they sayin Paris."

"It is a matter of habit," explained theLeichenbegleiter, "you cannot make a corpsesit up, you are the first living man I have evershaved."

My companion spread a clean napkin over hispacking-case and opened his provision basket. Anamalgamated scent of sausage, cheese and sauerkrauttickled my nostrils, Waldmann woke up instantaneously,we watched him with hungry eyes.My joy was great when he invited me to partakeof his supper, even the sauerkraut had lost its horrorto my palate. He won my heart when he presenteda large slice of Blutwurst to Waldmann.The effect was fulmineous and lasted till Lübeck.When we had finished our second bottle of Mosellemy new friend and I had few secrets left to revealto one another. Yes, one secret I jealously keptto myself—that I was a doctor. Experience inmany lands had warned me that any hint of a classdistinction between my host and myself would depriveme of my unique opportunity of seeing lifefrom the visual angle of a Leichenbegleiter. Whatlittle I know of psychology I owe to a certain inbornfacility for adapting myself to the social levelof my interlocutor. When I am having supperwith a duke I feel quite at home with him and thatI am his equal. When I am having supper with aLeichenbegleiter I become as far as in my power aLeichenbegleiter myself.

Indeed when we started our third bottle of Moselleit only rested with me to become a Leichenbegleiterin earnest.

"Cheer up, Fritz," said my host with a merrytwinkle in his eye, "don't look so dejected! I knowyou are out of cash and that something must havegone wrong with you. Never mind, have anotherglass of wine and let us talk business. I have notbeen a Leichenbegleiter for more than ten yearswithout learning what sort of people I am dealingwith! Intelligence is not everything. I am sureyou were born under a lucky star or you would notbe here sitting by my side. Here is your chance,the chance of your life! Deliver your coffin inSweden while I am delivering mine in Russia andcome back to Heidelberg by the first train. I willmake you my partner. As long as Professor Freidreichis alive there will be work for two Leichenbegleitersor my name is not Zaccharias Schweinfuss!Sweden is no good for you, there are no famousdoctors there, Heidelberg is full of them, Heidelbergis the place for you."

I thanked my new friend cordially and said Iwould give him my definite answer in the morningwhen our heads had cleared a little. A few minuteslater we were both fast asleep on the floor of theLeichenwagen. I had an excellent night, Waldmannless so. When the train rolled into theLübeck station it was broad daylight. A clerk fromthe Swedish Consulate was waiting on the platformto superintend the transporting of the coffin onboard the Swedish steamer for Stockholm. Aftera cordial "Aufweidersehen" to the LeichenbegleiterI drove to the Swedish Consulate. As soonas the Consul saw the puppy he informed me thatthe importation of dogs was forbidden, there havingof late been several cases of hydrophobia in NorthernGermany. I might try with the captain buthe felt sure that Waldmann would not be admittedon board. I found the captain in a very bad temper,all sailors are when they have a coffin amongtheir cargo. All my pleading was in vain. Encouragedby my success with the stationmaster inHeidelberg I decided to try him with the puppy.Waldmann licked him in vain all over the face.I then decided to try him with my brother.Yes, of course he knew Commandor Munthe quitewell, they had sailed together on the 'Vanadis' asmidshipmen, they were great friends.

Could he be so cruel as to leave my brother'sbeloved puppy stranded in Lübeck among totalstrangers?

No, he could not be so cruel. Five minutes laterWaldmann was locked up in my cabin to be smuggledin on my own responsibility on our arrival inStockholm. I love the sea, the ship was comfortable,I dined at the captain's table, everybody onboard was most polite to me. The stewardesslooked somewhat sulky when she came to make upmy cabin in the morning, but she became our allyas soon as the offender began to lick her all overthe face, she had never seen a more fascinatingpuppy. When Waldmann appeared surreptitiouslyon the foredeck all the sailors began to play withhim and the captain looked on the other side inorder not to see him. It was late at night when welaid alongside the quay in Stockholm and I jumpedon shore from the bow of the ship with Waldmannin my arms. I called in the morning on ProfessorBruzelius who showed me a telegram from Baselthat the mother was out of danger and that thefuneral of the boy was postponed till her arrival inabout a fortnight's time. He hoped I would stillbe in Sweden, the mother would be sure to wish tohear from me of her son's last moments and ofcourse I must assist at the funeral. I told him Iwas going on a visit to my brother before returningto Paris, I was in a great hurry to be back to mypatients.

I had never forgiven my brother for havingdumped on me our terrible heirloom of MamsellAgata, I had written him an angry letter on thesubject. Luckily he seemed to have forgottenall about it. He said he was delighted to see meand both he and his wife hoped I would remainin the old home for at least a fortnight. Twodays after my arrival he expressed his surprisethat a busy doctor like me could be away fromhis patients so long, what day was I leaving?My sister-in-law had become glacial. There isnothing to do with people who dislike dogs butto pity them and start with your puppy on awalking-tour, knapsack on back. There is nothingbetter for a puppy than camping out in the openand sleeping under friendly firs on a carpet ofsoft moss instead of a carpet from Smyrna. Mysister-in-law had a headache and did not come downto breakfast the morning I was starting, I wantedto go to her room to wish her good-bye. Mybrother advised me not to do it. I did not insistafter he had told me that the housemaid had justfound under my bed his wife's new Sunday hat,her embroidered slippers, her feather boa, two volumesof the 'Encyclopædia Britannica' torn topieces, the remains of a rabbit, and her missing kitten,his head almost bitten off. As to the Smyrnacarpet in the drawing-room, the flower-beds in thegarden and the six ducklings in the pond. . . .I looked at my watch and told my brother I alwaysliked to be in good time at the station.

"Olle," shouted my brother to my father's oldcoachman as we drove away, "for Heaven's sakesee that the Doctor does not miss his train."

A fortnight later I was back in Stockholm.Professor Bruzelius told me that the mother hadarrived from the continent that same morning,the funeral was to take place next day, of courseI must attend. To my horror he went on to saythat the poor mother insisted on seeing her sonbefore he was buried, the coffin was to be openedin her presence in the early morning. Of courseI would never have embalmed the body myselfhad such a possibility ever entered my head. Iknew I had meant well, but done badly, that inall probability the opening of the coffin would reveala terrible sight. My first thought was tobolt and take the night train for Paris. My secondthought was to stay where I was and playthe game. There was no time to lose. With thepowerful help of Professor Bruzelius I succeededwith great difficulty in obtaining the permissionto open the coffin in order to proceed to a summarydisinfection of the remains if it should provenecessary, which I was convinced was the case.Shortly after midnight I descended to the vaultunder the church accompanied by the custodianof the cemetery and a workman who was toopen the two coffins. When the lid of the innerlead coffin was unsoldered the two men stoodback in silent reverence before the awe of death.I took the lantern from the custodian and uncoveredthe face. The lantern fell on the floor,I reeled back as if struck by an invisible hand.

I have often wondered at my presence of mindthat night, I must have had nerves of steel in thosedays.

"It is all right," said I, rapidly covering theface again, "screw on the lid, there is no needfor any disinfection, the body is in perfect stateof preservation."

I called on Professor Bruzelius in the earlymorning. I told him that the sight I had seenin the night would haunt the poor mother for life,that he must at all costs prevent the opening ofthe coffin.

I assisted at the funeral. I have never assistedat another since that day. The coffin was carriedto the grave on the shoulders of six of the boy'sschoolfellows. The clergyman in a moving allocutionsaid that God in His inscrutable wisdomhad willed it, that this young life so full of promiseand joy should be cut short by cruel death. Itwas at least a comfort to those who stood mourningaround his premature grave that he had comeback to rest among his own people in the land ofhis birth. They would at least know where tolay their flowers of loving memory, where to pray.A choir of undergraduates from Upsala sang thetraditional:

"Integer vitae scelerisque purus."

I have hated this beautiful Ode of Horace eversince that day.

Supported by her aged father the mother of theboy advanced to the open grave and lowered awreath of lilies of the valley on the coffin.

"It was his favourite flower," she sobbed.

One by one the other mourners came forth withtheir bunches of flowers and looked down into thegrave with tear-filled eyes for the last farewell.The choir sang the customary old hymn:

"Rest in peace, the strife is ended."

The grave-diggers began to shovel the earth overthe coffin, the ceremony was over.

When they had all gone I looked down in thehalf-filled grave in my turn.

"Yes, rest in peace, grim old fighter, the strifeis ended! Rest in peace! Do not haunt me anylonger with those wide-open eyes of yours or I shallgo crazy! Why did you stare so angrily at mewhen I uncovered your face last night in the vaultunder the chapel? Do you think I was more pleasedto see you than you were to see me? Did youtake me for a grave-plunderer who had brokenopen your coffin to rob you of the golden ikon onyour breast? Did you think it was I who broughtyou here? No, it was not I. For all I know itwas the Archfiend himself in the shape of a drunkenhunchback who caused you to come here! Forwho but Mephisto, the eternal jester, could havestaged the ghastly farce just enacted here? Ithought I heard his mocking laughter ringingthrough their sacred chant, God forgive me, I wasnot far from laughing myself when your coffinwas lowered into this grave. But what mattersit to you whose grave it is? You cannot readthe name on the marble cross, what matters it toyou what name it is? You cannot hear the voicesof the living overhead, what matters it to you whattongue they speak? You are not lying hereamongst strangers, you are lying side by side withyour own kinsmen. So is the Swedish boy whowas laid to rest in the heart of Russia while thebuglers of your old regiment were sounding theLast Post by your grave. The kingdom of deathhas no borders, the grave has no nationality. Youare all one and the same people now, you will sooneven look exactly the same. The same fate awaitsyou all wherever you are laid to rest, to be forgottenand to moulder into dust, for such is thelaw of life. Rest in peace, the strife is ended."

XI
MADAME RÉQUIN

Not far from Avenue de Villiers there liveda foreign doctor, a specialist, I understood,in midwifery and gynecology.

He was a coarse and cynical fellow who hadcalled me in consultation a couple of times, notso much to be enlightened by my superior knowledgeas to shift some of his responsibility on myshoulders. The last time he had called me in,had been to assist at the agony of a young girldying of peritonitis under very suspicious circumstances,so much so that it was with hesitationI consented to put my name next to his underthe death certificate. On coming home late onenight I found a cab waiting for me at the doorwith an urgent request from this man to comeat once to his private clinic in Rue Granet. I haddecided to have nothing more to do with him butthe message was so urgent that I thought I hadbetter go with the cab anyhow. I was let in bya stout, unpleasant looking woman who announcedherself as Madame Réquin, sage-femme de I-èreclasse, and took me to a room on the top floor,the same room in which the girl had died. Blood-soakedtowels, sheets and blankets were lying allover the place, blood dripping from under the bedwith a sinister sound. The doctor, who thankedme warmly for having come to his rescue, was ina great state of agitation. He said there was notime to lose and he was right there, for the womanlying unconscious on her 'lit de travail' lookedmore dead than alive. After a rapid examinationI asked him angrily why he had not sent for asurgeon or an accoucheur instead of me, since heknew that neither of us two was fit to deal withsuch a case. The woman rallied a little after acouple of syringes of camphor and ether. I decidedwith some hesitation to make him give hera little chloroform while I set to work. With myusual luck all went tolerably well and after vigorousartificial respiration even the half-suffocatedchild returned to life to our great surprise. Butit was a narrow escape for both mother and child.There was no more cotton-wool, linen or dressingmaterial of any sort to stem the hæmorrhage, butluckily we came upon a half-open Gladstone bagfull of fine linen and ladies' underwear which wetore rapidly to pieces for tampons.

"I never saw such beautiful linen," said mycolleague holding up a linon chemise, "and look,"he exclaimed pointing to a coronet embroidered inred over the letter M, "ma foi, mon cher confrère,we are moving in good society! I assure you sheis a very fine girl though there is not much leftof her now, an exceptionally beautiful girl, I wouldnot mind renewing her acquaintance if ever shepulls through."

"Ah, la jolie broche," he exclaimed picking upa diamond brooch which had evidently fallen onthe floor when we were ransacking the bag. "Mafoi! it looks to me as if it might make up for mybill if it comes to the worst. One never knowswith these foreign ladies, she might choose to clearout as mysteriously as she came, God knows fromwhere."

"We are not there yet," said I snatching thebrooch from his red fingers and putting it in mypocket, "according to French law the bill of theundertaker passes before the bill of the doctor,we don't yet know which of the two bills will bepresented for payment first. As to the child . . ."

"Never mind the child," he giggled, "we haveplenty of babies here and to spare to substitutefor it if it comes to the worst. Madame Réquinis dispatching every week half-a-dozen babies withthe 'train des nourrices' from the Gare d'Orléans.But I cannot afford to let the mother slip throughmy fingers, I have to be careful about my statistics,I have already signed two death-certificates fromthis place in two weeks."

The woman was still half-unconscious when Ileft at daybreak but the pulse had steadied itselfand I told the doctor I thought she would live. Imust have been in a pretty bad state myself or Iwould never have accepted the cup of black coffeeMadame Réquin offered me in her sinister littleparlour as I staggered downstairs.

"Ah, la jolie broche," said Madame Réquin asI handed her the brooch for custody. "Do youthink the stones are real?" she wondered holdingthe brooch close to the gaslight. It was a veryfine diamond brooch with a letter M, surmountedwith a coronet in rubies. The flash from the stoneswas all right, but the glare in her greedy eyes wassuspect.

"No," said I to make up for my stupidity forhaving handed her the brooch, "I am sure it isall imitation."

Madame Réquin hoped I was mistaken, the ladyhad not had time to pay in advance as was therule of the establishment, she had arrived in thenick of time in a half-fainting condition, there wasno name on her luggage, it was labelled London.

"That's enough, don't worry, you will be paidall right."

Madame Réquin expressed a hope soon to seeme again and I left the house with a shudder.

A couple of weeks later I received a letter frommy colleague that all had gone well, the lady hadleft for an unknown destination as soon as she couldstand on her feet, all bills having been paid anda large sum left in the hands of Madame Réquinfor the adoption of the child by some respectablefoster-parents. I returned his bank-note in a shortletter begging him not to send for me next timehe was about to kill somebody. I hoped never toset eyes again either upon him or Madame Réquin.

My hope was realized as to the Doctor. As toMadame Réquin I shall have to tell you more abouther in due time.

XII
THE GIANT

As time went on, I realized more and morehow rapidly Norstrom's practice was dwindlingaway, and that the day might come whenhe would have to put up the shutters altogether.Soon even the numerous Scandinavian colony, richand poor, was drifting away from Rue Pigalle toAvenue de Villiers. I tried in vain to stay thetide, luckily Norstrom never doubted my loyalty,we remained friends to the last. God knows itwas not a lucrative practice, this Scandinavianclientèle. During my whole life as a doctor inParis it was like a stone round my neck that mighthave drowned me had it not been for my firmfooting in the English and American colony andamong the French themselves. As it was, ittook away a great deal of my time and broughtme into all sorts of troubles, it ended even bybringing me to prison. It is a funny story, Ioften tell it to my friends who write books, asa striking application of the law of coincidence,the hard worked cheval de bataille of novelists.

Apart from the Scandinavian workmen in Pantinand La Villette, over one thousand in all, alwaysin need of a doctor, there was the artistcolony in Montmartre and Montparnasse alwaysin need of money. Hundreds of painters, sculptors,authors of unwritten chef-d'oeuvres in proseand verse, exotic survivals of Henri Murger's 'Viede Bohême.' A few of them were already on theeve of success like Edelfeld, Carl Larson, Zornand Strindberg, but the majority had to subsiston hope alone. Biggest in size but shortest incash was my sculptor friend, the Giant, with theflowing blonde beard of a Viking and the guilelessblue eyes of a child. He seldom appearedin the Café de l'Hermitage where most of his comradesspent their evenings. How he got his fillfor his six feet eight body was a mystery to all.He lived in an enormous, ice-cold hangar in Montparnasseadapted as a sculptor's studio, where heworked, cooked his food, washed his shirt anddreamt his dreams of future fame. Size was whathe needed for himself and for his statues, all ofsuperhuman proportions, never finished for wantof clay. One day he appeared at Avenue deVilliers with a request to me to act as his bestman for his marriage next Sunday in the Swedishchurch, to be followed by a reception in his newapartment to "pendre la cremaillère." The choiceof his heart turned out to be a frail Swedish miniaturepainter less than half his size. Of course Iwas delighted to accept. The ceremony over, theSwedish chaplain made a nice little speech to thenewly married couple seated side by side in frontof the altar. They reminded me of the colossalstatue of Ramses II seated in the temple of Luxorbeside his little wife barely reaching his hip. Anhour later we knocked at the door of the studio,full of expectations. We were ushered in by theGiant himself with great precaution through alilliputian paper vestibule into his salon where wewere cordially invited to partake of the refreshmentsand sit in turn on his chair. His friendSkornberg—you may have seen his full-size portraitin the Salon that year, easy to remember forhe was the tiniest hunchback I have ever seen—proposedthe health of our host. Raising his glasswith an enthusiastic wave of his hand he happenedto knock down the partition wall, revealing to ourmarvelling eyes the bridal chamber with the nuptialcouch, adapted with skilful hands out of apacking case of a Bechstein Concert grand. WhileSkornberg was finishing his speech without furtheraccidents the Giant rebuilt rapidly the partitionwall with a couple of 'Figaros.' Then he lifted acurtain and showed us with a cunning glance athis blushing bride, still another room, built of 'LePetit Journal'—it was the nursery.

We left the paper house an hour later to meetfor supper in the Brasserie Montmartre. I hadto see some patients first, it was nearly midnightwhen I joined the party. In the centre of thebig room sat my friends all red in their facessinging at the top of their voices the SwedishAnthem in a deafening chorus, interpolated withsolos of thunder from the Giant's broad breastand the shrill piping of the little hunchback. AsI was making my way through the crowded rooma voice called out: "A la porte les Prussiens!A la porte les Prussiens!" A beer glass flew overmy head and struck the Giant straight in theface. Streaming with blood he sprang from hisseat, seized the wrong Frenchman by the collarand tossed him like a tennis ball across the counterinto the lap of the proprietor, who screamed atthe top of his voice: "La police! La police!"A second bock struck me on the nose smashingmy eyeglasses and another bock hurled Skornbergunder the table. "Throw them out! Throwthem out!" roared the whole brasserie closing onus. The Giant with a chair in each hand moweddown his assailants like ripe corn, the little hunchbackflew out from under the table screamingand biting like an infuriated monkey till anotherbock knocked him senseless on the floor. TheGiant picked him up, patted his best friend onthe back and holding him tight under one armhe covered as best as he could our inevitable retreattowards the door where we were seized byhalf-a-dozen policemen and escorted to the Commissariatin Rue Douai. After having given ournames and addresses we were locked up in a roomwith bars before the windows, we were au violon.After two hours of meditation we were broughtbefore the Brigadier who, addressing me in arough voice, asked if I was Doctor Munthe ofAvenue de Villiers. I said I was. Looking atmy nose swollen to twice its size and my tornblood-stained clothes he said I did not look likeit. He asked me if I had anything to say sinceI seemed to be the least drunk of this band ofGerman savages and besides the only one whoseemed to speak French. I told him we were apeaceful Swedish wedding party who had beenbrutally assailed in the brasserie, no doubt beingmistaken for Germans. As the interrogation wenton his voice became less stern and he glanced nowand then with something like admiration at theGiant with the half-unconscious little Skornberglike a child in his lap. At last he said with trueFrench gallantry that it would indeed be a pityto keep a bride waiting the whole night for sucha magnificent specimen of a bridegroom, andthat he would let us off for the present pendingthe inquiry. We thanked him profusely and stoodup to go. To my horror he said to me:

"Please remain, I have to talk to you." Helooked again at his papers, consulted a register onthe table and said sternly:

"You have given a false name, I warn you it isa very serious offence. To show you my good willI give you another chance to retract your statementto the police. Who are you?"

I said I was Doctor Munthe.

"I can prove you are not," he answered severely."Look at this," he said pointing to the register."Doctor Munthe of Avenue de Villiers is Chevalierde la Légion d'Honneur, I can see plenty of redspots on your coat but I can see no red ribbon."

I said I did not often wear it. Looking at hisempty buttonhole he said with a hearty laughthat he had yet to live to learn that there existeda man in France who had the red ribbon and didnot wear it. I suggested sending for my conciergeto identify me, he answered me it was unnecessary,it was a case to be dealt with by the Commissairede Police himself in the morning. Herang the bell.

"Search him," he said to the two policemen.

I protested indignantly and said he had no rightto have me searched. He said it was not onlyhis right, it was, according to the police regulations,his duty for my own protection. Thedepôt was crowded with all sorts of ruffians, hecould not guarantee that any valuables in my possessionmight not be stolen from me. I said Ihad no valuables in my pocket except a small sumof money which I handed him.

"Search him," he repeated.

There was plenty of strength in me in thosedays, two policemen had to hold me while a thirdwas searching me. Two gold repeaters, two oldBreguet watches and an English hunting watchwere found in my pockets.

Not a word was said to me, I was immediatelylocked up in an evil-smelling cell. I sank downon the mattress wondering what would happennext. The right thing was of course to insist oncommunicating with the Swedish Legation, but Idecided to wait till next morning. The dooropened to let in a sinister-looking individual halfApache, half souteneur, who made me understandat a glance the wisdom of the prison regulationsto have me searched.

"Cheer up, Charlie," said the newcomer, "ont'a pincé, eh? Don't look so dejected, never mind,you will be restored to society in twelve monthsif you are lucky, and surely you must be luckyor you would never have grabbed five watches inone single day. Five watches! Fichtre! I takemy hat off to you, there is nothing like you English!"

I said that I was not English and that I wasa collector of watches. He said so was he. Hethrew himself on the other mattress, wished megood night and pleasant dreams and was snoringin a minute. From the other side of the partitionwall a drunken woman started singing in a hoarsevoice. He growled angrily:

"Shut up, Fifine, ou je te casserai lagueule!" The singer stopped immediately andwhispered:

"Alphonse, I have something important to tellyou. Are you alone?" He answered he was witha charming young friend who was anxiousto know what o'clock it was as he had unfortunatelyforgotten to wind up the five watcheshe was always carrying in his pockets. He soonfell asleep again, the babel of the ladies' voicesgradually died away and all was still except forthe coming of the guard every hour to look atus through the guichet. As the clock struck sevenin St. Augustin, I was taken out of the cell andbrought before the Commissaire de Police himself.He listened attentively to my adventurefixing me with his intelligent penetrating eyes thewhole time. When I came to telling him of mymania for clocks and watches, that I had been onmy way to Le Roy the whole day to have these fivewatches overhauled and had forgotten all aboutthem when I was searched, he burst into laughterand said it was the best story he had ever heard,it was pure Balzac. He opened a drawer of thewriting table and handed me my five watches.

"I have not been sitting at this table for twentyyears without learning something about classifyingmy visitors, you are all right." He rang thebell for the Brigadier who had locked me up forthe night.

"You are suspended for a week for having disobeyedthe regulations to communicate with theSwedish Consul. Vous êtes un imbécile!"

XIII
MAMSELL AGATA

The old grandfather clock in the hall struckhalf past seven as I entered Avenue deVilliers silently as a ghost. It was the hour whenpunctually to the minute Mamsell Agata startedto rub the patina off my old refectory table inthe dining-room, there was a fair chance to reachin safety my bedroom, my only harbour of refuge.The rest of the house was all in the hands ofMamsell Agata. Silent and restless as a mongooseshe used to move about from room to roomthe whole day, a dust towel in her hand, in searchof something to scrub or a torn letter to pick upfrom the floor. I stopped annihilated as I openedthe door of my consulting room. MamsellAgata stood bending over the writing table examiningmy morning mail. She lifted her head, herwhite eyes stared in grim silence at my torn,blood stained clothes, for once her lipless mouthdid not find immediately the right unpleasantword.

"Good Heavens, where has he been?" she hissedat last. She was always used to call me "he"when she was angry, alas! she seldom called meanything else.

"I have had a street accident," said I. I hadlong ago taken to lying to Mamsell Agata in legitimateself-defence. She examined my rags withthe scrutinizing eye of the connoisseur, always onthe look-out for anything to patch, to darn or tomend. I thought her voice sounded a little kinderas she ordered me to hand her my whole outfit atonce. I slunk into my bedroom, had a bath,Rosalie brought me my coffee, nobody could makea cup of coffee like Mamsell Agata.

"Pauvre Monsieur," said Rosalie as I handedher my clothes to be taken to Mamsell Agata, "Ihope you are not hurt?"

"No," said I, "I am only afraid."

Rosalie and I had no secrets from one anotherin what concerned Mamsell Agata, we both livedin deadly fear of her, we were comrades in armsin our daily defenceless battle for life. Rosalie,whose real profession was that of a charwoman,had come to my rescue the day the cook had bolted,and now since the housemaid had also cleared outshe had remained with me as a sort of bonne àtout faire. The cook I was very sorry to losebut I soon had to admit that I had never eatena better dinner than since Mamsell Agata hadtaken possession of the kitchen. The departedhousemaid, a sturdy Bretonne, had also been muchto my liking, she had always scrupulously observedour agreement that she should never gonear my writing table and never touch the antiquefurniture. A week after Mamsell Agata's arrivalshe had shown signs of declining health, her handshad begun to tremble, she had dropped my finestold Faenza vase, and soon after she had fled insuch a hurry that she had even forgotten to takeher aprons with her. The very day of her departureMamsell Agata had set to work rubbingand scrubbing my dainty Louis XVI chairs, beatingmercilessly my priceless Persian rugs with ahard stick, washing the pale marble face of myFlorentine Madonna with soap and water, she hadeven succeeded in getting off the wonderful lustreof the Gubbio vase on the writing table. If MamsellAgata had been born four hundred years agono trace of medieval art would have remainedto-day. But how long ago was she born? Shelooked exactly the same as when I had seen heras a boy in my old home in Sweden. My elderbrother had inherited her when the old home brokeup. A man of exceptional courage as he is, hehad succeeded in getting rid of her and handingher over to me. Mamsell Agata was the verything for me, he had written, there never was ahousekeeper like her. He was right there. Eversince, I in my turn, had tried to get rid of her.I used to invite my bachelor friends and strayacquaintances for luncheon, they all said I waslucky indeed to have such a wonderful cook. Itold them I was going to get married, that MamsellAgata only liked bachelors and was lookingout for another place. They were all very interestedand wanted to see her. That settled it, theynever wanted to see her again if they could helpit. To describe what she looked like is beyondme. She had thin golden locks arranged in asort of early Victorian fashion—Rosalie said itwas a wig but I do not know. An exceptionallyhigh and narrow forehead, no eyebrows, smallwhite eyes and hardly any face at all, only a longhook nose overhanging a narrow slit which seldomopened to show a row of long pointed teethlike those of a ferret. The colour of her face andher fingers was a cadaverous blue, the touch ofher hand was slimy and cold like that of a corpse.Her smile—no, I think I won't tell you what hersmile was like, it was what Rosalie and I fearedmost. Mamsell Agata only spoke Swedish butquarrelled fluently in French and English. Ibelieve she must have ended by understanding alittle French or she would not have picked up allshe seemed to know about my patients. I oftenfound her listening behind the door of my consultingroom especially when I received ladies.She had a great liking for dead people, she alwaysseemed more cheerful when one of my patientswas on the point of dying, she seldom failedto appear on the balcony when a funeral passeddown Avenue de Villiers. She hated children, shenever forgave Rosalie for having given a piece ofthe Christmas cake to the children of the concierge.She hated my dog, she always went about blowingKeating's flea-powder on the carpets andstarted scratching herself as soon as she saw me,in sign of protestation. My dog hated her fromthe very first, perhaps because of the most peculiarsmell which radiated from her whole person.It reminded me of the odeur de souris ofBalzac's Cousin Pons but with a special blend ofher own I have only noticed once in my life. Thatwas when many years later I entered an abandonedtomb in the Valley of the Kings at Thebesfull of hundreds of large bats hanging in blackclusters from its walls.

Mamsell Agata never left the house except onSundays when she sat all by herself in a pew inthe Swedish church Boulevard Ornanot, prayingto the God of Wrath. The pew was always empty,nobody dared to sit near her, my friend the Swedishchaplain told me that the first time he put thebread in her mouth during the Holy Communionshe glared at him so savagely that he was afraidshe might bite off his finger.

Rosalie had lost all her former cheerfulness, shelooked thin and wretched, spoke of going to livewith her married sister in Touraine. Of courseit was easier for me, who was away the whole day.As soon as I returned home all the strength seemedto go out of my body, and a deadly grey wearinessto fall over my thoughts like dust. Since I haddiscovered that Mamsell Agata was a sleep-walker,my nights had become still more agitated andrestless, I often thought I smelt her even in mybedroom. At last I opened my heart to Flygare,the Swedish chaplain, who was a frequent visitorto my house and had, I think, a vague suspicionof the terrible truth.

"Why don't you send her away," said thechaplain one day, "you cannot go on like this,really I am beginning to believe that you are afraidof her. If you haven't the courage to send heraway, I will do it for you."

I offered him a thousand francs for his churchfund if he could send her away.

"I shall give notice to Mamsell Agata to-night,don't worry, come to the sacristy to-morrow afterservice and you will have good news."

There was no service in the Swedish church thenext day, the chaplain had been taken suddenlyill the evening before, too late for finding a substitute.I went at once to his house Place desTermes, his wife said she was just going to sendfor me. The chaplain had returned home the eveningbefore in an almost fainting condition, helooked as if he had seen a ghost, said his wife.

Perhaps he has seen one, thought I, as I wentto his room. He said he had just begun to tellMamsell Agata his errand, he had expected her tobe very angry, but instead of that she had onlysmiled at him. Suddenly he noticed a most peculiarsmell in the room, he felt as if he was goingto faint, he was sure it was the smell.

"No," said I, "it was the smile."

I ordered him to remain in bed till I called again,he asked what on earth was the matter with him,I said I did not know—this was not true, I knewquite well, I recognized the symptoms.

"By the bye," said I, as I stood up to go, "Iwish you would tell me something about Lazarus,you who are a chaplain surely know more abouthim than I do. Isn't there an old legend. . . ."

"Lazarus," said the chaplain in a feeble voice,"was the man who returned alive to his dwellinghouse from his grave where for three days andnights he had lain under the sway of death. Thereis no doubt about the miracle, he was seen by Maryand Martha and many of his former friends."

"I wonder what he looked like?"

"The legend says that the destruction wroughtby death on his body, arrested by miraculouspower, was still apparent in the cadaverous bluenessof his face and his long fingers, cold with thecold of death; his dark finger nails had grownimmeasurably long, the rank odour of the gravestill hung to his clothes. As Lazarus advancedamong the crowd that had gathered to welcomehim back to life, their joyous words of greetingdied on their lips, a terrible shadow descended likedust over their thoughts. One by one they fledaway, their souls benumbed by fear."

As the chaplain recited the old legend his voicegrew weaker and weaker, he tossed uneasily inhis bed, his face grew white as the pillow underhis head.

"Are you sure that Lazarus is the only one whohas risen from the grave," said I, "are you surethat he had not a sister?"

The chaplain put his hands over his face with ashriek of terror.

On the stairs I met Colonel Staaff the Swedishmilitary attaché who just came to inquire aboutthe chaplain. The Colonel invited me to drivehome with him, he wanted to speak to me onurgent business. The Colonel had served with greatdistinction in the French army during the war of'70 and had been wounded at Gravelotte. Hehad married a French lady and was a greatfavourite in Paris society.

"You know," said the Colonel, as we sat downto tea, "you know I am your friend and morethan twice your age, you must not take amiss whatI am going to tell you in your own interest. Bothmy wife and I have often heard of late complaintsabout you for the tyrannical sort of way you treatyour patients. Nobody likes to have the wordsdiscipline and obedience constantly thrown intotheir faces. Ladies, specially French ladies, arenot accustomed to such rough handling by a youngfellow like you, they already call you Tiberiusas a nickname. The worst of it is that I fear itseems as natural to you to command as youimagine it is natural to others to obey. You aremistaken, my young friend, nobody likes to obey,everybody likes to command."

"I disagree, most people, and almost all women,like to obey."

"Wait till you get married," said my gallantfriend with a furtive glance towards the door ofthe sitting-room.

"Now to a far more serious matter," the Colonelwent on. "There is a rumour going about, thatyou are very careless as to appearances in regardto your private life, that there is a mysteriouswoman living with you in the assumed positionof your housekeeper. Even the wife of the EnglishConsul hinted something of the sort to mywife who defended you most energetically. Whatwould the Swedish Minister and his wife, who treatyou as if you were their own son, say if they gothold of this rumour, what they are sure to dosooner or later? I tell you, my friend, this won'tdo for a doctor in your position with lots of ladies,English and French, coming to consult you. Irepeat this won't do! If you must indulge in amistress, go ahead! It is your affair but forHeaven's sake get her out of your house, not eventhe French can stand such a scandal!"

I thanked the colonel, I said he was quite right,that I had often tried to get her out of my housebut had not had the strength.

"I know it is not easy," admitted the colonel,"I have been young myself. If you haven't gotthe courage to get her out of the house, I willhelp you! I am your man, I have never beenafraid of anybody, man or woman, I have chargedthe Prussians at Gravelotte, I have faced deathin six big battles. . . ."

"Wait till you face Mamsell Agata Svenson,"said I.

"You don't mean to say she is Swedish? Somuch the better, if it comes to the worst I shallhave her turned out of France by the legation.I shall be at Avenue de Villiers to-morrow morningat ten, be sure to be there."

"No thank you, not I, I never go near herwhen I can help it."

"Et pourtant tu couches avec elle," ejaculatedthe colonel looking stupefied at me.

I was just on the point of going to be sick onhis carpet when he handed me a stiff brandy andsoda in time and I reeled out of the house afterhaving accepted his invitation for dinner next dayto celebrate the victory.

I dined alone with Madame Staaff the next day.The colonel was not very well, I was to go andsee him after dinner, the old wound from Gravelottewas troubling him again, thought his wife.The gallant colonel was lying on his bed with acold compress on the top of his head, he lookedvery old and feeble, there was a vacant expressionin his eyes I had never seen before.

"Did she smile?" I asked him.

He shuddered as he stretched his hand towardshis brandy and soda.

"Did you notice the long black hook on herthumb nail, like the hook of a bat?"

He grew pale and wiped the perspiration fromhis forehead.

"What shall I do," I said dejectedly, my headbetween my two hands.

"There is only one possible escape for you,"answered the colonel in a weak voice, "get marriedor you will take to drink."

XIV
VICOMTE MAURICE

I did not get married and I did not take todrink. I took to something else; I abandonedAvenue de Villiers altogether. Rosaliebrought my tea and my 'Figaro' to my bedroomat seven o'clock, half an hour later I was off notto return till two o'clock for my consultation. Iwas off again with my last patient to come backlate at night to creep to my bedroom stealthilyas a thief. Rosalie's wages had been doubled. Shestuck bravely to her post, she only complained ofhaving nothing to do but to open the door.Everything else, the beating of the carpets, themending of my clothes, the cleaning of my boots,the washing of my linen, the cooking of my foodwas done by Mamsell Agata. Realizing thenecessity of a liaison between herself and theouter world and the need of somebody always athand to quarrel with, Mamsell Agata now toleratedRosalie's presence with grim resignation.She had even smiled at her once, said Rosaliewith a slight trembling in her voice. Soon Tomalso took to abandoning Avenue de Villiers forfear of Mamsell Agata. He spent his days drivingabout with me visiting patients, he seldomhad a meal at home, he never went into the kitchenas all dogs love to do. As soon he returnedfrom his day's work, he slung to his basket inmy bedroom where he knew he was in relativesafety. As my practice increased it became moreand more difficult to snatch time for our usualSunday afternoon romp in the Bois de Boulogne.Dogs as well as men must have an occasionalsniff at Mother Earth to keep up their spirits.There is nothing like a brisk walk among friendlytrees be it even the half-tamed trees of theBois de Boulogne, and an occasional game ofhide and seek among the thickets with a stray acquaintance.One day, as we were strolling downa side alley enjoying each other's company, wesuddenly heard far behind us a desperate pantingand wheezing accompanied by fits of coughingand choking. I thought it was a case ofasthma and Tom diagnozed it at once as a caseof a half-suffocated small bulldog or pug approachingat full speed and imploring us with his lastbreath to wait for him. A minute later Loulousank down half-dead at my feet, too fat tobreathe, too exhausted to speak, his black tonguealmost fallen out from his mouth, his blood-shoteyes protruding from their sockets with joy andemotion.

"Loulou! Loulou!" a despairing voicescreamed from a coupé driving past on the highroad.

"Loulou! Loulou!" called out a footman runningtowards us behind the thickets. The footmansaid he was escorting the Marquise andLoulou on their usual five minutes constitutionalby the side of the carriage when Loulou suddenlybegan to sniff furiously in all directions and canteredoff with such a speed through the bushesthat he was lost sight of at once. The Marquisehad been put back in the carriage by her maidin a fainting condition, he himself had beenhunting for Loulou for half-an-hour while thecoachman was driving up and down the high roadasking every passer-by for news of Loulou. TheMarquise burst into a flood of tears of joy whenI deposited Loulou on her lap, still speechlessfor want of breath. He was going to havean apoplectic stroke, she sobbed. I roared intothe ear trumpet that it was only emotion. Thetruth was that he was as near having a stroke asa fat old pug can be. Being the involuntary causeof it all, I accepted the invitation of his mistressto have tea with her. When Tom jumpedon my lap, Loulou had a fit of rage that nearlysuffocated him. The rest of the drive he laymotionless on his mistress' lap in a state of completecollapse, glaring savagely at Tom with oneeye and blinking affectionately at me with theother.

"I have smelt many things in my life," said theeye, "but I have never forgotten your own mostparticular smell, I like it much better than thesmell of anybody else. What a joy to have foundyou at last! Do take me on your lap instead ofthat black mongrel. No fear, I shall settle hisaccount as soon I get a breath of air!"

"Never mind what you say, snub-nosed littlemonster," said Tom loftily. "I never saw sucha sight, it almost makes one ashamed of being adog! A champion poodle like me does not growlat a sausage, but you had better hold your blacktongue lest it should drop out of your ugly mouthaltogether."

After our second cup of tea Monsieur l'Abbéentered the drawing-room for his usual afternooncall. The kind Abbé reproached me for not havinglet him know of my return to Paris. TheCount had often enquired about me and wouldbe delighted to see me. The Countess had goneto Monte Carlo for a change of air. The Countesswas now in excellent health and spirits. Unfortunatelyhe could not say the same in regard tothe Count, who had returned to his sedentary life,spending the whole day in his armchair smokinghis cigars. The Abbé thought he had better warnme that the Vicomte Maurice was furious withme for having played such a joke upon him atChâteau Rameaux. I had hypnotized both himand the little village doctor into the belief thathe had colitis in order to prevent him from gainingthe Gold Medal at the shooting competitionof the Société du Tir de France. The Abbé imploredme to keep out of his way, he was knownfor his violent, uncontrollable temper, he was alwaysquarrelling with people, not later than amonth ago he had fought another duel, God knowswhat might happen if we met.

"Nothing would happen," said I. "I havenothing to fear from this brute, for he is afraid ofme. I proved last autumn in the smoking-roomof the Château Rameaux that I was the strongerof the two and I am glad to hear from youthat he has not forgotten his lesson. His onesuperiority over me is that he can drop a swallowor a skylark with his revolver at fifty yardswhile I should probably miss an elephant at thesame distance. But he is not likely ever to takeadvantage of this superiority of his, he wouldnever challenge me for he considers me his socialinferior. You mentioned the word hypnotism, wellI am getting sick of the very word, it is constantlythrown in my face because I have been apupil of Charcot's. Understand once for all thatall this nonsense about hypnotic power is an explodedtheory denied by modern science. It isnot a case of hypnotism, it is a case of imagination.This fool imagines that I have hypnotizedhim, it is not I who have put this silly idea inhis head, he has done it all by himself, we call itautosuggestion. So much the better for me. Itmakes him powerless to harm me at least face toface."

"But could you hypnotize him if you wantedto do so?"

"Yes, easily, he is an excellent subject, Charcotwould be delighted to demonstrate him at hisTuesday lectures at the Salpêtrière."

"Since you say that there is no such thing ashypnotic power, do you mean to say that I forinstance could make him obey my orders as heobeyed yours?"

"Yes, granted he believed that you possessed thispower, which he certainly does not believe."

"Why not?"

"The real difficulty begins here, a satisfactoryanswer to your question cannot be given to-day.This is a relatively new science, still in its infancy."

"Could you make him commit a crime?"

"Not unless he was capable of committing sucha crime of his own initiative. Since I am convincedthat this man has criminal instincts, theanswer is in this particular case in the affirmative."

"Could you make him give up the Countess?"

"Not unless he wished it himself and submittedto a methodic treatment by hypnotic suggestion.Even so it would take considerable time, thesexual instinct being the strongest force in humannature."

"Promise me to keep out of his way, he sayshe is going to horsewhip you the first time hemeets you."

"He is welcome to try, I know how to dealwith such an emergency, don't worry. I am quitecapable of taking care of myself."

"Luckily he is with his regiment at Tours andnot likely to return to Paris for a long time."

"My dear Abbé, you are far more naïve thanI thought, he is actually in Monte Carlo with theCountess and will be back in Paris when she returnsfrom her change of air."

The very next day I was asked to see the Countprofessionally. The Abbé was right, I found theCount in a very unsatisfactory condition bothphysically and mentally. You cannot do much foran elderly gentleman who sits in his armchair thewhole day smoking endless cigars, thinking ofnothing but his beautiful young wife who hasgone to Monte Carlo for a change of air. Neithercan you do much for him when she returns to resumeher position as one of the most admired andcoveted ladies of the Paris society, spending herdays at Worth's trying on new gowns and herevenings at theatres and balls, after a frosty kissof good-night on her husband's cheek. The moreI saw of the Count the more I liked him, he wasthe most perfect type of a French aristocrat ofthe old regime I had ever seen. The real reasonwhy I liked him was no doubt because I felt sorryfor him. It had not dawned upon me in thosedays that the only people I really liked were thoseI felt sorry for. I suppose that was why I didnot like the Countess the first time I saw her againafter our last meeting under the lime tree in thepark of the Château Rameaux when the moonwas full and the owl saved me from liking hertoo much. No, I did not like her at all as I satwatching her by the side of the Abbé, across thedining-room table, laughing merrily at the sillyjokes of Vicomte Maurice, some of them aboutmyself, I gathered from his insolent side-glances.Neither of them said a single word to me. Theonly sign of recognition I had received from theCountess was an absent-minded hand-shake beforedinner. The Vicomte had ignored my presencealtogether. The Countess was as beautifulas ever but she was not the same woman. Shelooked in splendid health and spirits, the yearningexpression in her large eyes was no more there.I saw at the first glance that there had been fullmoon in the park of Monte Carlo and no warningowls in the lime trees. The Vicomte Mauricelooked exceedingly pleased with himself, there wasan unmistakable air of the conquering hero in hiswhole bearing which was particularly irritating.

"Ça y est," said I to the Abbé as we sat downin the smoking-room after dinner. "Surely loveis blind, if this is to be called love. She deserveda better fate than to fall into the arms of thisdegenerate fool."

"Do you know that it is not a month ago sincethe Count paid his gambling debts in order tosave him from being cashiered from the army, thereis also a rumour about a dishonoured cheque.They say he is spending fabulous sums on a famouscocotte. To think that this is the man whois going to take the Countess to the Bal Masquéof the Opera to-night."

"I wish I could shoot."

"For Heaven's sake do not speak like that, Iwish you would go away, he is sure to come herefor his brandy and soda."

"He had better be careful with his brandiesand sodas, did you not notice how his hand wastrembling when he dropped his patent medicineinto his wine-glass. At any rate it is a goodomen for the swallows and the skylarks. Don'tlook so uneasily at the door, he is having a goodtime making love to the Countess in the drawing-room.I am besides going away, my carriage isat the door."

I went upstairs to see the Count a momentbefore leaving, he was already going to bed, hesaid he was very sleepy, lucky man! As I waswishing him good-night I heard the desperatehowling of a dog from below. I knew that Tomwas waiting for me in the hall in his usual cornerby a standing invitation from the Count who wasa great lover of dogs and had even provided himwith a special little carpet for his comfort. Isprang downstairs as fast as I could. Tom waslying huddling against the front door groaningfeebly, blood was flowing from his mouth. Bentover him stood Vicomte Maurice kicking himfuriously. I fell on the brute so unexpectedlythat he lost his balance and rolled on the floor.A second well-aimed blow knocked him downagain as he was springing to his feet. Snatchingmy hat and my coat I sprang with the dog in myarms to my carriage and drove full speed toAvenue de Villiers. It was evident from the firstthat the poor dog was suffering from severe internalinjuries. I sat up with him the whole night,his breathing became more and more difficult, thehæmorrhage never ceased. In the morning I shotmy faithful friend with my own hands to sparehim further sufferings.

It was a relief to me when I received in theafternoon a letter from two of Vicomte Maurice'sfellow officers with a request to be put in communicationwith my seconds, the Vicomte havingdecided after some hesitation to do me the honouretc. etc.

I succeeded with difficulty in persuading ColonelStaaff, the Swedish military attaché, to see methrough this business. My friend Edelfeld, thewell-known Finnish painter, was to be my othersecond. Norstrom was to assist me as surgeon.

"Never in my life have I had such luck asthese last twenty-four hours," said I to Norstromas we were sitting at dinner at our usual table inCafé de la Régence. "To tell you the truth Iwas terribly afraid that I was going to be afraid.Instead of that my curiosity, to know how I wasgoing to face the music has occupied my thoughtsso constantly, that I have had no time to think ofanything else. You know how interested I am inpsychology."

Norstrom was evidently not in the least interestedin psychology that evening, besides he neverwas. He was unusually silent and solemn, I noticeda certain tender expression in his dull eyes whichmade me feel almost ashamed of myself.

"Listen, Axel," he said in a somewhat huskyvoice, "listen. . . ."

"Don't look at me like that, and above all don'tbe sentimental, it doesn't suit your style of beauty.Scratch your silly old head and try to understandthe situation. How can you imagine for a momentthat I should be such a fool as to face thissavage to-morrow morning in the Bois de St. Cloudif I did not know that he cannot kill me. Theidea is too absurd to be considered for a moment.These French duels are besides a mere farce, youknow it as well as I do. We have both of us assistedas doctors at more than one of these performanceswhere the actors now and then hit a treebut never each other. Do let us have a bottle ofChambertin and go straight to bed, Burgundymakes me sleepy, I have hardly had any sleep sincemy poor dog died, I must sleep to-night at anycost."

The morning was cold and misty. My pulsewas steady at eighty but I noticed a curioustwitching in the calves of my legs and a considerabledifficulty in speaking, and try as I mightI did not succeed in swallowing the drop of brandyNorstrom handed me from his pocket flask as westepped out from the carriage. The endless preliminaryformalities seemed particularly irritatingto me since I did not understand a word of whatthey were talking about. How silly all this is andwhat a waste of time, thought I, how much simplerwould it not be to give him a sound thrashingà l'anglaise and be done with it! Somebody saidthat the mist had now lifted sufficiently to allowa clear sight. I was surprised to hear it, for itseemed to me that the fog was thicker than ever.Still I could see quite well Vicomte Maurice standingin front of me with his usual air of insolentnonchalance, a cigarette between his lips, very muchat his ease, thought I. At that very moment aredbreast started singing from the thicket behindme, I was just wondering what on earth the littlefellow had to do so late in the year in the Bois deSt. Cloud, when Colonel Staaff put a long pistol inmy hand.

"Aim low!" he whispered.

"Fire!" a sharp voice called out.

I heard a shot. I saw the Vicomte letting fallhis cigarette from his lips and Professor Labbérushing up to him. A moment later I found myselfsitting in Colonel Staaff's carriage with Norstromon the opposite seat, a broad grin on his face.The Colonel patted me on the shoulder but nobodyspoke.

"What has happened, why didn't he shoot? Iam not going to accept any mercy from this brute,I am going to challenge him in my turn, I amgoing to. . . ."

"You are going to do nothing of the sort, youare going to thank God for your miraculous escape,"interrupted the Colonel. "Indeed he triedhis best to kill you and no doubt he would havedone so had you given him time for a second shot.Luckily you fired simultaneously. Had you waitedthe fraction of a second you would not be sittingby my side now. Didn't you hear the bullet whizzingover your head? Look!"

Suddenly as I looked at my hat the curtain wentdown over my performance as a hero. Strippedof his ill fitting make-up as a brave man, the realman appeared, the man who was afraid of death.Shaking with fear I sank back in my corner of thecarriage.

"I am proud of you, my young friend," theColonel went on. "It did my old soldier's heartgood to watch you, I could not have done it bettermyself! When we charged the Prussians atGravelotte. . . ."

The chattering of my teeth prevented me fromcatching the end of the sentence. I felt sick andfaint, I wanted to tell Norstrom to let down thewindow for a breath of air but I could not articulatea word. I wanted to fling open the door and boltlike a rabbit but I could move neither arms norlegs.

"He was losing lots of blood," chuckled Norstrom,"Professor Labbé said the bullet had passedclean through the base of the right lung, he will bea lucky man if he escapes with two months inbed."

The chattering of my teeth ceased instantly, Ilistened attentively.

"I did not know you were such a fine shot," saidthe gallant colonel. "Why did you tell me youhad never handled a pistol before?"

Suddenly I burst into a roar of laughter, I didnot in the least know why.

"There is no cause for laughter," said the colonelsternly, "the man is dangerously wounded, ProfessorLabbé looked very grave, it may end in atragedy."

"So much the worse for him," said I miraculouslyregaining my power of speech, "hekicked my defenceless old dog to death, he spendshis leisure hours killing swallows and skylarks, hedeserves all he gets. Do you know that theAreopagus of Athens pronounced a death sentenceon a boy for having stung out the eyes of abird?"

"But you are not the Areopagus of Athens."

"No, but neither am I the cause of this man'sdeath if it comes to the worst. I had not eventime to take aim at him, the pistol went off all byitself. It was not I who sent this bullet throughhis lung, it was somebody else. Besides, since youare so sorry for this brute, may I ask if it was inorder to miss him that you whispered in my ear toaim low when you handed me the pistol?"

"I am glad to hear you have got your tongueback in its right place, you old swaggerer," smiledthe colonel. "I could hardly understand a wordyou said when I dragged you into my carriage nordid you yourself, I am sure, you went on mutteringthe whole time something about a redbreast."

When we entered Porte Maillot I had alreadyresumed full command over my silly nerves andwas feeling very pleased with myself. As weapproached Avenue de Villiers Mamsell Agata'sMedusa face loomed out of the morning mist,staring menacingly at me with her white eyes. Ilooked at my watch, it was half-past seven, mycourage rose.

"She is just now rubbing the patina off therefectory table in the dining-room," thought I."Another bit of luck and I shall manage to slinkunnoticed into my bedroom and signal to Rosalieto bring me my cup of tea."

Rosalie came on tiptoe with my breakfast andmy 'Figaro.'

"Rosalie, you are a brick! For Heaven's sakekeep her out of the hall, I mean to slip out in half-an-hour.Good Rosalie, just give me a brush-upbefore you go, I need it badly."

"But really Monsieur cannot go about visitinghis patients in this old hat, look! there is a roundhole in front and here is another behind, howfunny! It cannot be made by a moth, the wholehouse is stinking with naphthaline ever sinceMamsell Agata came. Can it be a rat? MamsellAgata's room is full of rats, Mamsell Agata likesrats."

"No, Rosalie, it is the death-watch beetle, it hasgot teeth as hard as steel and can make just such ahole in a man's skull as well as in his hat, if luckis not on his side."

"Why does not Monsieur give the hat toold Don Gaetano, the organ grinder, it is hisday for coming and playing under the balconyto-day."

"You are welcome to give him any hat you likebut not this one, I mean to keep it, it does me goodto look at those two holes, it means luck."

"Why does not Monsieur go about in a top hatlike the other doctors, it is much more chic."

"It is not the hat that makes the man but thehead. My head is all right as long as you keepMamsell Agata out of my sight."

XV
JOHN

I sat down to my breakfast and my 'Figaro.'Nothing very interesting. Suddenly my eyesfell on the following notice under the big headlines:AN UGLY BUSINESS.

"Madame Réquin, sage-femme de première classe, RueGranet, has been arrested in connection with the death of ayoung girl under suspicious circumstances. There is also anorder of arrest against a foreign doctor who has it is fearedalready left the country. Madame Réquin is also accused forhaving caused the disappearance of a number of new-bornchildren confided to her care."

The paper fell from my hand. Madame Réquin,sage-femme de première classe, Rue Granet! Ihad been surrounded with so much suffering, somany tragedies had been enacted before my eyesduring these last years that I had forgotten thewhole affair. As I sat there staring at the noticein the 'Figaro' it all came back to me as vividlyas had it happened yesterday instead of three yearsago, the dreadful night when I had made the acquaintanceof Madame Réquin. As I sat sippingmy tea and reading the notice in the 'Figaro' overand over again, I felt greatly pleased to know thatthis horrible woman had been caught at last. Ifelt equally pleased at the recollection that in thatunforgettable night it had been granted to me tosave two lives, the life of a mother and the life of achild from being murdered by her and her ignobleaccomplice. Suddenly another thought flashedthrough my head. What had I done for these twolives I had caused to live? What had I done forthis mother already abandoned by another man inthe hour she needed him most?

"John! John!" she had called out underthe chloroform with a ring of despair. "John!John!"

Had I done better than he? Had not I alsoabandoned her in the hour she needed me most?What agonies must she not have gone through beforeshe fell in the hands of this terrible woman andthis brutal colleague of mine, who would have murderedher had it not been for me? What agonieshad she not gone through when her awakening consciousnessbrought her back to the ghastly realityof her surroundings. And the half-asphyxiatedchild who had looked at me with his blue eyes ashe drew his first breath with the life-giving air Ihad breathed into his lungs, my lips to his lips!What had I done for him? I had snatched himfrom the arms of merciful death to throw him inthe arms of Madame Réquin! How many new-bornbabies had not already sucked death from herenormous bosom? What had she done with theblue-eyed little boy? Was he among the eighty percent of the helpless little travellers in the 'train desnourrices' who according to official statistics succumbedduring the first year of their life, or amongthe remaining twenty per cent who survived to perhapsan even worse fate?

An hour later I had applied and obtained fromthe prison authorities the permission to visit MadameRéquin. She recognized me at once and gaveme such a warm welcome that I felt very uncomfortableindeed before the prison official who hadaccompanied me to her cell.

The boy was in Normandy and very happy, shehad just received excellent news about him fromhis foster parents who loved him tenderly. Unfortunatelyshe could not lay her hands on their address,there had been some confusion in her register.It was just possible though not likely, that her husbandmight remember their address.

I felt sure the boy was dead but to leave nothingundone I said sternly that unless I received theaddress of the foster parents in forty-eight hoursI would denounce her to the authorities for childmurder and also for the theft of a valuable diamondbrooch left in her custody by me. She managed tosqueeze a few tears from her cold glittering eyesand swore that she had not stolen the brooch, shehad kept it as a souvenir from this lovely younglady whom she had nursed as tenderly as if she hadbeen her own daughter.

"You have forty-eight hours," said I, leavingMadame Réquin to her meditations.

The morning of the second day I received thevisit of Madame Réquin's worthy husband with thepawn ticket of the brooch and the names of threevillages in Normandy where Madame used to dispatchher babies that year. I wrote at once to thethree maires of the respective villages with a requestto find out if a blue-eyed boy about three years oldwere among the adoptive children in their villages.After a long delay I received negative answersfrom two of the maires, no answer from the third.I then wrote to the three curés of these villages andafter months of waiting the curé of Villeroy informedme that he had discovered with a shoemaker'swife a little boy who might answer to mydescription. He had arrived from Paris three yearsago and certainly he had blue eyes.

I had never been in Normandy, it was Christmastime and I thought I deserved a little holiday. Itwas actually on Christmas day I knocked at thedoor of the shoemaker. No answer. I entered adusky room with the shoemaker's low table by thewindow, muddy and worn-out boots and shoes ofall sizes strewn over the floor, some newly washedshirts and petticoats were hanging to dry on arope across the ceiling. The bed had not beenmade up, the sheets and the blankets looked indescribablydirty. On the stone floor of the evil-smellingkitchen sat a half-naked little child eatinga raw potato. He gave me a terrified look fromhis blue eyes, dropped his potato, lifted instinctivelyhis emaciated arm as if to avoid a blow andcrawled as fast as he could into the other room.I caught him up just as he was creeping underthe bed and sat down at the shoemaker's table bythe window to examine his teeth. Yes, the boy wasabout three years and a half I should say, a littleskeleton with emaciated arms and legs, a narrowchest and a stomach blown up to twice its propersize. He sat absolutely still on my lap, he did notutter a sound even when I opened his mouth toexamine his teeth. There was no doubt about thecolour of his tired joyless eyes, they were as blueas my own. The door was flung open and with aterrific curse the shoemaker reeled into the roomblind drunk. Behind him in the open door stood awoman with a baby at her breast and two smallchildren hanging on to her skirt, staring stupefiedat me. The shoemaker said he was damned gladto get rid of the boy, but he must have the overduemoney paid down first. He had written severaltimes to Madame Réquin but had had no answer.Did she think he was going to feed that wretchedmarmot with his own hard earnings? His wifesaid that now since she had a child of her own andtwo other children en pension she was only too gladto get rid of the boy. She muttered something tothe shoemaker and their eyes wandered attentivelyfrom my face to that of the boy. The same terrifiedlook had come back in the boy's eyes as soonthey had entered the room, his little hand I washolding in mine was trembling slightly. LuckilyI had remembered in time it was Christmas and Iproduced a wooden horse from my pocket. Hetook it in silence, in an uninterested sort of wayquite unlike that of a child, he did not seem to caremuch for it.

"Look," said the shoemaker's wife, "what abeautiful horse your papa has brought you fromParis, look, Jules!"

"His name is John," said I.

"C'est un triste enfant," said the shoemaker'swife, "he never says anything, not even 'mama,'he never smiles."

I wrapped him up in my travelling rug and wentto see Monsieur le Curé who was kind enough tosend his housekeeper to buy a woollen shirt and awarm shawl for our journey.

The Curé looked at me attentively and said:

"It is my duty as a priest to condemn and chastizeimmorality and vice, but I cannot refrain fromtelling you, my young friend, that I respect youfor trying at least to atone for your sin, a sin somuch the more heinous as the punishment falls onthe heads of innocent little children. It was hightime to take him away, I have buried dozens ofthese poor abandoned little babies and I would haveburied your boy as well ere long. You have donewell, I thank you for it," said the old curé tappingme on the shoulder.

We were just on the point of missing the nightexpress for Paris, there was no time for explanations.John slept peacefully the whole night wellwrapped in his warm shawl while I sat by his sidewondering what on earth I was going to do withhim. I really believe that had it not been forMamsell Agata I would have taken him straightfrom the station to Avenue de Villiers. I droveinstead to the Crèche St. Joseph in Rue de Seine,I knew the nuns well. They promised to keepthe boy for twenty-four hours till a suitable homehad been found for him. The nuns knew of arespectable family, the husband was working inthe Norwegian margarine factory in Pantin, theyhad just lost their only child. The idea suited me,I drove there at once and the next day the boywas installed in his new home. The woman seemedclever and capable, somewhat quick tempered Ishould have thought from the look of her eyes, butthe nuns had told me she had been a devoted motherto her own child. She was given the money neededfor his outfit and paid three months in advance,less than I spend on my cigarettes. I preferred notto give her my address, God knows what wouldhave happened if Mamsell Agata had got to knowof his existence. Joséphine was to report to thenuns if anything went wrong or if the child got ill.It did not take long before she had to report. Theboy caught scarlet fever and nearly died. All theScandinavian children in the Pantin quarter weredown with scarlet fever, I had to go there constantly.Children with scarlet fever need no medicine,only careful nursing and a toy for their longconvalescence. John got both, for his new fostermother was evidently very kind to him and I hadlong ago learned to include dolls and wooden horsesin my pharmacopoeia.

"He is a strange child," said Joséphine, "henever says even 'mama,' he never smiles, noteven when he got the Father Christmas you senthim."

For it was Christmas once more, the boy hadbeen with his new foster mother a whole year, oftoil and worries for me but relative happiness forhim. Joséphine was certainly hot-tempered, oftenimpertinent to me when I had to scold her for notkeeping the boy tidy or for never opening the window.But I never heard her say a rough word tohim, and although I do not think he cared for herI could see by his eyes that he was not afraid ofher. He seemed strangely indifferent to everybodyand everything. Gradually I became more andmore uneasy about him and more dissatisfied withhis foster mother. The boy had got back that frightenedlook in his eyes, and it was evident that Joséphinewas neglecting him more and more. I hadseveral rows with her, it generally ended by hersaying angrily that if I was not satisfied I hadbetter take him away, she had had more than enoughof him. I well understood the reason, she was tobecome a mother herself. It got much worse afterthe birth of her own child, I told her at last that Iwas determined to take the boy away as soon as Ihad found the right place for him. Warned byexperience I was determined there should be nomore mistakes about him.

A couple of days later in coming home for myconsultation I heard as I opened the front doorthe angry voice of a woman resounding from mywaiting-room. The room was full of people waitingwith their usual patience to see me. John sathuddled up in the corner of the sofa next to thewife of the English parson. In the middle of theroom stood Joséphine talking at the top of her voiceand gesticulating wildly. As soon as she saw me inthe doorway she rushed to the sofa, took hold ofJohn and literally threw him at me, I had barelytime to catch him in my arms.

"Of course I'm not good enough to look after ayoung gentleman like you, Master John!" shoutedJoséphine, "you'd better stay with the doctor, I'vehad enough of his scoldings and all his lies aboutyour being an orphan. One has only to look atyour eyes to see who is your father!" She liftedthe portière to rush out of the room and nearly fellover Mamsell Agata who shot me a glance fromher white eyes that riveted me to the spot. Theparson's wife rose from the sofa and walked out ofthe room lifting her skirts as she passed before me.

"Kindly take this boy to the dining-room and remainthere with him till I come," said I to MamsellAgata. She stretched out her arms in horror infront of her as if to protect herself against somethingunclean, the slit under her hook nose partedin a terrible smile and she vanished in the wake ofthe parson's wife.

I sat down at my luncheon, gave John an appleand rang for Rosalie.

"Rosalie," said I, "take this money, go and getyourself a cotton dress, a couple of white apronsand whatever else you need to look respectable.From to-day you are promoted to be a nurse tothis child. He will sleep in my room to-night, fromto-morrow you are to sleep with him in MamsellAgata's room."

"But Mamsell Agata?" asked Rosalie terror-struck.

"Mamsell Agata will be dismissed by me whenI have finished my luncheon."

I sent away my patients and went to knock ather room. Twice I raised my hand to knock, twiceI let it fall. I did not knock. I decided it waswiser to postpone the interview till after dinnerwhen my nerves had cooled down a little. MamsellAgata was invisible. Rosalie produced an excellentpot-au-feu for dinner and a milk pudding which Ishared with John—all Frenchwomen of her classare good cooks. After a couple of extra glasses ofwine to cool my nerves I went to knock at MamsellAgata's room still trembling with rage. I didnot knock. It suddenly dawned upon me that itwould cost me my night's sleep if I had a row withher now, and sleep was what I needed more thanever. Much better postpone the interview till to-morrowmorning.

While I was having my breakfast I came to theconclusion that the proper thing would be to giveher notice in writing. I sat down to write her athundering letter but hardly had I begun whenRosalie brought me a note in the small sharp handwritingof Mamsell Agata saying that no decentperson could remain a day longer in my house,that she was leaving for good this same afternoonand that she never wanted to see me again—thevery words I had hoped to say to her in my letter.

The invisible presence of Mamsell Agata stillhaunting the house I went down to Le Printempsto get a cot for John and a rocking-horse as areward for what I owed him. The cook came backthe next day happy and content. Rosalie wasbeaming with joy, even John seemed pleased withhis new surroundings when I went to have a lookat him in the evening in his snug little bed. I myselffelt happy as a schoolboy on his holidays.

But as to holidays there wasn't much of them.I was hard at work from morning till night withmy patients and not seldom also with the patientsof some of my colleagues who were beginning tocall me in consultation to share their responsibility—greatlyto my surprise for even then I seemednever to be afraid of responsibility. I discoveredlater in my life that this was one of the secrets ofmy success. Another secret of my success was ofcourse my constant luck, more striking than everbefore, so much so that I was beginning to thinkthat I had got a mascot in the house. I even beganto sleep better since I had taken to have a look atthe little boy asleep in his cot before I went tobed.

I had been chucked by the wife of the Englishparson, but plenty of her compatriots were takingher place on the sofa in my waiting-room. Suchwas the lustre that surrounded the name of ProfessorCharcot that some of its light reflected itselfeven upon the smallest satellites around him. Englishpeople seemed to believe that their own doctorsknew less about nervous diseases than their Frenchcolleagues. They may have been right or wrongin this, but it was good luck for me in any case.I was even called to London for a consultation justthen. No wonder I was pleased and determinedto do my best. I did not know the patient but Ihad been exceptionally lucky with another memberof her family which, no doubt, was the cause ofmy being summoned to her. It was a bad case,a desperate case according to my two English colleagues,who stood by the bedside watching me withgloomy faces while I examined their patient. Theirpessimism had infected the whole house, the patient'swill to recover was paralysed by despondencyand fear of death. It is very probable that my twocolleagues knew their pathology far better than I.But I knew something they evidently did not know:that there is no drug as powerful as hope, that theslightest sign of pessimism in the face or words ofa doctor can cost his patient his life. Withoutentering into medical details it is enough to saythat as a result of my examination I was convincedthat her gravest symptoms derived from nervousdisorders and mental apathy. My two colleagueswatched me with a shrug of their broad shoulderswhile I laid my hand on her forehead and said ina calm voice that she needed no morphia for thenight. She would sleep well anyhow, she wouldfeel much better in the morning, she would be outof danger before I left London the following day.A few minutes later she was fast asleep, duringthe night the temperature dropped almost too rapidlyto my taste, the pulse steadied itself, in themorning she smiled at me and said she felt muchbetter.

Her mother implored me to remain a day longerin London, to see her sister-in-law, they were allvery worried about her. The colonel, her husband,wanted her to consult a nerve specialist, she herselfhad tried in vain to make her see Doctor Phillips,she felt sure she would be all right if she only hada child. Unfortunately she had an inexplicabledislike of doctors, and would certainly refuse toconsult me, but it might be arranged that I shouldsit next her at dinner so as at least to form anopinion of her case. Maybe Charcot could do somethingfor her? Her husband adored her, she hadeverything life could give, a beautiful house inGrosvenor Square, one of the finest old countryseats in Kent. They had just returned from a longcruise to India in their yacht. She never had anyrest, was always wandering about from place toplace as if in search of something. There was ahaunting expression of profound sadness in hereyes. Formerly she had been interested in art, shepainted beautifully, she had even spent a winterin Julien's atelier in Paris. Now she took interestin nothing, cared for nothing, yes, she was interestedin children's welfare, she was a large subscriberto their summer holidays' fund and theirorphanages.

I consented reluctantly to remain, I was anxiousto return to Paris, I was worrying about John'scough. My hostess had forgotten to tell me thather sister-in-law, who sat by my side during dinner,was one of the most beautiful women I had everseen. I was also much struck with the sad expressionin her magnificent, dark eyes. There was somethinglifeless in her whole face. She seemed boredwith my company and took little trouble to concealit. I told her there were some good pictures in theSalon that year, that I had heard from her sister-in-lawthat she had been an artist student in Julien'satelier. Had she met Marie Baschkirzeff there?No, she had not, but had heard about her.

Yes, everybody had. "Moussia" was spendingmost of her time in advertising herself. I knew hervery well, she was one of the cleverest young personsI had ever met but she had little heart, she wasabove all a poseuse, incapable of loving anybody butherself. My companion looked more bored thanever. Hoping for better luck I told her I had spentthe afternoon in the children's hospital in Chelsea,it had been a revelation to me who was a frequentvisitor to the Hôpital des Enfants Trouvés in Paris.

She said she thought our children's hospitals werevery good.

I told her it was not so, that the mortalityamongst French children inside and outside thehospitals was frightful. I told her about the thousandsof abandoned babies dumped on the provincesin the train des nourrices.

She looked at me for the first time with her sadeyes, the hard lifeless expression in her face wasgone, I said to myself she was perhaps a kind-heartedwoman after all. In saying good-bye tomy hostess I told her that it was not a case for menor for Charcot himself, Doctor Phillips was theman, her sister-in-law would be all right when shehad a baby.

John seemed pleased to see me but he lookedpale and thin as he sat by my side at the luncheontable. Rosalie said he coughed a lot in the night.There was a slight rise in the temperature in theevening and he was kept in bed for a couple ofdays. Soon he resumed the daily routine of hislittle life, assisted in his usual grave silence at myluncheon and was taken in the afternoon to ParcMonceau by Rosalie. One day, a couple of weeksafter my return from London I was surprised tofind the colonel sitting in my waiting-room. Hiswife had changed her mind, and wanted to cometo Paris for some shopping, they were to join theyacht next week at Marseilles for a cruise in theMediterranean. I was invited to lunch at theHôtel du Rhin the next day, his wife would bevery pleased if I would take her to visit one of thechildren's hospitals after luncheon. As I couldnot lunch, it was arranged that she should fetchme at Avenue de Villiers after my consultation.My waiting-room was still full of people when herelegant landau drove up before the door. I sentdown Rosalie to ask her to go for a drive andcome back in half-an-hour, unless she preferredto wait in the dining-room till I had finished withmy patients. Half-an-hour later I found her sittingin the dining-room with John on her lapgreatly interested in his demonstration of his varioustoys.

"He has got your eyes," said she, looking fromJohn to me, "I did not know you were married."

I said I was not married. She blushed a littleand resumed her perusal of John's new picturebook. She soon picked up her courage and withthe usual tenacious curiosity of a woman she askedif his mother was Swedish, his hair was so blonde,his eyes were so blue.

I knew quite well what she was driving at. Iknew that Rosalie, the concierge, the milkman, thebaker were sure I was John's father, I had heardmy own coachman speak about him as "le fils deMonsieur." I knew it was quite useless to explain,I would not have convinced them, I had besidesended by almost believing it myself. But I thoughtthis kind lady had a right to know the truth. Itold her laughingly I was no more his father thanshe was his mother, that he was an orphan with avery sad history. She had better not ask me, itwould only give her pain. I drew back his sleeveand pointed to an ugly scar on his arm. He was allright now with Rosalie and me, but I should notbe sure that he had forgotten the past until I hadseen him smile. He never smiled.

"It is true," she said gently. "He has notsmiled a single time as other children do when theyshow their toys."

I said we knew very little of the mentality ofsmall children, we were strangers in the world theylived in. Only the instinct of a mother could nowand then find its way among their thoughts.

For all answer she bent her head over him andkissed him tenderly. John looked at her with greatsurprise in his blue eyes.

"It is probably the first kiss he has ever had,"said I.

Rosalie appeared to take him for his usual afternoonwalk in Parc Monceau, his new friend suggestedtaking him for a drive in her landau instead.I was delighted to get out of the projected visit tothe hospital, I accepted with pleasure.

From that day a new life began for John and Ithink also for somebody else. Every morning shecame to his room with a new toy, every afternoonshe drove him in her landau to the Bois de Boulognewith Rosalie in her best Sunday clothes on the backseat. Often he rode gravely on the top of a camelin Jardin d'Acclimatation surrounded by dozens oflaughing children.

"Do not bring him so many rich toys," said I,"children like cheap toys just as well and there areso many who get none. I have often noticed thatthe humble doll à treize sous is always a great successeven in the richest nurseries. When childrenlearn to understand the money value of their toysthey are driven out of their paradise, they cease tobe children. John has besides already too manytoys, it is time to teach him to give away some ofthem to those who have none. It is a somewhatdifficult lesson to learn for many children. Therelative facility with which they learn this lesson isa safe index to foretell what sort of men and womenthey will become."

Rosalie told me that when they returned fromtheir drive the beautiful lady always insisted oncarrying John upstairs herself. Soon she remainedto assist at his bath, and ere long it was she whogave him his bath, Rosalie's rôle being limited tohanding her the bath towels. Rosalie told me somethingthat touched me very much. She told methat when the lady had dried his thin little bodyshe always kissed the ugly scar on his arm beforeputting on his shirt. Soon it was she who put himto bed and remained with him till he had fallenasleep. I myself saw little of her, I was out thewhole day, and I feared that the poor colonel didnot see much of her either, she was spending herwhole day with the boy. The colonel told me thatthe Mediterranean cruise had been abandoned.They were to remain in Paris he did not know forhow long, nor did he care as long as his wife washappy, she had never been in a better mood thannow. The colonel was right, the whole expressionof her face had changed, an infinite tenderness shonein her dark eyes.

The boy slept badly, often when I went to havea look at him before going to bed I thought hisface looked flushed, Rosalie said he coughed a gooddeal in the night. One morning I heard the ominouscrepitation in the top of his right lung. Iblew only too well what it meant. I had to tellhis new friend, she said she already knew, she hadprobably known it before I did. I wanted to geta nurse to help Rosalie, but she would not hear ofit. She implored me to take her as his nurse andI gave way. There was indeed nothing else to do,the boy seemed to fret even in his sleep as soonas she left the room. Rosalie went to sleep withthe cook in the attics, the daughter of the dukeslept on the bed of the charwoman in John's room.A couple of days later he had a slight hæmorrhage,the temperature rose in the evening, it became evidentthat the course of the disease was going to berapid.

"He won't live long," said Rosalie putting herhandkerchief to her eyes, "he has already got theface of an angel."

He liked to sit up for a while on the lap of histender nurse while Rosalie was making up his bedfor the night. I had always thought John an intelligentand sweet-looking child but I would neverhave called him a beautiful child. As I looked athim now the very features of his face seemedchanged, his eyes seemed much larger and of adarker hue. He had become a beautiful child, beautifulas the Genius of Love or the Genius of Death.I looked at the two faces, cheek leaning againstcheek. My eyes filled with wonder. Was it possiblethat the infinite love that radiated from theheart of this woman towards this dying child couldrecast the soft outlines of his little face into a vaguelikeness to her own? Did I witness another undreamt-ofmystery of life? Or was it Death, thegreat sculptor, already at work with masterly hand,to remould and refine the features of this childbefore closing his eyelids? The same pure forehead,the same exquisite curve of the eyebrows, the samelong eyelashes. Even the graceful moulding of thelips would be the same could I ever see him smileas I saw her smile the night when in his sleep hemurmured for the first time the word all childrenlove to say and all women love to hear, "Mama!Mama!"

She put him back to bed, he had a restless night,she never left his side. Towards morning hisbreathing seemed a little easier, he dozed off tosleep. I reminded her of her promise to obey meand forced her with difficulty to lie down on herbed for an hour, Rosalie would call her as soon ashe woke up. When I returned to his room as dawnwas breaking Rosalie, her finger on her lips, whisperedthat they were both asleep.

"Look at him!" she whispered, "look at him!He is dreaming!"

His face was still and serene, his lips were partedin a beautiful smile. I put my hand over his heart.He was dead. I looked from the smiling face ofthe boy to the face of the woman asleep on Rosalie'sbed. The two faces were the same.

She washed him and dressed him for the lasttime. Not even Rosalie was allowed to help her tolay him in his coffin. She sent her out twice insearch of the right kind of pillow, she did not thinkhis head looked comfortable.

She implored me to postpone screwing on thelid till the next day. I told her she knew the bitternessof Life, she knew little of the bitterness ofDeath, I was a doctor, I knew of both. I told herdeath had two faces, one beautiful and serene, anotherforbidding and terrible. The boy had partedfrom life with a smile on his lips, death would notleave it there for long. It was necessary to closethe coffin to-night. She bent her head and saidnothing. As I lifted the lid she sobbed and saidshe could not part with him and leave him all alonein the foreign cemetery.

"Why part with him," said I, "why not takehim with you, he weighs so little, why don't youtake him to England in your yacht and bury himnear your beautiful parish church in Kent?"

She smiled through her tears, the same smile asthe boy's smile. She sprang to her feet.

"Can I? May I?" she called out almost withjoy.

"It can be done, it shall be done if you let mescrew on the lid now, there is no time to lose or hewill be taken to the cemetery in Passy to-morrowmorning."

As I lifted up the lid she laid a little bunch ofviolets close to his cheek.

"I have nothing else to give him," she sobbed,"I wish I had something to give him to take withhim from me!"

"I think he would like to take this with him,"said I taking the diamond brooch from my pocketand pinning it to his pillow. "It belonged to hismother."

She did not utter a sound, she stretched out herarms towards her child and fell senseless on thefloor. I lifted her up and laid her on Rosalie's bed,screwed on the lid of the coffin and drove to theBureau des Pompes Funèbres in Place de la Madeleine.I had a private interview with the undertaker,alas, we had met before. I authorized himto spend any sum he liked if the coffin could be puton board an English yacht in the harbour of Calaisthe next night. He said it could be done if I promisednot to look at the bill. I said nobody wouldlook at the bill. I then drove to the Hôtel duRhin, woke up the colonel and told him his wifewished the yacht to be in Calais in twelve hours.While he wrote out the telegram to the captain Isat down to write a hurried note to his wife thatthe coffin would be on board their yacht in Calaisharbour the next night. I added in a postscriptthat I had to leave Paris early in the morning, andthis was to bid her good-bye.

I have seen John's grave, he lies buried in thelittle churchyard of one of the most beautiful parishchurches in Kent. Primroses and violets weregrowing on his grave, and blackbirds were singingover his head. I have never seen his mother again.Better so.

XVI
A JOURNEY TO SWEDEN

I think I have already told you somethingabout the illness of the Swedish Consul, ithappened just about that time, here is the story.The Consul was a nice, quiet little man with anAmerican wife and two small children. I hadbeen there in the afternoon. One of the childrenhad a feverish cold but insisted on getting up forthe festival home-coming of their father that sameevening. The house was full of flowers andthe children had been allowed to sit up for dinnerin honour of the occasion. Their mother wasvery pleased to show me two most affectionatetelegrams from her husband, one from Berlin,one from Cologne, announcing his return. Theyseemed to me somewhat long. At midnight Ireceived an urgent message from his wife to comeat once. The door was opened by the Consulhimself in his night-shirt. He said that thedinner had been postponed to await the arrivalof the King of Sweden and the President of theFrench Republic, who had just made him aGrand Cross of the Legion of Honour. He hadjust bought Le Petit Trianon as summer residencefor his family. He was in a rage with hiswife for not wearing the Marie Antoinette pearlnecklace he had given her, called his little boyLe Dauphin and announced himself as Robespierre—foliede grandeur! The children werescreaming with terror in the nursery, his wifewas prostrated with grief, his faithful dog layunder the table growling with fear. My poorfriend suddenly got violent, I had to lock himup in the bedroom where he smashed everythingand nearly succeeded in throwing us both throughthe window. In the morning he was taken toDoctor Blanche's asylum in Passy. The famousalienist suspected from the first general paralysis.Two months later the diagnosis was clear, thecase was incurable. La Maison Blanche beingvery expensive, I decided to have him removedto the government asylum in Lund, a smalltown in the South of Sweden. Doctor Blanchewas against it. He said it would be a riskyand expensive undertaking, that his temporarylucidity was not to be trusted, that he must inany case be accompanied by two capable warders.I said the little money left must be saved for thechildren, the journey must be undertaken in thecheapest possible way, I was going to take himto Sweden alone. When I signed the papers forhis release from the asylum, Doctor Blancherenewed his warnings in writing but of course Iknew better. I drove him straight to Avenuede Villiers. He was quite calm and reasonableduring dinner except that he tried to make loveto Mamsell Agata, surely the only chance shehad ever had. Two hours later we were lockedup in a first class compartment in the nightexpress for Cologne, there were no corridor trainsin those days. I happened to be the doctor ofone of the Rothschilds, the owners of the Cheminde Fer du Nord. Orders had been given tofacilitate our journey in every way, the conductorswere told to leave us undisturbed, mypatient being apt to become agitated at the sightof a stranger. He was very quiet and docile andwe both lay down on our couches to sleep. Iwas awakened by the grip of a madman roundmy throat, twice I knocked him down, twice hesprang at me again with the agility of a panther,he nearly succeeded in strangling me. The lastthing I remember was dealing him a blow on hishead which seemed to stun him. On enteringCologne in the morning we were found both lyingunconscious on the floor of the compartment andtaken to the Hôtel du Nord, where we remainedfor twenty-four hours, each in his bed, in thesame room. As I had to tell the doctor whocame to stitch my wound—he had nearly bittenoff my ear—the proprietor sent word that nolunatics were allowed in the hotel. I decided togo on to Hamburg with the morning train. Hewas very amiable the whole way to Hamburg,sang "La Marseillaise" as we drove through thetown to the Kiel station. We embarked all righton the steamer to Korsuer—at that time thequickest route between the continent and Sweden.A couple of miles off the Danish coast our steamerwas blocked by pack ice driven down from theCattegatt by a raging northern gale, a not veryuncommon occurrence during a severe winter.We had to walk for over a mile on floating ice-flakes,my friend enjoyed it hugely, and weretaken in open boats into Korsuer. As we wereentering the harbour my friend jumped into thesea, I after him. We were picked up, and sat inan unheated train to Copenhagen, our clothesfrozen to ice, the temperature 20 Centigradesbelow zero. The rest of the journey went remarkablywell, the cold bath seemed to havedone my friend a lot of good. One hour afterthe crossing to Malmö I handed over my friendin the railway station at Lund to two wardersfrom the asylum. I drove to the hotel—therewas only one hotel in Lund in those days—andordered a room and breakfast. I was told Icould have breakfast but no room, all the roomsbeing reserved for the theatrical company whichwas giving a gala performance in the MunicipalHall that same evening. While I was havingmy breakfast the waiter brought me with greatpride the programme for the night's performanceof 'Hamlet,' a tragedy in five acts by WilliamShakespeare. Hamlet in Lund! I glanced atthe programme:

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.........Mr. Erik Carolus Malmborg.

I stared at the programme, Erik CarolusMalmborg! Could it be possible that it was myold pal from the university days in Upsala!Erik Carolus Malmborg was to become a priestin those days. I had crammed him for his exams,had written his first proof sermon as well as hislove-letters to his fiancée during a whole term.I had flogged him regularly every evening whenhe came home drunk to sleep in my spare room,he had been kicked out for disorderly conductfrom his own lodgings. I had lost sight of himwhen I had left Sweden many years ago. I knewhe had been sent down from the University and hadgone from bad to worse. Suddenly I also rememberedhaving heard that he had taken to the stage,of course it must be my ill starred old friend whowas the Hamlet of to-night! I sent my card to hisroom, he came like a shot overjoyed to see me aftera lapse of so many years. My friend told me a distressingstory. After a disastrous series of performancesto empty houses in Malmö the company,decimated to one third of its members, had reachedLund the evening before for a last desperate battleagainst fate. Most of their costumes and portablebelongings, the jewels of the queen mother, thecrown of the king, Hamlet's own sword which hewas to run through Polonius, even Yorick's skullhad been seized by the creditors in Malmö. Theking had got a sharp attack of sciatica and couldneither walk nor sit on his throne, Ophelia had afearful cold, the Ghost had got drunk at the farewellsupper in Malmö and missed the train. Hehimself was in magnificent form, Hamlet was hisfinest creation—it might have been expressly writtenfor him. But how could he alone carry theimmense burden of the five-act tragedy on his shoulders!All the tickets for the performance to-nightwere sold out, if they should have to return themoney, complete collapse was inevitable. PerhapsI could lend him two hundred kronor for old friendship'ssake?

I rose to the occasion. I summoned a meetingof the leading stars of the company, instilled newblood into their dejected hearts with several bottlesof Swedish punch, curtailed ruthlessly the wholescene with the actors, the scene with the grave-diggers,the killing of Polonius, and announcedthat, ghost or no ghost, the performance was totake place.

It was a memorable evening in the theatricalannals of Lund. Punctually at eight the curtainrose over the royal palace of Elsinore, as the crowflies not an hour's distance from where we were.The crowded house chiefly composed of boisterousundergraduates from the University proved lessemotional than we had expected. The entrance ofthe Prince of Denmark passed off almost unnoticed,even his famous "To be or not to be"missed fire. The king limped painfully across thestage and sank down with a loud groan on histhrone. Ophelia's cold had assumed terrific proportions.It was evident that Polonius could not seestraight. It was the Ghost that saved the situation.The Ghost was I. As I advanced in ghost-likefashion on the moonlit ramparts of the castle ofElsinore, carefully groping my way over the hugepacking-cases which formed its very backbone, thewhole fabric suddenly collapsed and I was precipitatedup to the armpits in one of the packing-cases.What was a ghost expected to do in similar circumstances?Should I duck my head and disappearaltogether in the packing-case or should I remainas I was, awaiting further events? It was a nicequestion to settle! A third alternative was suggestedto me by Hamlet himself in a hoarse whisper:why the devil didn't I climb out of the infernalbox? This was, however, beyond my power, mylegs being entangled in coils of rope and all sorts ofparaphernalia of stage craft. Rightly or wronglyI decided to remain where I was, ready for allemergency. My unexpected disappearance in thepacking-case had been very sympathetically receivedby the audience, but it was nothing compared to thesuccess when, with only my head popping out fromthe packing-case, I began again in a lugubriousvoice my interrupted recital to Hamlet. The applausebecame so frenetic that I had to acknowledgethem with a friendly waving of my hand, I couldnot bow in the delicate position I was. This madethem completely wild with delight, the applausenever ceased till the end. When the curtain fellover the last act I appeared with the leading starsof the company to bow to the audience. They kepton shouting: "The Ghost! The Ghost!" so persistentlythat I had to come forth alone severaltimes to receive their congratulations, with my handon my heart.

We were all delighted. My friend Malmborgsaid he had never had a more successful evening.We had a most animated midnight supper. Opheliawas charming to me and Hamlet raised his glass tomy health offering me in the name of all his comradesthe leadership of the company. I said Iwould have to think it over. They all accompaniedme to the station. Forty-eight hours later I wasback to my work in Paris not in the least tired.Youth! Youth!

XVII
DOCTORS

A large number of foreign doctors werepractising in Paris in those days. There wasa great jalousie de métier amongst them, of whichI got my share and no wonder. Nor were we muchliked by our French colleagues for our monopolyof the wealthy foreign colony, no doubt a farmore lucrative clientèle than their own. Of latean agitation had even been started in the pressto protest against the steadily increasing numberof foreign doctors in Paris, often, it was hinted,not even provided with regular diplomas from wellrecognized universities. It resulted in an order bythe Préfet de Police that all foreign doctors wereto present their diplomas for verification beforethe end of the month. I with my diploma as M.D.of the faculty of Paris was of course all right, Inearly forgot all about it and turned up the verylast day at the Commissariat of my quartier. TheCommissaire who knew me slightly, asked me if Iknew a Doctor X. who lived in the same avenueas I did. I answered that all I knew about himwas that he must have a very large practice, Ihad often heard his name mentioned, and I hadoften admired his elegant carriage waiting outsidehis house.

The Commissaire said I would not have toadmire it for long, he was on their black list, hehad not presented himself with his diploma becausehe had none to present, he was a quack, he wasgoing to be pincé at last. He was said to be makingtwo hundred thousand francs a year, more thanmany of the leading celebrities in Paris. I saidthere was no reason why a quack might not be agood doctor, a diploma meant little to his patientsas long as he was able to help them. I heard theend of the story a couple of months later from theCommissaire himself. Doctor X. had presentedhimself at the very last moment with a request fora private interview with the Commissaire. Presentinghis diploma as M.D. of a well-known Germanuniversity, he implored the Commissaire tokeep his secret, he said he owed his enormous practiceto the circumstance that he was considered byeverybody to be a quack. I told the Commissairethis man would soon become a millionaire if heknew his medicine half as well as he knew his psychology.

As I was walking home I did not envy mycolleague his two hundred thousand francs of incomebut I envied him for knowing what sum hisincome amounted to. I had always been longingto know what my earnings were. That I wasmaking lots of money seemed certain, I hadalways plenty of cash whenever I wanted moneyfor something. I had a fine apartment, a smartcarriage, an excellent cook; now, since MamsellAgata had left, I often had my friends at dinnerat Avenue de Villiers with the best of everything.Twice I had rushed down to Capri, once to buyMastro Vincenzo's house, another time to offera high sum of money to the unknown owner ofthe ruined little chapel at San Michele—it tookme ten years to settle that business. Alreadythen a keen lover of art, my rooms in Avenue deVilliers were full of treasures of bygone times,and over a dozen fine old clocks chimed everyhour of my often sleepless nights. For some inexplicablereason these periods of wealth werenot seldom interrupted by moments when I hadno money at all. Rosalie knew it, the concièrgeknew it, even the fournisseurs knew it. Norstromalso knew it for I often had to borrow moneyfrom him. He said it could only be explainedby some defect in my mental machinery, theremedy was to keep proper accounts and to sendregular bills to my patients like everybody else.I said it was hopeless to try to keep accounts andas to writing bills I had never done it and was notgoing to do it. Our profession was not a tradebut an art, this trafficking in suffering was ahumiliation to me. I blushed scarlet when apatient put his twenty franc piece on my tableand when he put it in my hand I felt as if I wantedto hit him. Norstrom said it was nothing butsheer vanity and conceit on my part, that Ishould grab all the money I could lay my handson, as all my colleagues did, even if handed meby the undertaker. I said our profession was aholy office on the same level as that of the priestif not higher, where surplus money-making shouldbe forbidden by law. The doctors should be paidby the State and well paid like the judges inEngland. Those who did not like this arrangementshould leave the profession and go on theStock Exchange or open a shop. The doctorsshould walk about like sages, honoured and protectedby all men. They should be welcome totake what they liked from their rich patientsfor their poor patients and for themselves, butthey should not count their visits or write anybills. What was to the heart of the mother thevalue in cash of the life of her child you hadsaved? What was the proper fee for taking thefear of death out of a pair of terror-stricken eyesby a comforting word or a mere stroke of yourhand? How many francs were you to chargefor every second of the death-struggle yourmorphia syringe had snatched from the executioner?How long were we to dump onsuffering mankind all these expensive patentmedicines and drugs with modern labels butwith roots sprung from medieval superstition?We well knew that our number of efficaciousdrugs could be counted on the ends of our fingersand were handed to us by benevolent MotherNature at a cheap price. Why should I, whowas a fashionable doctor, drive about in a smartcarriage, while my colleague in the slums had towalk on foot? Why did the State spend manyhundred times more money on teaching the artof killing than the art of healing? Why didn'twe build more hospitals and fewer churches, youcould pray to God everywhere but you could notoperate in a gutter! Why did we build so manycomfortable homes for professional murderers andhousebreakers and so few for the homeless poor inthe slums? Why shouldn't they be told thatthey should feed themselves? There is no manor woman who cannot even while shut up inprison earn his or her daily bread if given thechoice between eating or not eating. We wereconstantly told that the majority of the prisonpopulation was made up from weak-minded, unintelligent,more or less irresponsible individuals.This was a mistake. Their standard of intelligencewas as a rule not below but above theaverage. All first offenders should be condemnedto a much shorter term of imprisonmenton a very low diet combined with repeated andsevere corporal punishments. They should makeroom for the fathers of abandoned and illegitimatechildren, and for the souteneurs now at large inour midst. Cruelty to helpless animals was tothe eyes of God a far greater sin than housebreaking,it was only punished by a small fine.We all knew that excessive accumulation ofwealth was, as often as not, a cleverly concealedtheft from the poor. I had never come across amillionaire in prison. The trick of making moneyout of almost anything was a special gift of verydoubtful moral value. The possessors of thisfaculty should only be tolerated to carry on, onthe understanding that, as with the bees, a largeslice of their golden combs should be distributedamong those who have no honey to put on theirdaily bread.

As to the rest of the prison population, the inveteratecriminals, the cold-blooded murderersetc. instead of spending a lifetime in relativecomfort at a rate of expense exceeding the priceof a permanent bed in a hospital, they should begiven a painless death, not as punishment, for wehad no right either to judge or to punish, but forthe sake of protection. England was right as usual.Even so these evil-doers had indeed no right tocomplain of being treated harshly by society. Theywere rewarded for their crimes with the greatestprivilege that can be granted to living man, aprivilege as a rule denied to their fellow creaturesas a reward for their virtues—that of a rapiddeath.

Norstrom advised me to abandon reformingsociety—he thought it was not in my line, andto stick to medicine. So far I had no right tocomplain of the result. He had however gravedoubts as to the smooth working of my schemeto walk about as a sage among my patientsexchanging my services for portable goods. Hestuck to his belief that the old system of writingbills was safer. I said I was not so sure of that.Although it was true that some of my patientsafter a couple of unanswered letters asking fortheir bills went away without paying me anything—itnever happened with the English—others asoften as not sent me sums exceeding what I wouldhave asked of them if I had sent a bill. Althoughthe majority of my patients seemed to prefer topart with their money than with their goods, Ihad applied my system with success on severaloccasions. One of my most treasured possessionsis an old Loden cape I once took from Miss C.the day she was leaving for America. As shewas driving about with me in my carriage to gaintime to say all she had to say about her eternalgratitude and her inability to repay all my kindness,I noticed an old Loden cape over her back.It was the very thing I wanted. So I wrappedit over my knees and said I was going to keep it.She said she had bought it ten years ago in Salzburgand was very fond of it. I said so was I.She suggested we should drive immediately toOld England, she would be delighted to presentme with the most expensive Scotch cape to behad. I said I did not want any Scotch cape. Imust tell you that Miss C. was a somewhat irasciblelady who had given me lots of trouble foryears. She got so angry that she jumped fromthe carriage without even saying good-bye, shesailed for America the next day. I have never seenher again.

I also remember the case of Lady Maud B.who called on me in Avenue de Villiers beforeleaving for London. She said she had writtenin vain three times for her bill, I had placed herin a very embarrassing position, she did notknow what to do. She was overwhelming in herpraise of my skill and my kindness, money hadnothing to do with her gratitude, all her possessionscould not repay me for having saved her life.I thought it very nice to be told all this by such acharming young lady. As she spoke I was admiringher new dark red silk frock, and so was shewith an occasional side-glance in the Venetianmirror over the mantelpiece. Looking attentivelyat her tall, slender figure I said I wouldtake her frock, it was exactly what I wanted.She burst into a merry laugh soon changed intoblank consternation when I announced that Iwould send Rosalie to her hotel at seven o'clockto fetch the frock. She rose to her feet palewith rage and said that she had never heard ofsuch a thing. I said it was very likely. She hadtold me there was nothing she would not give me.I had chosen the frock for reasons of my own.She burst into tears and rushed out of the room.A week later I met the English Ambassador'swife at the Swedish Legation. This kind ladytold me that she had not forgotten the consumptiveEnglish governess I had recommended to her,she had even sent her an invitation to her garden-partyfor the English colony.

"No doubt she looks very ill," said the ambassadress,"but surely she cannot be as poor asyou say, I am sure she gets her clothes fromWorth."

I much resented Norstrom's saying that myinability to write bills and to pocket my fee withoutblushing derived from vanity and conceit. IfNorstrom was right I must admit that all mycolleagues seemed singularly free from this defect.They all sent their bills just as tailors do,and grabbed with greatest ease the louis d'or theirpatients put in their hands. In many consultingrooms it was even the etiquette that the patientshould put his money on the table before openinghis mouth to relate his woes. Before an operationit was the established rule that half of the sumshould be paid in advance. I knew of a case wherethe patient was roused from the chloroform andthe operation postponed in order to verify thevalidity of a cheque. When one of us smallerlights called in a celebrity for consultation, thebig man put a slice of his fee in the hands ofthe small man as a matter of course. Nor didit stop there. I remember my stupefaction thefirst time I called in a specialist for an embalmmentwhen this man offered me five hundred francsfrom his fee. The charge for an embalmment wasscandalously high.

Many of the professors I used to consult indifficult cases were men of world-wide reputation,at the very top of the tree in their speciality,extraordinarily exact and amazingly quick in theirdiagnosis. Charcot for instance was almost uncannyin the way he went straight to the root ofthe evil, often apparently only after a rapid glanceat the patient from his cold eagle eyes. Duringthe last years of his life maybe he relied too muchupon his eye, the examination of his patients wasoften far too rapid and superficial. He never admitteda mistake and woe to the man who everdared to hint at his being in the wrong. On theother hand he was surprisingly reserved beforepronouncing a fatal prognosis, even in clearlyhopeless cases. L'imprévu est toujours possible,he used to say. Charcot was the most celebrateddoctor of his time. Patients from all over theworld flocked to his consulting room in FaubourgSt. Germain often waiting for weeks before beingadmitted to the inner sanctuary where he sat bythe window in his huge library. Short of stature,with the chest of an athlete and the neck of a bull,he was a most imposing man to look at. A whiteclean shaven face, a low forehead, cold penetratingeyes, an aquiline nose, sensitive cruel lips, themask of a Roman Emperor. When he wasangry, the flash in his eyes was terrible like lightning,nobody who has ever faced those eyes islikely to forget them. His voice was imperative,hard, often sarcastic. The grip of his small, flabbyhand was unpleasant. He had few friends amongsthis colleagues, he was feared by his patients andhis assistants for whom he seldom had a kind wordof encouragement in exchange for the superhumanamount of work he imposed upon them. He wasindifferent to the sufferings of his patients, he tooklittle interest in them from the day of establishingthe diagnosis until the day of the post-mortemexamination. Among his assistants he had hisfavourites whom he often pushed forward to privilegedpositions far above their merits. A wordof recommendation from Charcot was enough todecide the result of any examination or concours,in fact he ruled supreme over the whole faculty ofmedicine.

Sharing the fate of all nerve specialists he wassurrounded by a bodyguard of neurotic ladies,hero-worshippers at all costs. Luckily for him hewas absolutely indifferent to women. His onlyrelaxation from his incessant toil was music. Nobodywas allowed to speak a word about medicineon his Thursday evenings all devoted to music.Beethoven was his favourite. He was very fondof animals, every morning as he descended heavilyfrom his landau in the inner court of Salpêtrièrehe produced from his pocket a piece of bread forhis two old Rosinantes. He always cut short anyconversation about sport and killing animals. Hisdislike of the English derived, I think, from hishatred of fox hunting.

Professor Potain shared with Charcot the positionof the greatest medical celebrity in Parisin those days. There never were two people moreunlike one another than these two great doctors.The famous clinicien of Hôpital Necker was avery plain, insignificant-looking man, who wouldhave passed unnoticed in a crowd where the headof Charcot would have been singled out amongthousands. Compared to his illustrious confrère,he looked almost shabby in his ill fitting oldfrockcoat. His features were dull, his words fewand spoken as if with great difficulty. He wasbeloved like a god by all his patients, rich andpoor seemed exactly the same to him. He knewthe name of every single patient in his enormoushospital, patted them young and old on their cheek,listened with infinite patience to their tales of woe,often paid from his own pocket for extra daintiesfor their tired palates. He examined his pooresthospital patients with the same extreme attentionas his royalties and millionaires, he had plenty ofboth. No sign of disorder of lungs or heart howeverobscure seemed to escape his phenomenallyacute ear. I do not believe there ever was a manwho knew more of what goes on in the breast ofanother man than he did. What little I know ofdiseases of the heart I owe to him. ProfessorPotain and Gueneau de Mussy were almost theonly two consulting doctors I dared to turn towhen in need of advice for a penniless patient.Professor Tillaux the famous surgeon was thethird. His clinic in Hôtel Dieu was run on thesame lines as Potain's in Hôpital Necker, he waslike a father to all his patients, the poorer theylooked the more interest he seemed to take intheir welfare. As a teacher he was the best Ihave ever seen, his book on 'Anatomie Topographique'is moreover the best book ever writtenon the subject. He was a wonderful operator andalways did all the dressing himself. There wassomething almost northern about this man withhis straight simple manners and his blue eyes, hewas in fact a Breton. He was extraordinarilykind and patient with me and my many shortcomings,that I did not become a good surgeon iscertainly not his fault. As it is, I owe him a lot,I am convinced I even owe him that I can stillwalk about on my two legs. I think I had bettertell you this story here in parenthesis.

******

I had been working very hard during the long,hot summer without a single day of rest, harassedby insomnia and its usual companion, despondency.I was irritable with my patients, ill tempered witheverybody, and when autumn came even myphlegmatic friend Norstrom began to lose his patiencewith me. At last he informed me one daywe were dining together that unless I went awayat once for a three weeks rest cure in a cool place,I should go to pieces altogether. Capri was toohot, Switzerland was the right place for me. Ihad always bowed to my friend's superior commonsense.I knew he was right although his premiseswere wrong. It was not overwork but somethingelse that had reduced me into such lamentable conditions;but don't let us talk about that here.Three days later I arrived in Zermatt and set towork at once to find out whether life above thesnow-line was more cheerful than below it. Theice-axe became a new toy to me to play with inthe old game of lose and win between life anddeath. I began where most other climbers end,with the Matterhorn. Roped to the ice-axe on aslanting rock twice the size of my dining-roomtable, I spent the night under the shoulder of theangry mountain in a raging snow-storm. I wasinterested to learn from my two guides that wewere hanging on to the very rock from whereHadow, Hudson, Lord Francis Douglas andMichel Croz were hurled down on to the Matterhornglacier four thousand feet below duringWhymper's first ascent. At daybreak we cameupon Burckhardt. I scratched the fresh snowfrom his face, peaceful and still as that of a manasleep. He had frozen to death. At the foot ofthe mountain we overtook his two guides draggingbetween them his half-dazed companion,Davies, whose life they had saved at the peril oftheir own.

Two days later the Schreckhorn, the sullen giant,hurled his usual avalanche of loose rocks againstthe intruders. He missed us, but it was a fineshot anyhow at such a distance, a piece of rockthat would have smashed a cathedral thunderedpast us at a distance of less than twenty yards.A couple of days later, as dawn was breakingin the valley below, our bewitched eyes watchedthe Jungfrau putting on her immaculate robe ofsnow. We could just see the virgin's rosy cheekunder her white veil. I started at once to conquerthe enchantress. It looked at first as if she mightsay yes, but when I tried to pluck a few Edelweissfrom the hem of her mantle she suddenlygot shy and went to hide herself behind a cloud.Try as I might, I never succeeded in approachingthe beloved. The more I advanced the furthershe seemed to draw away from me. Soon a shroudof vapour and mist all aglow with sunrays hidher entirely from our view like the screen of fireand smoke that descends round her virgin sisterBrünnhilde in the last act of the Walkyrie. Anold witch whose business it was to watch over thefair maiden like a jealous old nurse, allured usfurther and further away from our goal amongdesolated crags and yawning precipices ready toengulf us at any moment. Soon the guides declaredthey had lost their way and that nothingremained but to return from where we came andthe sooner the better. Defeated and lovesick, Iwas dragged down to the valley again by the stoutrope of my two guides. No wonder I was downhearted,it was the second time in that year I hadbeen thrown over by a young lady. But youthis a great healer of heart wounds. With a littlesleep and a cool head one soon gets over them.Sleep I got but little, but luckily I did not losemy head. The following Sunday—I remembereven the date for it was my birthday—I smoked mypipe on the top of Mont Blanc, where according tomy two guides most people hang out their tonguesgasping for breath. What happened that day Ihave related elsewhere, but since the little book isout of print I must tell it you here to make youunderstand what I owe to Professor Tillaux.

The ascent of Mont Blanc, winter and summer,is comparatively speaking, easy. Nobody but afool attempts the ascent in the autumn before thesun of the day and the frost of the night has hadtime to fix the fresh snow to the vast slopes ofthe mountain. The king of the Alps relies forhis defence against intruders on his avalanches offresh snow just as the Schreckhorn relies on hisprojectiles of loose rocks.

It was luncheon time when I lit my pipe onthe top. All the foreigners in the hotels ofChamonix were looking in turn through theirtelescopes at the three flies crawling about on thewhite calotte that covered the head of the oldmountain king. While they were having theirluncheon, we were groping our way through thesnow in the couloir under Mont Maudit, soon toappear again in their telescopes on the GrandPlateau. Nobody spoke, we all knew that the verysound of the voice might start an avalanche. SuddenlyBoisson looked back, and pointed with hisice-axe to a black line drawn as by the hand ofa giant across the white slope.

"Wir sind alle verloren," he murmured as theimmense snowfield split in two and started theavalanche with a roar of thunder, hurling us downthe slope with vertiginous speed. I felt nothing,I knew nothing. Suddenly the same reflex impulsewhich in Spallanzani's famous experiment madehis decapitated frog move its paw to the spot hewas pricking with a pin—this same reflex impulsecompelled the big unconscious animal to raise hishand to react against the sharp pain on his skull.The blunt peripheric sensation roused in my brainthe instinct of self preservation—the last to die.With a desperate effort I set to work to free myselffrom the layer of snow under which I layburied. I saw the glistening walls of blue icearound me, I saw the light of the day above myhead through the aperture of the crevasse intowhich I had been hurled by the avalanche. Strangeto remember I felt no fear, nor was I consciousof any thought either of the past, the present orthe future. Gradually I became aware of an indistinctsensation slowly groping its way throughmy benumbed brain till at last it reached myunderstanding. I recognized it at once, it wasmy old hobby, my incurable curiosity to know allthere was to know about Death. My chance hadcome at last, could I only keep my head clearand look him straight into the face withoutflinching. I knew he was there, I fancied I couldalmost see him advancing towards me in his icyshroud. What would he say to me, would he beharsh and unforgiving, or would he have pity onme and just leave me where I was lying in thesnow and let me freeze to everlasting sleep? Incomprehensibleas it may seem I do believe thatit was this last survival of my normal mentality,my curiosity about death, that saved my life. Allat once I felt the grip of my fingers round theice-axe, I felt the rope round my waist. Therope! Where were my two companions? I pulledthe rope towards me as fast as I could, there wasa sudden jerk, the black bearded head of Boissonpopped out of the snow. He drew a deep gasp,pulled instantly the rope round his waist anddragged his half dazed companion out of hisgrave.

"How long does it take to freeze to death?"I asked.

Boisson's quick eyes wandered round the wallsof our prison and stopped riveted to a thin bridgeof ice spanning the slanting walls of the crevasselike the flying buttress of a Gothic cathedral.

"If I had an ice axe and if I could reach thatbridge," he said, "I believe I could cut my wayout."

I handed him the ice axe my fingers were claspingwith an almost cataleptic grip.

"Steady, for God's sake steady," he repeatedas, standing on my shoulders like an acrobat heswung himself on to the ice bridge above ourheads. Hanging on to the slanting walls withhis hands he cut his way step by step out of thecrevasse and dragged me up with the rope. Withgreat difficulty we hoisted up the other guide stillhalf stunned. The avalanche had swept awaythe usual traces of the landmarks, we had onlyone ice axe between us to warn us against fallinginto some crevasse hidden under the fresh snow.That we reached the hut after midnight was accordingto Boisson even a greater miracle thanthat we got out of the crevasse. The hut wasalmost buried under the snow, we had to breaka hole through the roof to enter it. We fell headlongon the floor. I drank to the last drop therancid oil of the little oil lamp while Boissonrubbed my frozen feet with snow, after havingcut open my heavy mountain shoes with his knife.The rescue party from Chamonix having spentthe whole morning in a fruitless search for ourbodies on the track of the avalanche, found usall fast asleep on the floor of the hut. The next dayI was taken in a hay cart to Geneva and put inthe night express to Paris.

Professor Tillaux stood washing his hands betweentwo operations as I staggered into theamphitheatre of Hôtel Dieu the next morning. Asthey unwrapped the cotton wool round my legshe stared at my feet, and so did I, they were blackas those of a negro.

"Sacré Suédois, where the devil do you comefrom?" thundered the Professor.

He gave me an anxious look from his kind blueeyes which made me feel quite ashamed of myself.I said I had been having a rest cure in Switzerland,I had had a misadventure on a mountain,such as might happen to any tourist, I was verysorry.

"Mais c'est lui," shouted an interne, "poursûr c'est lui!" Taking a 'Figaro' from thepocket of his blouse he began to read aloud a telegramfrom Chamonix about the miraculous escapeof a foreigner who with his two guides had beencarried away by an avalanche on descending MontBlanc.

"Nom de tonnerre, nom de nom de nom!Fiche moi la paix sacré Suédois, qu'est-ce que tuviens faire ici, va-t-en à l'Asile St. Anne chez lesfous!"

"Allow me to demonstrate to you the skull ofa Lapland bear," he went on while he was dressingthe ugly cut on the top of my skull. "Aknock-down blow that would have stunned anelephant but not a fracture, not even a commotioncérébrale! Why take the long journey toChamonix, why don't you climb up to the top ofthe tower of Notre Dame and throw yourself downin the square under our windows, there is no dangeras long as you fall on your head!"

I was always delighted when the Professorchaffed me as it was a sure sign I was in his goodgraces. I wanted to drive straight to Avenue deVilliers but Tillaux thought I would be more comfortablefor a couple of days in a separate roomin the hospital. I was surely his worst pupil,still he had taught me enough of surgery to makeme realize that he meant to amputate me. Forfive days he came to look at my legs, three timesa day, on the sixth day I was on my sofa in Avenuede Villiers all danger over. The punishmentwas severe in any case, I was laid up for six weeks,I got so nervous that I had to write a book—don'tbe afraid, it is out of print. I hobbled abouton two sticks for another month, then I was allright again.

I tremble at the thought of what would havehappened to me had I fallen into the hands ofone of the other leading surgeons in Paris in thosedays. Old Papa Richet in the other wing ofHôtel Dieu would surely have made me die ofgangrene or blood poisoning, it was his speciality,it was rampant all over his medieval clinic. Thefamous Professor Péan, the terrible butcher ofHôpital St. Louis, would have chopped off bothmy legs on the spot and thrown them on the topof some stumps of arms and legs, half-a-dozenovaries and uteruses and various tumours, all ina heap on the floor of his amphitheatre besmearedwith blood like a slaughterhouse. Then, his enormoushands still red with my blood, he would haveplunged his knife with the dexterity of a conjurerinto his next victim, half conscious under insufficientanæsthesia, while half-a-dozen others, screamingwith terror on their brancards, were awaitingtheir turn of torture. The massacre en masse atan end, Péan would wipe the sweat from his forehead,rub a few spots of blood and pus from hiswhite waistcoat and dresscoat—he always operatedin evening dress—and with a: Voilà pouraujourd'hui, Messieurs! he would rush out of theamphitheatre to his pompous landau and drive fullspeed to his private clinic in Rue de la Santé tocut open the abdomens of half-a-dozen womendriven there by a gigantic réclame like helplesssheep to the slaughterhouse of La Villette.

XVIII
LA SALPÊTRIÈRE

I seldom failed to attend Professor Charcot'sfamous Leçons du Mardi in the Salpêtrière,just then chiefly devoted to his grande hystérieand to hypnotism. The huge amphitheatre wasfilled to the last place with a multicoloured audiencedrawn from tout Paris, authors, journalists,leading actors and actresses, fashionable demi-mondaines,all full of morbid curiosity to witnessthe startling phenomena of hypnotism almostforgotten since the days of Mesmer and Braid.It was during one of these lectures that I becameacquainted with Guy de Maupassant then alreadyfamous for his Boule de suif and his unforgettableMaison Tellier. We used to have endless talkson hypnotism and all sorts of mental troubles,he never tired of trying to draw from me whatlittle I knew on these subjects. He also wantedto know everything about insanity, he was collectingjust then materials for his terrible book'Le Horla,' a faithful picture of his own tragicfuture. He even accompanied me once on avisit to Professor Bernheim's clinic in Nancywhich opened my eyes to the fallacies of theSalpêtrière school in regard to hypnotism. Ialso stayed as his guest for a couple of days onboard his yacht. I well remember our sittingup the whole night talking about death in thelittle saloon of his Bel Ami riding at her anchor offAntibes harbour. He was afraid of death. Hesaid the thought of death was seldom out of hismind. He wanted to know all about the variouspoisons, their rapidity of action and their relativepainlessness. He was particularly insistent inquestioning me about death at sea. I told himmy belief that death at sea without a lifebelt wasa relatively easy death, with the lifebelt perhapsthe most terrible of all. I can see him now fixinghis sombre eyes on the lifebelts hung by the cabindoor and saying he would throw them overboardnext morning. I asked him if he meant to sendus to the bottom of the sea during our projectedcruise to Corsica. He sat silent for a while.

"No," he said at last, he thought after all hewanted to die in the arms of a woman. I toldhim at the rate he was going he had a fair chanceto see his wish fulfilled. As I spoke Yvonne wokeup, asked half dazed for another glass of champagneand fell asleep again, her head on his lap.She was a ballet dancer, barely eighteen, rearedby the vicious caresses of some vieux marcheur inthe coulisses of the Grand Opera, now helplesslydrifting to total destruction on board the Bel Amiin the lap of her terrible lover. I knew that nolifebelt could save her, I knew she would haverefused it if I had offered it to her. I knew shehad given her heart as well as her body to thisinsatiable male who had no use for anything buther body. I knew what her fate would be, it wasnot the first girl I had seen asleep, her head onhis lap. How far he was responsible for his doingsis another question. The fear that haunted hisrestless brain day and night was already visiblein his eyes, I for one considered him already thenas a doomed man. I knew that the subtle poisonof his own Boule de Suif had already begun itswork of destruction in this magnificent brain. Didhe know it himself? I often thought he did. TheM.S. of his 'Sur l'Eau' was lying on the tablebetween us, he had just read me a few chapters,the best thing he had ever written I thought. Hewas still producing with feverish haste one masterpieceafter another, slashing his excited brain withchampagne, ether and drugs of all sorts. Womenafter women in endless succession hastened the destruction,women recruited from all quarters, fromFaubourg St. Germain to the Boulevards, actresses,ballet-dancers, midinettes, grisettes, common prostitutes—'letaureau triste' his friends used to callhim. He was exceedingly proud of his successes,always hinting about mysterious ladies of the highestsociety admitted to his flat in Rue Clauzel by hisfaithful valet François—the first symptom of hisapproaching folie des grandeurs. He often used torush up the steps of Avenue de Villiers to sit downin a corner of my room looking at me in silence withthat morbid fixity of his eyes I knew so well. Oftenhe used to stand for minutes staring at himself inthe mirror over the mantelpiece as if he was lookingat a stranger. One day he told me that while he wassitting at his writing-table hard at work on his newnovel he had been greatly surprised to see a strangerenter his study notwithstanding the severe vigilanceof his valet. The stranger had sat down oppositehim at the writing-table and began to dictate to himwhat he was about to write. He was just going toring for François to have him turned out when hesaw to his horror that the stranger was himself.

A couple of days later I was standing by hisside in the coulisses of the Grand Opera watchingMademoiselle Yvonne dancing a pas de quatre,smiling on the sly at her lover whose flaming eyesnever left her. We had late supper in the elegantlittle flat Maupassant had just taken for her.She had washed off the rouge from her face, Iwas shocked to see how pale and worn she lookedcompared with when I had first seen her in theyacht. She told me she always took ether whenshe was dancing, there was nothing like ether fora pick-me-up, all her comrades took ether, evenMonsieur le Directeur du Corps de Ballet himself—asa matter of fact I saw him die of it manyyears later in his villa in Capri. Maupassantcomplained that she was getting too thin and thatshe was keeping him awake at night by her incessantcoughing. At his request I examinedher the next morning, there was serious troubleat the top of one of the lungs. I told Maupassantshe must have complete rest, I advisedhim to send her for the winter to Menton. Maupassantsaid he was quite willing to do all thatcould be done for her, besides he did not fancythin women. She refused point blank to go, shesaid she would rather die than leave him. Shegave me lots of trouble during the winter andalso lots of new patients. One after another hercomrades began to turn up at Avenue de Villiers,to consult me on the sly, afraid as they were tobe put on half pay by the regular doctor of theOpera. The coulisses of the Corps de Ballet werea new world to me not exempt from danger tothe inexperienced explorer for, alas, it was notonly to the altar of the Goddess Terpsichore thatthese young vestals brought the garlands oftheir youth. Luckily for me their Terpsichorehad been turned out of my Olympus with the lastforgotten strains of Gluck's Chaconne and Mozart'sMenuett, what remained to-day was to my eyesacrobatics pure and simple. Not so with theother onlookers in the coulisses. I never ceasedto wonder at the facility with which these decrepitDon Giovannis lost their balance while watchingall these half-naked girls keeping theirs on thetip of their toes.

Yvonne had her first hæmorrhage and the troublebegan in earnest. Maupassant like all authorswho write about illness and death hated to watchit at close quarters. Yvonne drank bottles ofcod-liver oil by the dozen in order to get fat, sheknew her lover did not like thin women. Itwas all in vain, soon nothing remained of her fairyouth but her wonderful eyes, lustrous withfever and ether. Maupassant's purse remainedopen to her, but his arms soon closed round thebody of one of her comrades. Yvonne threw abottle of vitriol at the face of her rival, luckilyshe nearly missed her. She escaped with twomonths' imprisonment thanks to Maupassant'spowerful influence and to a certificate from methat she had only a couple of months to live.Once out of prison she refused to return to herflat notwithstanding Maupassant's entreaties.She vanished into the vast unknown of theimmense city like the doomed animal hiding todie. I found her by a mere accident a monthlater in a bed at St. Lazare—the last stage inthe Via Crucis of all the fallen and forlorn womenof Paris. I told her I would let Maupassantknow, I felt sure he would come to see her atonce. I called at Maupassant's house the sameafternoon, there was no time to lose, it was evidentthat she had not many days to live. Thefaithful François was at his usual post as a Cerberus,watching over his master against any intruders.I tried in vain to be admitted, the orderswere severe, no visitor was to be admitted underany circumstances, it was the usual story aboutthe mysterious lady. All I could do was toscribble a note about Yvonne to his master whichFrançois promised to deliver at once. Whetherhe got it or not I never knew, I hope he did not,it is quite probable, for François was alwaystrying to keep his beloved master away from hisentanglements with women. When I came to St.Lazare the next day, Yvonne was dead. Thenun told me she had spent the whole morningputting rouge on her face and arranging her hair,she had even borrowed from an old prostitutein the next bed a little red silk shawl, last vestigeof past splendour, to cover her emaciatedshoulders. She told the nun she was expectingher Monsieur, she waited eagerly the whole daybut he never came. In the morning they foundher dead in her bed, she had swallowed to the lastdrop her portion of chloral.

Two months later I saw Guy de Maupassantin the garden of Maison Blanche in Passy, thewell known asylum. He was walking about onthe arm of his faithful François, throwing smallpebbles on the flower beds with the geste ofMillet's Semeur. "Look, look," he said, "theywill all come up as little Maupassants in the springif only it will rain."

******

To me who for years had been devoting myspare time to study hypnotism these stage performancesof the Salpêtrière before the public ofTout Paris were nothing but an absurd farce, ahopeless muddle of truth and cheating. Some ofthese subjects were no doubt real somnambulistsfaithfully carrying out in a waking state the varioussuggestions made to them during sleep—post-hypnoticsuggestions. Many of them were merefrauds, knowing quite well what they were expectedto do, delighted to perform their varioustricks in public, cheating both doctors and audiencewith the amazing cunning of the hystériques.They were always ready to 'piquer une attaque'of Charcot's classical grande hystérie, arc-en-cieland all, or to exhibit his famous three stagesof hypnotism: lethargy, catalepsy, somnambulism,all invented by the Master and hardly ever observedoutside the Salpêtrière. Some of themsmelt with delight a bottle of ammonia when toldit was rose water, others would eat a piece ofcharcoal when presented to them as chocolate.Another would crawl on all fours on the floor,barking furiously, when told she was a dog, flapher arms as if trying to fly when turned into apigeon, lift her skirts with a shriek of terror whena glove was thrown at her feet with a suggestionof being a snake. Another would walk with atop hat in her arms rocking it to and fro andkissing it tenderly when she was told it was herbaby. Hypnotized right and left, dozens of timesa day, by doctors and students, many of theseunfortunate girls spent their days in a state ofsemi-trance, their brains bewildered by all sortsof absurd suggestions, half conscious and certainlynot responsible for their doings, sooner orlater doomed to end their days in the salle desagités if not in a lunatic asylum. While condemningthese Tuesday gala performances in theamphitheatre as unscientific and unworthy of theSalpêtrière, it would be unfair not to admit thatserious work was done in the wards to investigatemany of the still obscure phenomena of hypnotism.I myself was just then by the permissionof the chef de clinique carrying out some interestingexperiments in post-hypnotic suggestion andtelepathy with one of these girls, one of the bestsomnambulists I have ever met.

I had already then grave doubts as to the correctnessof Charcot's theories, accepted withoutopposition by his blindfolded pupils and the publicby means of what can only be explained asa sort of suggestion en masse. I had returnedfrom my last visit to Professor Bernheim's clinicin Nancy as an obscure but resolute supporterof the so-called Nancy school in opposition to theteachings of Charcot. To speak of the Nancyschool at the Salpêtrière was in those days consideredalmost as an act of lèse-majesté. Charcothimself flew into a rage at the very mentioningof Professor Bernheim's name. An article ofmine in the 'Gazette des Hôpitaux' inspired bymy last visit to Nancy was shown to the Masterby one of his assistants who disliked me cordially.For several days Charcot seemed to ignore mypresence altogether. Some time later appearedin the 'Figaro' a violent article under the nomde plume of "Ignotus," one of the leading journalistsof Paris, denouncing these public demonstrationsof hypnotism as a dangerous and ridiculousspectacle of no scientific value, unworthy ofthe great Master of the Salpêtrière. I was presentwhen this article was shown to Charcot duringthe morning round, I was amazed at his furiousresentment against a mere newspaper article, itseemed to me he could have well afforded to ignoreit. There was plenty of jealousy among hispupils, I had a large share of it. Who startedthe lie I do not know, but to my horror I soonbecame aware of a rumour that "Ignotus" hadgot his most damaging facts from me. Charcotnever said a word to me about it, but from thatday his usual cordial attitude to me had changed.Then came the blow, one of the bitterest I everreceived in my life. Fate had set the trap, withmy usual impulsive foolhardiness I walked straightinto it.

One Sunday as I was leaving the hospital Icame upon a pair of old peasants sitting on abench under the plane-trees in the inner court.They smelt of the country, of the orchard, thefields and the cowhouse, it did my heart good tolook at them. I asked them where they camefrom and what they were doing there. The oldman in his long blue blouse lifted his hand to hisbéret, the old woman in her neat white coiffecurtseyed to me with a friendly smile. They saidthey had arrived there the same morning fromtheir village in Normandy on a visit to theirdaughter who had been kitchen maid in theSalpêtrière for over two years. It was a verygood job, she had been taken there by one of thenuns in their village who was now undercook inthe hospital kitchen. But there was lots to doon the farm, they had now three cows and sixpigs and they had come to take their daughterhome, she was a very strong and healthy girl andthey were getting too old to work the farm alone.They were so tired from the long night journeyin the train that they had had to sit down on thebench to rest for a while. Would I be so kindas to show them where the kitchen was? I saidthey had to cross three courts and pass throughendless corridors, I had better take them to thekitchen myself and help them to find their daughter.God knows how many kitchen maids therewere in the immense kitchen which prepared foodfor nearly three thousand mouths! We trottedoff to the kitchen pavilion, the old woman neverceasing to tell me about their apple-orchard, theircrop of potatoes, the pigs, the cows, the excellentcheese she was making. She produced from herbasket a little fromage de crème she had just madefor Geneviève, but she would be very pleased ifI would accept it. I looked at her face as shehanded me the cheese.

How old was Geneviève?

She was just twenty.

Was she fair and very good-looking?

"Her father says she looks exactly like me,"answered the old mother simply.

The old man nodded approvingly.

"Are you sure she is working in the kitchen?"I asked with an involuntary shudder lookingagain attentively at the wrinkled face of the oldmother.

For all answer the old man fumbled aboutin the immense pocket of his blouse and producedGeneviève's last letter. I had been a keenstudent of calligraphy for years, I recognizedat a glance the curiously twisted and naive, butremarkably neat handwriting, gradually improvedduring hundreds of experiences in automatic handwriting,even under my own supervision.

"This way," I said taking them straight upto the Salle St. Agnes, the ward of the grandeshystériques.

Geneviève was sitting dangling her silk-stockingedlegs from the long table in the middle ofthe ward with a copy of 'Le Rire' in her lapwith her own portrait on the title-page. At herside sat Lisette, another of the leading stars ofthe company. Geneviève's coquettishly arrangedhair was adorned with a blue silk ribbon, a rowof false pearls hung round her neck, her pale facewas made up with rouge, her lips painted. Toall appearance she looked more like an enterprisingmidinette off for a stroll on the Boulevardsthan the inmate of a hospital. Genevièvewas the prima donna of the Tuesday stage performances,spoiled and petted by everybody, verypleased with herself and her surroundings. Thetwo old peasants stared bewildered at theirdaughter. Geneviève looked back at them withan indifferent, silly air, she did not seem to recognizethem at first. Suddenly her face began totwitch and with a piercing scream she fell headlongon the floor in violent convulsions, to be followedimmediately by Lisette in the classic arc-en-ciel.Obeying the law of imitation a couple ofother hystériques started to 'piquer' their attacksfrom their beds, one in convulsive laughter, onein a flood of tears. The two old folk speechlesswith terror were rapidly pushed out of the wardby the nuns. I joined them on the stairs and tookthem down to the bench under the plane-trees.They were still too frightened even to cry. Itwas not easy to explain the situation to these poorpeasants. How their daughter had landed in thesalle des hystériques from the kitchen I did notknow myself. I spoke to them as gently as Icould, I said their daughter would soon be allright again. The old mother began to cry, thesmall twinkling eyes of the father began to shinewith an evil light. I urged them to return totheir village, I promised them that their daughtershould be sent home as soon as possible. Thefather wanted to take her away at once but themother backed me up by saying that it was wiserto leave her where she was till she got better, shewas sure her daughter was in good hands. Afterrepeating my promise to arrange as soon as possiblewith the professor and the director of thehospital the necessary formalities for sendingGeneviève home in charge of a nurse I succeededwith great difficulty in putting them in a cab todrive to Gare d'Orléans to catch the next train.The thought of the two old peasants kept me awakethe whole night. How was I to keep my promise?I knew only too well that I was just then themost unsuitable of all men to speak to Charcotabout their daughter, I knew equally well thatshe would never consent to leave the Salpêtrièreand return to her humble old home of her ownfree will. I could see only one solution, to conquerthat will of hers and replace it by my ownwill. I knew Geneviève well as an excellentsomnambulist. She had been trained by othersand by myself to carry out post-hypnotic suggestionsto be transformed into act with the fatalityof a falling stone, with an almost astronomicpunctuality and amnesia i.e. complete ignorancein her waking state of what she had been told todo. I applied to the chef de clinique to continuemy experiments with Geneviève in telepathy, justthen the order of the day. He was himself keenlyinterested in the subject, offered me to workundisturbed in his own cabinet for an hour everyafternoon and wished me good luck. I had toldhim a lie. The very first day I suggested toGeneviève under deep hypnosis to stay in bed thefollowing Tuesday instead of going to the amphitheatre,to dislike her life in the Salpêtrière andto wish to return to her parents. For a week Irepeated daily these suggestions to her with noapparent result. The following week she wasabsent and much missed during the Tuesday performancein the amphitheatre. I was told she hada cold and was in bed. A couple of days laterI found her with a railway guide in her hands,she put it rapidly in her pocket as soon as shesaw me, an excellent sign that I could rely onher amnesia. Soon afterwards it was suggestedto her to go to the Bon Marché the following Thursday—theday out—to buy herself a new hat. Isaw her show it with great pride to Lisette thenext morning. Two days later she was orderedto leave the Salle St. Agnes at twelve o'clock thenext day while the nuns were busy distributingthe midday meal, to slip out of the porter's lodgewhile he was having his luncheon, jump into acab and drive straight to Avenue de Villiers.On returning home to my consultation I foundher sitting in my waiting room. I asked herwhat was the matter, she looked very embarrassedand muttered something about wanting to see mydogs and the monkey I had told her about. Shewas entertained by Rosalie in the dining room witha cup of coffee and put into a cab to drive backto the hospital.

"C'est une belle fille," said Rosalie putting herfinger to her forehead, "mais je crois qu'elle aune araignée dans le plafond. Elle m'a ditqu'elle ne savait pas du tout pourquoi elle étaitvenue içi."

The success of this preliminary experiment mademe decide with my usual impulsiveness to carryout my plan at once. Geneviève was ordered tocome to Avenue de Villiers with the same precautionsand at the same hour two days later. Itwas on a Monday, I had invited Norstrom forluncheon, I wanted him there as a witness in caseof unforeseen complications. When I told him ofmy plan, he warned me of the serious consequencesit might have to myself whether in case of failureor success, he was besides certain she would notturn up.

"Suppose she has told somebody," said Norstrom.

"She cannot tell what she does not know herself,she will not know she is coming to Avenuede Villiers till the clock strikes twelve."

"But could it not be got out of her under hypnoticsleep?" he insisted.

"There is only one man who could wrench itout of her—Charcot himself. But since he takeslittle notice of her except during his Tuesday lectures,I have eliminated this possibility."

I said it was besides too late for discussions,I was sure she had already left the hospital andwould turn up in less than half-an-hour.

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed aquarter to one, I thought it was going too fast,for the first time its deep voice irritated myears.

"I wish you would chuck all this nonsenseabout hypnotism," said Norstrom lighting his bigcigar. "You have got it on the brain, you willend by getting crazy yourself if you are not already.I do not believe in hypnotism, I havetried to hypnotize several people, but I have neversucceeded."

"I would not believe in hypnotism myself ifyou had," I retorted angrily.

The front bell rang. I sprang to open the doormyself. It was Miss Anderssen, the nurse I hadordered to be there at one o'clock to take Genevièvehome. She was to start with her by the nightexpress to Normandy with a letter from me tothe curé of the village explaining the situation andbegging him to prevent at all costs Geneviève'sreturn to Paris.

I sat down at the dining table again smokingfuriously cigarette after cigarette.

"What has the nurse to say to all this?"asked Norstrom.

"She says nothing, she is English. She knowsme well, she trusts my judgment absolutely."

"I wish I did," growled Norstrom puffing athis cigar.

The Cromwell clock on the mantelpiece struckhalf-past-one confirmed with uncanny precisionby the voice of half-a-dozen old clocks from everyroom.

"Failure," said Norstrom phlegmatically, "andso much the better for both of us, I am d—d gladnot to be mixed up in this business."

I did not close my eyes that night, this timeit was Geneviève and not the two peasants thatkept me awake. I had since long been so spoiledby luck that my nerves were ill adapted for failure.What had happened?

I felt sick and slightly faint as I entered theamphitheatre of the Salpêtrière the next morning.Charcot had already begun his Tuesday lectureon hypnotism, Geneviève was not there in her usualplace on the platform. I slipped out of the roomand went up to the Salle de Gardes. One of theinternes told me he had been summoned from hisluncheon yesterday to Salle St. Agnes where hefound Geneviève in a state of cataleptic comainterrupted by the most violent convulsions he hadever seen. One of the nuns had met her outsidethe hospital half an hour before as she was jumpinginto a cab. She had looked so agitated that the nunhad brought her back to the porter's lodge withgreatest difficulty and she had had to be carriedupstairs to the Salle St. Agnes. The whole nightshe had fought desperately like a wild animaltrying to escape from its cage, they had had toput her into a strait-jacket. She was now shutup in a separate room with a heavy dose of bromideand a bonnet d'irrigation on her head. Nobodyunderstood the cause of this sudden change. Charcothimself had visited her and succeeded withgreat difficulty in putting her to sleep. We wereinterrupted by the entering of the chef de cliniquewho told me he had been hunting for me all overthe hospital, Charcot wished to speak to me, hewas to take me to his cabinet as soon as the lessonin the amphitheatre was finished. He did not saya single word to me as we passed through theadjoining laboratories. He knocked at the doorand I entered the well known little sanctuary ofthe Master for the last time in my life. Charcotsat in his usual chair by the table, bent over themicroscope. He raised his head and flashed histerrible eyes on me. Speaking very slowly, hisdeep voice trembling with rage, he said I had triedto allure to my house an inmate of his hospital,a young girl, a deséquilibrée, half unconscious ofher acts. According to her own confession shehad already been once to my house, my diabolicalplan to take advantage of her a second time hadonly miscarried by a mere accident. It was acriminal offence, he ought to hand me over to thepolice but for the honour of the profession andthe red ribbon in my buttonhole he would let meoff by turning me out of the hospital, he wishednever to set his eyes on me again.

I felt as if struck by lightning, my tongue stuckto my palate, I could not utter a word. Suddenlyas I realized the real meaning of his abominableaccusation my fear left me. I answered angrilythat it was he and his followers and not I who hadbrought ruin to this girl who had entered the hospitalas a strong and healthy peasant girl andwould leave it as a lunatic if she remained theremuch longer. I had adopted the only course opento me to return her to her old parents. I had failedto rescue her and I was sorry I had failed.

"Assez, Monsieur!" he shouted.

He turned to the chef de clinique and told himto accompany me to the porter's lodge with ordersfrom himself to refuse to let me enter the hospitalagain, adding that if his own authority was notsufficient to exclude me from his clinic he wouldreport the matter to the Assistance Publique. Herose from his chair and walked out of the roomwith his slow, heavy step.

XIX
HYPNOTISM

The famous platform performances in theamphitheatre of the Salpêtrière whichbrought on my disgrace, have since long beencondemned by every serious student of hypnoticphenomena. Charcot's theories on hypnotismimposed by the sheer weight of his authority on awhole generation of doctors have fallen into discreditafter having retarded our knowledge ofthe true nature of these phenomena for overtwenty years. Almost every single one of Charcot'stheories on hypnotism has proved wrong.Hypnotism is not, as he said, an artificiallyinduced neurosis only to be encountered inhysteria, in hypersensitive, weak-minded andill balanced people. The contrary is the truth.Hysterical subjects are as a rule less easily hypnotizablethan well balanced and mentally soundpeople. Intelligent, strong-willed and domineeringpeople are more easy to hypnotize than dull,stupid, superficial, weak-minded people. Idiotsand lunatics are in the majority of cases refractoryto hypnotic influence. People who say theydon't believe in hypnotism, laugh at you and saythey are sure they cannot be hypnotized, are asa rule most easy to put to sleep. All childrenare easily hypnotizable. Hypnotic sleep cannotbe produced by mechanical means alone. The shiningglass balls, the revolving mirrors borrowed fromthe bird-catcher, the magnets, the fixed staring inthe eyes of the subject, the classical mesmeric passesused at the Salpêtrière and the Charité are sheernonsense.

The therapeutic value of hypnotism in medicineand surgery is not negligible as Charcot said. Onthe contrary it is immense if in the hands ofcompetent doctors with clear heads and cleanhands, and thoroughly acquainted with the technique.The statistics of thousands of well investigatedcases prove this beyond dispute. Speakingof myself who have never been what iscalled a hypnotiseur but a nerve doctor compelledto make use of this weapon when other remedieshad proved useless, I have often obtained marvellousresults by this still misunderstood methodof healing. Mental disorders of various kindswith or without loss of will power, alcoholism,morphinomania, cocainomania, nymphomania canas a rule be cured by this method. Sexual inversionis more difficult to tackle. In many ifnot most cases it cannot be considered as a diseasebut as a deviation of the sexual instinct naturalto certain individuals where an energetic interferenceoften does more harm than good. Whetherand how far our social laws should interfere,is a very complicated question I do not meanto discuss here. What is certain is that theactual formulation of the law is founded upona misunderstanding of the uncomfortable positionin our midst of this numerous class of people.They are no criminals, but mere victims of amomentary absent-mindedness of Mother Nature,perhaps at their birth, perhaps at their conception.What is the explanation of the enormous increaseof sexual inversion? Does nature revenge herselfon the masculinized girl of to-day by rearingan effeminate son from her straightened hipsand flattened breasts? Or are we the bewilderedspectators of a new phase of evolution with agradual amalgamation of two distinct animalsinto a new, hitherto unknown specimen, lastsurvival of a doomed race on a worn-out planet,missing link between the Homo sapiens of to-dayand the mysterious Super-Homo of to-morrow?

The great benefit derived from hypnotic anæsthesiain surgical operations and childbirth isnow admitted by everybody. Even more strikingis the beneficial effect of this method in the mostpainful of all operations, as a rule still to beendured without anæsthesia—Death. What itwas granted to me to do for many of our dyingsoldiers during the last war is enough to make methank God for having had this powerful weaponin my hands. In the autumn of 1915 I spent twounforgettable days and nights among a couple ofhundred dying soldiers, huddled together undertheir blood-stained great-coats on the floor of avillage church in France. We had no morphia,no chloroform, no anæsthetics whatsoever to alleviatetheir tortures and shorten their agony.Many of them died before my eyes, insensible andunaware, often even a smile on their lips, with myhand on their forehead, my slowly repeated wordsof hope and comfort resounding in their ears, theterror of death gradually vanishing from their closingeyes.

What was this mysterious force which almostseemed to emanate from my hand? Where didit come from? Did it come from the stream ofconsciousness within me below the level of mywaking life, or was it after all the mysterious"odylic force," the magnetic fluid of the oldmesmerists? Of course modern science has doneaway with the magnetic fluid and replaced it witha dozen new, more or less ingenious theories. Iknow them all, none of them satisfies me so far.Suggestion alone, the very keystone of the nowuniversally accepted theory on hypnotism, cannotexplain all its startling phenomena. The wordsuggestion as used by its chief promoters, theNancy school, differs besides only in name fromthis now ridiculed odylic force of Mesmer. Letus admit, as we must do, that the miracle is notdone by the operator but by the subconsciousmind of the subject. But how are we to explainthe success of the one operator and the failure ofanother? Why does the suggestion of one operatorre-echo as a word of command in the subterraneanworkshop of the subject's mind to bringits hidden forces into action while this samesuggestion made by another operator is interceptedby the subject's consciousness and remainsineffective? I, of all people, am anxiousto know it, because ever since I was a boy, I havebeen aware that I myself possessed this power,whatever name is given to it, in an exceptionaldegree. Most of my patients, young and old,men and women, seemed to find it out sooner orlater and often spoke to me about it. My comradesin the hospital wards all knew about it,Charcot himself knew about it and often utilizedit. Professor Voisin, the famous alienist of AsileSt. Anne, often made me assist him in his desperateendeavours to hypnotize some of his lunatics.We used to work for hours with these poorlunatics screaming and raving with rage in theirstrait-jackets, unable to do anything but to spitin our faces, as they often did. The result ofour efforts was in most cases negative, but onseveral occasions I succeeded in calming downsome of them when the Professor himself hadfailed, notwithstanding his marvellous patience.All the keepers in the Jardin Zoologique andMénagerie Pezon knew about it. It was a familiartrick of mine to put their snakes, lizards, tortoises,parrots, owls, bears and big cats into a state oflethargy, quite similar to Charcot's first stage ofhypnosis, often I even succeeded in inducingprofound sleep. I think I have already mentionedhow I opened an abscess and extracted asplinter from the paw of Léonie the magnificentlioness in the Ménagerie Pezon. It could not beexplained but as a case of local anæsthesia underslight hypnosis. Monkeys, notwithstanding theirrestlessness are easily put to sleep thanks to theirhigh intelligence and impressionable nervous system.Snake charming is of course a hypnoticphenomenon. I have myself put a cobra intoa state of catalepsy in the temple of Karnak.The training of wild elephants has, I suspect, alsosomething to do with hypnotic influence. Theway I once heard a mahout talking for hours toone of the elephants of the Zoo who had becomerestive, sounded exactly like hypnotic suggestion.Most birds are easily hypnotizable, everybodyknows how easily it is done with chickens. In alldealings with animals, wild and tame, the soothinginfluence of the monotonous sound of slowly repeatedwords can easily be verified by every observer,so much so that it almost seems as if theyunderstood the very meaning of what one said tothem—what would I not give if I could understandwhat they said to me! Still it is obviouslyimpossible to speak of mental suggestion here.There must be some other power at work, I askagain and in vain, what is this power?

Among my patients I had handed over to Norstromduring my absence in Sweden was a badcase of morphinomania nearly cured by hypnoticsuggestion. As I was anxious that the treatmentshould not be interrupted I made Norstrom assistat the last séance. He said it was quite easy andthe patient seemed to like him. On my returnto Paris she had fallen back into her old habits,my colleague had been unable to hypnotize her.I tried to make her explain the reason of hisfailure, she said she could not understand it herself,she was very sorry, she had tried her best andso had Norstrom whom she said she liked verymuch.

Charcot once sent me a young foreign diplomat,a bad case of sexual inversion. Both ProfessorKraft-Ebing, the famous specialist of Vienna andCharcot himself had been unable to hypnotizethis man. He himself was most anxious to becured, he was living in constant fear of blackmailand was most distressed over their failure. Hesaid he was convinced it was his only chance,that he felt sure he would be all right if he couldbe put to sleep.

"But you are asleep," said I, barely touchinghis forehead with the top of my fingers, no passes,no staring in his eyes, no suggestion. The wordswere hardly out of my mouth before his eyelidsclosed with a slight tremor, he was in deep hypnoticsleep in less than a minute. It lookedhopeful at first, a month later he returned to hiscountry full of confidence for the future, far moreso than I was. He said he was going to proposeto a young lady he had become fond of of late,he was most anxious to marry and have children.I lost sight of him. A year later I heard by amere accident that he had killed himself. Had thisunhappy man consulted me a few years later whenI had acquired more knowledge of sexual inversionI would never have attempted the hopeless task ofcuring him.

Outside the Salpêtrière I have hardly evercome across Charcot's famous three stages ofhypnosis so strikingly exhibited during his Tuesdaylectures. They were all invented by himself,grafted on his hysterical subjects and acceptedby his pupils by the powerful suggestion of theMaster. The same affirmation holds good inregard to his special hobby, his grande hystériethen rampant all over the Salpêtrière, ward afterward full of it, now almost extinct. The factthat all these experiments in hypnotism weredone on hysterical subjects, is the only possibleexplanation of his inability to understand the truenature of these phenomena. If the statement ofthe Salpêtrière school that only hysterical subjectsare hypnotizable was correct it would mean that atleast eighty-five per cent of mankind was sufferingfrom hysteria.

But on one point Charcot was surely right,whatever the Nancy school, Forel, Moll andmany others may say. Experiments on hypnotismare not without their danger, to the subjectsas well as to the spectators. Personally Ithink public demonstrations of hypnotic phenomenashould be forbidden by law. Specialistsin nervous and mental disorders can no more dowithout hypnotism than can surgeons withoutchloroform and ether. One need only rememberthe thousands and thousands of helpless casesof shell-shock and traumatic neuroses during thelast war cured as by enchantment by this method.Hypnotic treatment in the great majority ofcases does not necessitate hypnotic sleep withabolition of waking consciousness. An operatorwell acquainted with its complicated techniqueand who knows something about psychology—boththese qualifications are necessary for success—willas a rule obtain remarkable, often amazingresults, by the mere use of what is called suggestionà l'état de veille. The Nancy schoolmaintains that hypnotic sleep and natural sleepare identical. It is not so. As yet we do notknow what hypnotic sleep is and until we knowmore about it we had better refrain from inducingit in our patients except in cases of absolutenecessity. This being said, let me add that mostof the accusations against hypnotism are grosslyexaggerated. So far I know of no well authenticatedproof of a criminal act committed by asubject under post-hypnotic suggestion. I havenever seen a suggestion made under hypnosiscarried out by the subject which he or she wouldrefuse to carry out if made during normal wakingstate. I affirm that if a blackguard should suggestto a woman under profound hypnosis thatshe should surrender herself to him and sheshould carry out this suggestion, it would meanthat she would as readily have done so had thesuggestion been made to her in a normal conditionof waking life. There is no such thing as blindobedience. The subject knows quite well whatis going on the whole time and what he is willingor unwilling to do. Camille, Professor Liegeois'sfamous somnambulist in Nancy, who would remainimpassive and indifferent when a pin wasstuck full length through her arm or a piece ofburning charcoal put in her hand, would blushscarlet when the Professor pretended to make agesture as if to disarrange her clothes, and wakeup instantaneously. This is only one of themany baffling contradictions familiar to studentsof hypnotic phenomena and most difficult forthe outsiders to understand. The fact that theperson cannot be hypnotized without his or herwill, must not be overlooked by the alarmists.Of course all talk about an unwilling and unawareperson being hypnotized at a distance is sheernonsense. So also is Psycho-Analysis.

XX
INSOMNIA

Norstrom with his usual kind thoughtfulnesshad invited me to dinner the evening ofthe fatal day. It was a gloomy dinner, I wasstill smarting under the humiliation of my defeat,and Norstrom sat scratching his head in silentmeditation how he was to raise the three thousandfrancs due to his landlord the next day. Norstromrefused point-blank to accept my explanationof my disaster—bad luck and the most unexpectedinterference of the unforeseen with mycarefully prepared plans. Norstrom's diagnosis ofmy case was Don Quixottish foolhardiness andimmeasurable conceit. I said that unless I receivedthat very day some sign from Fortuna, mybeloved goddess, that she felt sorry for havingforsaken me and would take me back in her favour,I would accept his diagnosis. As I spoke the words,my eyes were miraculously transferred from thebottle of Médoc between us to Norstrom's gigantichands.

"Have you ever gone in for massage?" I askedabruptly.

For all answer Norstrom opened his broad,honest hands and showed me with great pride apair of thumb balls of the size of an orange.There was no doubt of his speaking the truthwhen he said he had done a lot of massage inSweden in former days.

I told the waiter to bring a bottle of VeuveClicquot, the best he could lay his hands on, andraised my glass to drink to my defeat of to-day andto his victory of to-morrow.

"I thought you told me a moment ago you wereout of cash," said Norstrom looking at the bottle ofchampagne.

"Never mind," I laughed, "a brilliant idea,worth a hundred bottles of Veuve Clicquot, has justshot through my brain, have another glass while Iam working it out."

Norstrom always used to say that I had twodifferent brains working alternatively in my head,the well developed brain of a fool and the undevelopedbrain of a sort of genius. He staredbewildered at me when I told him I would cometo Rue Pigalle the next day at his consultationhour between two and three to explain it all.He said it was the best hour for a quiet talk. Iwas sure to find him alone. We left the Café dela Régence arm in arm, Norstrom still ponderingover which of my two brains my brilliant idea hadsprung from, I in tearing spirits, having almostforgotten having been turned out of the Salpêtrièrein the morning.

At two o'clock sharp the following day Ientered the sumptuous consulting-room of ProfessorGuéneau de Mussy in Rue du Cirque,the famous physician of the Orléans family whoseexile he had shared—now one of the leadingmedical celebrities in Paris. The Professor, whohad always been very kind to me, asked me whathe could do for me. I told him that when I hadcalled on him a week ago he had done me thehonour of introducing me to Monseigneur le Ducd'Aumale, as he was leaving the room supportedby his valet and leaning heavily on his stick.He had told me that the duke was suffering fromsciatica, that his knees were giving way, that hewas almost unable to walk, that he had consultedin vain all the leading surgeons of Paris. I saidI had ventured to come to-day to tell the Professorthat unless I was greatly mistaken the dukecould be cured by massage. A compatriot ofmine, a great authority on sciatica and massage,was actually in Paris, I took the liberty of suggestingthat he should be called in to examinethe Duke. Guéneau de Mussy, who like mostFrench doctors of his time knew next to nothingabout massage, accepted at once. As the dukewas leaving for his Château de Chantilly the nextday it was arranged that I should come at oncewith my illustrious compatriot to his hôtel inthe Faubourg St. Germain. Later in the afternoonNorstrom and I arrived at the hôtel wherewe were met by Professor Guéneau de Mussy.Norstrom had been instructed by me to try hisbest to look like a famous specialist on sciaticabut for God's sake to avoid lecturing on thesubject. A rapid examination made it clear tous both that it was indeed an excellent case formassage and passive movements. The duke leftfor the Château de Chantilly the next day accompaniedby Norstrom. A fortnight later I read inthe 'Figaro' that the famous Swedish specialistDoctor Norstrom of world-wide reputation hadbeen called to Chantilly to attend the Ducd'Aumale. Monseigneur had been seen walkingunaided in the park of his château, it was a marvellousrecovery. Doctor Norstrom was also attendingthe Duc de Montpensier crippled with gout foryears and now rapidly improving.

Then came the turn of Princess Mathilde, soonto be followed by Don Pedro of Brazil, a coupleof Russian Grand Dukes, an Austrian Arch-Duchessand the Infanta Eulalia of Spain.

My friend Norstrom, who after his return fromChantilly obeyed me blindly, had been forbiddenby me to accept any other patients but royaltiesuntil further orders. I assured him thiswas sound tactics, founded on solid psychologicalfacts. Two months later Norstrom was back inhis smart apartment at the Boulevard Haussmann,his consulting-room crammed with patientsfrom all countries, Americans heading the list.In the autumn appeared his 'Manuel de MassageSuédois' by Doctor Gustave Norstrom, Paris,Librairie Hachette, concocted by us with feverishhaste from different Swedish sources, an Americanedition appearing simultaneously in New-York.In the early winter Norstrom was summoned toNewport to attend old Mr. Vanderbilt, the feeto be fixed by himself. To his dismay I forbadehim to go, a month later the old multimillionairewas shipped to Europe to take his place amongNorstrom's other patients—a living réclame ingigantic letters, visible all over the United States.Norstrom was hard at work from morning tillnight rubbing his patients with his enormousthumbs, his thumb balls gradually assuming theproportions of a small melon. Soon he even hadto give up his Saturday evenings in the Scandinavianclub where, streaming with perspiration, heused to gallop round the room with all the ladiesin turn for the sake of his liver. He said there wasnothing like dancing and perspiring to keep yourliver going.

Norstrom's success made me so happy that forsome time I almost forgot my own disgrace.Alas, it all came back to me soon in all its horror,first in my dreams, then in my waking thoughts.Often just as I was falling to sleep I saw undermy closing eyelids the ignominious last scene ofthe tragedy before the curtain went down overmy future. I saw Charcot's terrible eyes flashingthrough the darkness, I saw myself escorted bytwo of his assistants like a criminal between twopolicemen, walking out of the Salpêtrière for thelast time. I saw my own folly, I understood thatNorstrom's diagnosis—"Don Quixottish foolhardinessand immeasurable conceit"—was right afterall. Don Quixote again!

Soon I ceased to sleep altogether, an acuteattack of insomnia set in, so terrible that itnearly made me go off my head. Insomnia doesnot kill its man unless he kills himself—sleeplessnessis the most common cause of suicide. But itkills his joie de vivre, it saps his strength, it sucksthe blood from his brain and from his heart likea vampire. It makes him remember during thenight what he was meant to forget in blissfulsleep. It makes him forget during the day whathe was meant to remember. Memory is the firstto go overboard, soon friendship, love, sense ofduty, even pity itself are one after another washedaway. Despondency alone sticks to the doomedship to steer it on the rocks to total destruction.Voltaire was right when he placed sleep on the samelevel as hope.

I did not go off my head, I did not kill myself.I staggered on with my work as best I could, careless,indifferent what happened to myself, andwhat happened to my patients. Beware of adoctor who suffers from insomnia! My patientsbegan to complain that I was rough and impatientwith them, many of them left me, many stuck tome still and so much the worse for them. Onlywhen they were about to die did I seem to wakeup from my torpor, for I continued to take keeninterest in Death long after I had lost all interestin Life. I could still watch the approach of mygrim colleague with the same keenness I used towatch him with when I was a student at the SalleSt. Claire, hoping against hope to wrench histerrible secret from him. I could still sit thewhole night by the bedside of a dying patientafter having neglected him when I might havebeen able to save him. They used to say I wasvery kind to sit up like that the whole night whenthe other doctors went away. But what did itmatter to me whether I sat on a chair by thebedside of somebody else or lay awake in my ownbed? Luckily for me my increasing diffidence ofdrugs and narcotics saved me from total destruction,hardly ever did I myself take any ofthe numerous sleeping-draughts I had to writeout the whole day for others. Rosalie was mymedical adviser. I swallowed obediently tisanesafter tisanes concocted by her, French fashion,from her inexhaustible pharmacopoeia of miraculousherbs. Rosalie was very worried about me. Ieven found out that often on her own initiative sheused to send away my patients when she thoughtI looked too tired. I tried to get angry but I hadno strength left to scold her.

Norstrom was also very worried about me.Our mutual position had now changed, he wasascending the slippery ladder of success, I wasdescending. It made him kinder than ever, Iconstantly marvelled at his patience with me. Heoften used to come to share my solitary dinner inAvenue de Villiers. I never dined out, never askedanybody to dinner, never went out in society whereI used to go a lot before. I now thought it a wasteof time, all I longed for was to be left alone andto sleep.

Norstrom wanted me to go to Capri for acouple of months, for a thorough rest, he feltsure I would return to my work all right again.I said I would never return to Paris if I wentthere now, I hated this artificial life of a big citymore and more. I did not want to waste mytime any longer in this atmosphere of sicknessand decay. I wanted to go away for good. Idid not want to be a fashionable doctor anylonger, the more patients I got the heavier did Ifeel my chains. I had plenty of other interestsin life than to look after rich Americans andsilly neurotic females. What was the good ofhis talking about throwing away "my splendidopportunities"? He knew quite well I had notthe stuff in me to become a first-rate doctor.He knew equally well that I could neither makemoney nor keep it. Besides I did not want anymoney, I should not know what to do with it, Iwas afraid of money, I hated it. I wanted tolead a simple life amongst simple, unsophisticatedpeople. If they could neither read nor write, somuch the better. All I needed was a whitewashedroom with a hard bed, a deal table, acouple of chairs and a piano. The twitter of birdsoutside my open window and the sound of the seafrom afar. All the things I really cared for couldbe got for very little money, I should be quitehappy in the humblest surroundings as long as Ihad nothing ugly around me.

Norstrom's eyes wandered slowly round the roomfrom the primitive pictures on gold ground on thewalls to the Florentine Cinquecento Madonna onthe prie-Dieu, from the Flemish tapestry over thedoor to the lustrous Cafaiolo vases and the frailVenetian glasses on the sideboard, to the Persianrugs on the floor.

"I suppose you got this at the Bon Marché,"said Norstrom staring maliciously at the pricelessold Bukhara rug under the table.

"I will give it to you with pleasure in exchangefor a single night's natural sleep. You are welcometo this unique Urbino vase signed by MaestroGiorgio himself if you can make me laugh. I donot want all this stuff any more, it says nothing tome, I am sick of it. Stop that irritating smile ofyours, I know what I am saying, I am going toprove it to you.

"Do you know what I did when I was in Londonlast week for that consultation about the ladywith angina pectoris? Well, I had another consultationthere that same day about another, far worsecase, a man this time. This man was me or rathermy double, my Doppelgänger, as Heine calledhim.

"'Look here, my friend,' I said to my Doppelgängeras we were leaving St. James's Club armin arm, 'I want to make a careful examinationof your inside. Pull yourself together and let usstroll slowly up New Bond Street from Piccadillyto Oxford Street. Now listen carefully to whatI say: put on your strongest glasses and lookattentively in every shop-window, examine carefullyevery object you see. It is a fine opportunityfor you who are fond of beautiful things,the richest shops of London are here. Everythingmoney can buy will be displayed beforeyour eyes, within the reach of your hand. Anythingyou would like to possess shall be handed over toyou, all that you have to say is that you would liketo have it. But only on one condition: what youselect must remain with you for your own use orenjoyment, you cannot give it away.'

"We turned the corner of Piccadilly, the experimentbegan. I watched my Doppelgängercarefully from the corner of my eye as we strolledup Bond Street looking at every shop-window.He stopped a moment in front of Agnew, the artdealer's, looked carefully at an old Madonna ongold ground, said it was a very fine picture, earlySienna school, it might be Simone di Martino himself.He made a gesture towards the windowpaneas if he wanted to grab the old picture,then he shook his head dejectedly, put his handin his pocket and moved on. He greatly admireda fine old Cromwell clock at Hunt and Roskell'sbut with a shrug of his shoulders he said he didnot care what time it was, he could besides guessit by looking at the sun. In front of Asprey'sdisplay of all imaginable bibelots and trinkets ofsilver and gold and precious stones he said he feltsick and declared he would smash the windowpaneand all that was behind it if he had to lookat all this confounded rubbish any longer. Aswe passed before the tailor to His Royal Highnessthe Prince of Wales, he said he thought oldclothes were more comfortable to wear than newones. As we moved on up the street he becamemore and more indifferent and seemed to bemore interested in stopping to pat the numerousdogs trotting behind their owners on the trottoirthan to explore the shop windows. When wereached Oxford Street at last he had an apple inone hand and a bunch of lilies of the valley in theother. He said he wanted nothing else of all thathe had seen in Bond Street, except perhaps thelittle Aberdeen terrier who had been sitting waitingpatiently for his master outside Asprey's.He began to eat his apple, and said it was a verygood apple, and looked tenderly at his bunch oflilies of the valley saying they reminded him ofhis old home in Sweden. He said he hoped Ihad finished my experiment and asked me if I hadfound out what was the matter with him—was itthe head?

"I said No, it was the heart.

"He said I was a very clever doctor, he hadalways suspected it was the heart. He begged meto keep my professional secret and not to tell it tohis friends, he did not want them to know what didnot concern them.

"We returned to Paris the next morning. Heseemed to enjoy the crossing between Dover andCalais, he said he loved the sea. Since then hehas hardly ever left Avenue de Villiers, wanderingrestlessly from room to room as if he could notsit down for a minute. He is always hangingabout in my waiting room, pushing his wayamong the rich Americans to ask me for a pick-me-up,he says he is so tired. The rest of the dayhe drives about with me from place to placewaiting patiently in the carriage with the dogwhile I am visiting my patients. During dinnerhe sits opposite me in the chair you are sitting innow, staring at me with his tired eyes, says he hasno appetite, all he wants is a stiff sleeping-draught.In the night he comes and bends his head overmy pillow, imploring me for God's sake to takehim away, he says he cannot stand it much longer,or . . ."

"Neither can I," Norstrom interrupted angrily,"for Heaven's sake stop this confounded nonsenseabout your Doppelgänger, mental vivisection is adangerous game for a man who cannot sleep. Ifyou go on like this a little longer, both you and yourDoppelgänger will end in Asile St. Anne. I giveyou up. If you wish to chuck your career, if youdo not want either reputation or money, if you preferyour whitewashed room in Capri to your luxuriousapartment in Avenue de Villiers, by all meansbe off, the sooner the better, to your beloved island,and be happy there instead of becoming a lunatichere! As to your Doppelgänger you are welcometo tell him from me with all my respects that he isa humbug. I bet you anything you like that hewill soon pick up another Bukhara rug to spreadunder your deal table, a Siennese Madonna and aFlemish gobelin to hang on the walls of your whitewashedroom, a Cinquecento Gubbio plate for eatingyour macaroni, and an old Venetian glass fordrinking your Capri Bianco!"

XXI
THE MIRACLE OF SANT'ANTONIO

Sant'Antonio had done another miracle.I was living in a little contadino house inAnacapri, whitewashed and clean, with a sunnypergola outside the open windows and friendly,simple people all around me. Old Maria Porta-Lettere,La Bella Margherita, Annarella andGioconda were all delighted to see me backamongst them. Don Dionisio's Capri Bianco wasbetter than ever and it dawned upon me more andmore that the parroco's Capri Rosso was equallygood. From sunrise till sunset I was hard atwork in what had been Mastro Vincenzo's garden,digging the foundations of the huge archesof the loggia outside my future home. MastroNicola and his three sons were digging by myside and half-a-dozen girls with laughing eyes andswinging hips were carrying away the earth inhuge baskets on their heads. A yard below thesurface we had come upon the Roman walls, opusreticulatum as hard as granite with nymphs andbacchantes dancing on the intonaco of Pompeianred. Below appeared the mosaic floor framedwith vine-leaves of nero antico and a brokenpavement of beautiful palombino now in thecentre of the big loggia. A fluted column ofcipollino, now supporting the little loggia in theinner courtyard, lay across the pavement whereit had fallen two thousand years ago, crushing inits fall a big vase of Parian marble, the lion-headedhandle of which is now lying on my table.Roba di Timberio, said Mastro Nicola picking upa mutilated head of Augustus split in two—youcan see it in the loggia to-day.

When the macaroni in the parroco DonAntonio's kitchen were ready the bells in thechurch rang mezzogiorno, we all sat down for ahearty meal round an enormous plate of insalatadi pomidoro, minestrone or macaroni, soon tobe at work again till sunset. When the bellsbelow in Capri rang Ave Maria my fellow workersall made the sign of the cross and went awaywith a Buon riposo, Eccellenza, buona nottesignorino. Their wish was overheard by Sant'Antonio,he worked another miracle, I sleptsoundly the whole night, as I had not slept foryears. I rose with the sun, sprang down to thelighthouse for my morning-bath and was backin the garden as the others returned to workfrom the five o'clock morning mass.

None of my fellow workers could read or write,none had ever worked at the building of any otherhouses than those of contadini, all more or lessalike. But Mastro Nicola knew how to build anarch as did his father and his grandfather fromuntold generations, the Romans had been theirmasters. That this was going to be a differenthouse from any they had ever seen before, hadalready dawned upon them, they were all tremendouslyinterested, nobody knew so far whatit was going to look like, nor did I. All we hadto go by was a rough sort of sketch drawn bymyself with a piece of charcoal on the whitegarden-wall, I cannot draw anything, it looked asif drawn by the hand of a child.

"This is my house," I explained to them,"with huge Roman columns supporting itsvaulted rooms and of course small Gothic columnsin all the windows. This is the loggia with itsstrong arches, we will decide by and by how manyarches there will be. Here comes a pergola, overa hundred columns, leading up to the chapel,never mind the public road running straightacross my pergola now, it will have to go. Herelooking out on Castello Barbarossa comes anotherloggia, I do not quite see what it looks like for thepresent, I am sure it will spring out of my headat the right moment. This is a small inner court,all white marble, a sort of atrium with a cool fountainin its midst and heads of Roman Emperorsin niches round the walls. Here behind thehouse we are going to knock down the garden-walland build a cloister something like theLateran cloister in Rome. Here comes a largeterrace where all you girls will dance the tarantellaon summer evenings. On the top of thegarden we shall blast away the rock and build aGreek theatre open on all sides to sun and wind.This is an avenue of cypresses leading up to thechapel which we will of course rebuild as a chapelwith cloister stalls and stained glass windows, Iintend to make it my library. This is a colonnadewith twisted Gothic columns surroundingthe chapel and here looking out over the bay ofNaples we are going to hoist an enormous Egyptiansphinx of red granite, older than Tiberiushimself. It is the very place for a sphinx. Ido not see for the present where I shall get itfrom but I am sure it will turn up in time."

They were all delighted and eager to finish thehouse at once. Mastro Nicola wanted to knowwhere the water for the fountains was to comefrom.

Of course from Heaven where all the water onthe island came from. I intended besides to buythe whole mountain of Barbarossa and build anenormous cistern there for collecting the rainwater, and supply the whole village with water,now so badly needed, it was the least I could dofor them to repay all their kindness to me. WhenI drew the outlines of the little cloister with mystick in the sand I saw it at once just as it standsnow, encircling with its graceful arcades its littlecourt of cypresses with the dancing fawn in itsmidst. When we found the earthenware vasefull of Roman coins, they became tremendouslyexcited, every contadino on the island has beenon the look-out for il tesoro di Timberio for twothousand years. It was only later on whencleaning these coins that I found amongst themthe gold coin fresh as if it had been coined to-day,"fleur de coin" indeed, the finest likeness of theold Emperor I had ever seen. Close by we foundthe two bronze hoofs of an equestrian statue, onestill in my possession, the other stolen ten yearslater by a tourist.

The whole garden was full of thousands andthousands of polished slabs of coloured marble,africano, pavonazetto, giallo antico, verde antico,cipollino, alabastro, all now forming the pavementof the big loggia, the chapel and some ofthe terraces. A broken cup of agate of exquisiteshape, several broken and unbroken Greek vases,innumerable fragments of early Roman sculpture,including, according to Mastro Nicola, la gambadi Timberio, dozens of Greek and Roman inscriptionscame to light as we were digging. Whilewe were planting the cypresses bordering thelittle lane to the chapel, we came upon a tombwith a skeleton of a man, he had a Greek coin inhis mouth, the bones are still there where wefound them, the skull is lying on my writing-table.

The huge arcades of the big loggia rose rapidlyout of the earth, one by one the hundred whitecolumns of the pergola stood out against the sky.What had once been Mastro Vincenzo's house andhis carpenter workshop was gradually transformedand enlarged into what was to become myfuture home. How it was done I have neverbeen able to understand nor has anybody elsewho knows the history of the San Michele ofto-day. I knew absolutely nothing about architecturenor did any of my fellow-workers, nobodywho could read or write ever had anything to dowith the work, no architect was ever consulted,no proper drawing or plan was ever made, noexact measurements were ever taken. It was alldone all' occhio as Mastro Nicola called it.

Often of an evening when the others had goneaway I used to sit alone on the broken parapetoutside the little chapel where my sphinx was tostand, watching with my mind's eye the castleof my dreams rise out of the twilight. Often asI sat there I thought I saw a tall figure in a longmantle wandering about under the half-finishedvaults of the loggia below, carefully examiningthe day's work, testing the strength of the newstructures, bending over the rudimentary outlinesdrawn by me on the sand. Who was themysterious overseer? Was it the venerableSant'Antonio himself who had climbed down onthe sly from his shrine in the church to workanother miracle here? Or was it the tempter ofmy youth who twelve years ago had stood by myside on this very spot offering me his help inexchange for my future? It had become so darkthat I could no longer see his face but I thoughtI saw the blade of a sword glistening under a redmantle. When we returned to work next morningjust on the point where we had stopped shortthe evening before in great perplexity as to whatto do and how to do it, all my difficulties seemedto have been removed during the night. Allhesitation had left me. I saw it all in my mind'seye clearly as if it had been drawn by an architectin its minutest details.

Maria Porta-Lettere had brought me a coupleof days before a letter from Rome. I had flungit unopened in the drawer of my deal table tojoin a dozen of other unread letters. I had notime for the world outside Capri, there is no postin Heaven. Then an unheard-of thing happened,there came a telegram to Anacapri. Painfullysignalled two days before from the semaphore atMassa Lubrense it had in the course of timereached the Capri semaphore by the Arco Naturale,Don Ciccio, the semaphorist, after a vagueguess at its meaning, had offered it in turn tovarious people in Capri. Nobody could understanda word of it, nobody wanted to have anythingto do with it. It had then been decided to try it onAnacapri and it had been put on the top of MariaPorta-Lettere's fish basket. Maria Porta-Lettere,who had never seen a telegram before, handed itwith great precaution to the parroco. Il ReverendoDon Antonio, unfamiliar with reading anything hedid not know by heart, told Maria Porta-Lettere totake it to the schoolmaster, Il Reverendo DonNatale, the most learned man in the village. DonNatale was certain it was written in Hebrew butwas unable to translate it on account of the badspelling. He told Maria Porta-Lettere to take itto the Reverendo Don Dionisio, who had been inRome to kiss the hand of the Pope and was the rightman to read the mysterious message. DonDionisio, the greatest authority in the villageon roba antica, recognized it at once as beingwritten in the secret telegraphic code of Timberiohimself, little wonder nobody could understandit. His opinion was confirmed by the farmacistabut strenuously opposed by the barber who sworeit was written in English. He shrewdly suggestedthat it should be taken to La Bella Margheritawhose aunt had married un lord inglese.La Bella Margherita burst into tears as soon shesaw the telegram, she had dreamt in the nightthat her aunt was ill, she felt sure the telegramwas for her and was sent by the lord inglese toannounce the death of her aunt. While MariaPorta-Lettere was wandering from house to housewith the telegram the excitement in the villageincreased more and more, and soon all workceased. A rumour that war had broken outbetween Italy and the Turks was contradicted atnoon by another rumour brought on nakedboy's feet from Capri that the king had beenassassinated in Rome. The Municipal Councilwas urgently summoned but Don Diego, thesindaco, decided to postpone unfolding the flagat half-mast until another telegram confirmed thesad news. Shortly before sunset Maria Porta-Lettere,escorted by a crowd of notables of bothsexes, arrived with the telegram at San Michele.I looked at the telegram and said it was not forme. Who was it for? I said I did not know, Ihad never heard of any living or dead personafflicted with a similar name, it was not a name, itseemed an alphabet in an unknown tongue.Wouldn't I try to read the telegram and tellwhat was in it? No, I would not, I hated telegrams.I did not want to have anything to dowith it? Was it true there was war betweenItaly and the Turks? yelled the crowd under thegarden wall.

I did not know, I did not care in the least ifthere was a war as long as I was left in peace todig in my garden.

Old Maria Porta-Lettere sank down dejectedlyon the column of cipollino, she said she had beenon her legs with the telegram since daybreakwith nothing to eat, she could no more. She hadbesides to go and feed the cow. Would I takecare of the telegram till to-morrow morning?It would not be safe to leave it in her keeping,with all the grandchildren playing aboutthe room, not to speak of the chickens andthe pig. Old Maria Porta-Lettere was a greatfriend of mine, I felt sorry for her and for thecow. I put the telegram in my pocket, shewas to resume her wanderings with it the nextmorning.

The sun sank into the sea, the bells rang AveMaria, we all went home to our supper. As Iwas sitting under my pergola with a bottle ofDon Dionisio's best wine before me, a terriblethought suddenly flashed through my brain—fancyif the telegram was for me after all! Havingfortified myself with another glass of wine,I put the telegram on the table before me and setto work to try to translate its mysterious meaninginto human language. It took me the wholebottle of wine to satisfy myself that it was not forme, I fell asleep, my head on the table, the telegramin my hand.

I slept late the next morning. There was noneed for hurry, nobody was working in my gardento-day, surely they were all in church sincemorning mass, it was Good Friday. As I strolledup to San Michele a couple of hours later, I wasgreatly surprised to find Mastro Nicola with histhree sons and all the girls, hard at work in thegarden as usual. Of course they knew howanxious I was to go on with the work full speed,but I would never have dreamt to ask them towork on Good Friday. Indeed it was kind ofthem, I told them I was very grateful. MastroNicola looked at me with evident surprise andsaid it was no festa to-day.

"No holiday to-day!" Did he not know itwas Good Friday, the day of the crucifixion ofour Lord Jesus Christ?

"Va bene," said Mastro Nicola, "but JesusChrist was not a Saint."

"Of course He was a Saint, the greatest Saintof all."

"But not as great as Sant'Antonio who hasdone more than one hundred miracles. Howmany miracles has Gesù Cristo done?" he askedwith a malicious look at me.

Nobody knew better than I that Sant'Antoniowas not easy to beat on miracles, what greatermiracle could have been made than bringing meback to his village? Avoiding Mastro Nicola'squestion I said that with all honour due to Sant'Antoniohe was but a man, while Jesus Christwas the Son of Our Lord in Heaven who in orderto save us all from Hell had suffered death on theCross this very day.

"Non è vero," said Mastro Nicola resuming hisdigging with great vigour. "L'hanno fatto morireieri per abbreviare le funzioni nella chiesa. Itis not true. They put him to death yesterday toshorten the functions in the church."

I had barely time to recover from thisannouncement when a well known voice calledme by name from outside the garden wall. Itwas my friend the newly appointed SwedishMinister in Rome. He was furious for not havinghad an answer to his letter, announcing hisintention to come and spend the Easter with meand still more offended that I had not had thedecency to meet him at the Marina with a donkeyon the arrival of the post boat as he had beggedme to do in his telegram. He would never havecome to Anacapri had he known he would have toclimb all by himself those seven hundred andseventy-seven Phoenician steps leading up tomy wretched village. Would I have the cheekto say I had not got his telegram?

Of course I got it, we all got it, I nearly gotdrunk over it. He softened a little when Ihanded him the telegram, he said he wanted totake it to Rome to show it to the Ministero dellePoste e Telegrafi. I snatched it from him, warninghim that any attempt to improve the telegraphiccommunications between Capri and themainland would be strenuously opposed by me.

I was delighted to show my friend over theplace and to explain to him all the future wondersof San Michele with an occasional reference tomy sketch on the wall in order to make himunderstand it more clearly, which he said wasmuch needed. He was full of admiration, andwhen he looked down from the chapel on the fairisland at his feet he said he believed it was themost beautiful view in the world. When Ipointed out to him the place for the huge Egyptiansphinx of red granite he gave me an uneasyside glance, and when I showed him where themountain was going to be blasted away for theerection of my Greek theatre he said he feltsomewhat giddy and asked me to take him to myvilla and give him a glass of wine, he wanted tohave a quiet talk with me.

His eyes wandered round my whitewashedroom, he asked me if this was my villa, I answeredI had never been so comfortable in my life. Iput a flask of Don Dionisio's wine on the dealtable, invited him to sit down on my chair andthrew myself on the bed ready to listen to whathe had to say. My friend asked me if I had notbeen spending much of my time these last yearsat the Salpêtrière among more or less queer andunhinged people, somewhat shaky in their upperstorey?

I said he was not far from the truth, but thatI had given up the Salpêtrière altogether.

He said he was very glad to hear it, he thoughtit was high time, I had better take up some otherspeciality. He was very fond of me, in fact hehad come down to try to persuade me to returnat once to my splendid position in Paris insteadof wasting my time among these peasants inAnacapri. Now since he had seen me he hadchanged his mind, he had come to the conclusionI was in need of a thorough rest.

I said I was very glad he approved of mydecision, I really could not stand the strain anylonger, I was tired out.

"In the head?" he asked sympathetically.

I told him it was useless to ask me to return toParis, I was going to spend the rest of my daysin Anacapri.

"You mean to say that you are going to spendyour life in this wretched little village all aloneamong these peasants who can neither read norwrite! You, who are a man of culture, who areyou going to associate with?"

"With myself, my dogs and perhaps a monkey."

"You always say you cannot live without music,who is going to sing to you, who is going to playto you?"

"The birds in the garden, the sea all aroundme. Listen! Do you hear that wonderfulmezzo-soprano, it is the golden oriole, isn't hisvoice more beautiful than the voice of our celebratedcompatriot Christine Nilson or Pattiherself? Do you hear that solemn andante ofthe waves, isn't that more beautiful than theslow movement of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony?"

Changing abruptly the conversation, my friendasked me who was my architect and in what stylethe house was going to be built?

I told him I had no architect and that so far Idid not know in what style the house was goingto be built, all that would settle itself as the workwent on.

He gave me another uneasy side glance andsaid he was at least glad to know I had left Parisa rich man, surely it needed a large fortune tobuild such a magnificent villa I had described tohim.

I opened the drawer of my deal table andshowed him a bundle of banknotes tucked in astocking. I said it was all I possessed in thisworld after twelve years' hard work in Paris, Ibelieve it amounted to something like fifteenthousand francs, maybe a little more, maybe alittle less, probably a little less.

"Listen, incorrigible dreamer, to the voice ofa friend," said the Swedish Minister. Tappinghis forehead with his finger he went on, "you donot see straighter than your ex-patients in theSalpêtrière, the trouble is evidently catching.Make an effort to see things as they are in realityand not in your dreams. At the rate you aregoing your stocking will be empty in a month'stime, and so far I saw no trace of a single room tolive in, I saw nothing but half-finished loggias,terraces, cloisters and pergolas. With what areyou going to build your house?"

"With my hands."

"Once established in your house, what are yougoing to live on?"

"Macaroni."

"It will cost at least half a million to buildyour San Michele as you see it in your imagination,where are you going to get the money from?"

I was dumbfounded. I had never thought ofit, it was altogether a new point of view.

"What on earth am I going to do?" I said atlast staring at my friend.

"I will tell you what you are to do," said myfriend with his resolute voice. "You are to stopwork at once on your crazy San Michele, clearout of your whitewashed room and since youdecline to return to Paris, you are to go to Rometo take up your work as a doctor. Rome is thevery place for you. You need only spend thewinters there, you will have the long summers togo on with your building. You have got SanMichele on the brain but you are not a fool, or atleast most people have not found it out so far.You have besides luck in everything you lay yourhands on. I am told there are forty-four foreigndoctors practising in Rome, if you pull yourselftogether and set to work in earnest you can beatthem all with your left hand. If you work hardand hand over your earnings to me I will bet youanything you like, that in less than five yearsyou will have made enough money to finish yourSan Michele and live happily the rest of your lifein the company of your dogs and your monkeys."

After my friend had left I spent a terrible nightwandering up and down in my little contadinoroom like an animal in a cage. I dared not evengo up to the chapel to say good-night to the sphinxof my dreams as was my wont. I was afraidthat the tempter in the red mantle might oncemore stand by my side in the twilight. Whenthe sun rose I rushed down to the lighthouse andsprang into the sea. When I swam ashore myhead was clear and cool like the waters of thegulf.

Two weeks later I was established as a doctorin Keats' house in Rome.

XXII
PIAZZA DI SPAGNA

My very first patient was Mrs. P. the wife ofthe well known English banker in Rome.She had been laid up on her back for nearly threeyears after a fall from her horse while riding tohounds in the Campagna. All the foreign doctorsin Rome had been attending her in turn, a monthago she had even consulted Charcot, who hadgiven her my name, I did not know he was awareof my having settled in Rome. As soon I hadexamined her, I understood that the prophecyof the Swedish Minister was going to be fulfilled.I knew that once more Fortuna stood by my side,invisible to all but myself. It was indeed a luckycase to start my Roman practice, the patient wasthe most popular lady in the foreign colony. Irealized that it was the shock and no permanentinjury to her spine that had paralyzed her limbsand that faith and massage would put her on herlegs in a couple of months. I told her so whatnobody else had ever dared to tell her and I keptmy word. She began to improve before I hadbegun the massage. In less than three monthsshe was seen by half the fashionable Romansociety stepping out of her carriage in VillaBorghese and walking about under the trees leaningon her stick. It was looked upon as a miraculousachievement, it was in reality a very simpleand easy case, granted the patient had faith andthe doctor patience. It opened the doors of everyhouse in the numerous British colony in Romeand of many Italian houses as well. Next yearI became doctor to the British Embassy and hadmore English patients than all the eleven English-borndoctors put together—I leave it to you toimagine what were their feelings towards me. Anold friend of mine from the École des BeauxArts, now a pensionnaire in Villa Medici, broughtme into contact with the French colony. Mylifelong friend Count Giuseppe Primoli sang mypraise in the Roman society, a faint echo frommy luck in Avenue de Villiers did the rest to fillmy consulting-room with patients. ProfessorWeir-Mitchell, the leading nerve specialist ofAmerica, with whom I had already had somedealings in my Paris days continued to send mehis surplus of dilapidated millionaires and theirunstrung wives. Their exuberant daughters whohad invested their vanity in the first availableRoman prince, also began to send for me in theirsombre old palaces to consult me about theirvarious symptoms of disillusion. The rest ofthe vast crowd of Americans followed like a flockof sheep. The twelve American doctors soonshared the fate of their English colleagues. Thehundreds of models on the steps of the Trinità deiMonti under my windows in their picturesquecostumes from the mountains round Montecassinowere all patients of mine. All the flower-sellersof Piazza di Spagna threw a little bunch of violetsinto my carriage as I drove past in exchange fora cough mixture for some of their innumerablebabies. My ambulatorio in Trastevere spreadmy fame all over the poor quarters in Rome. Iwas on my legs from morning till night, I sleptlike a king from night till morning unless I wascalled out, which happened as often as not, itmattered nothing to me, I never knew whatfatigue meant in those days. Soon, to gain timeand to satisfy my love of horses, I drove aboutRome full speed in a smart red-wheeled victoriadrawn by a pair of splendid Hungarian horses, myfaithful Tappio, the Lapland dog, seated by myside. I can now see that it was maybe a littleshowy and might have been mistaken for réclamehad I not already then passed the need of any.Anyhow, it hit my forty-four colleagues badly inthe eye, there is no doubt about it. Some ofthem drove about in gloomy looking old coachesfrom the time of Pio Nono, to all appearances asif intended to be adapted at a moment's notice ashearses for their dead patients. Others walkedabout on foot on their lugubrious errands in longfrock-coats, their top hats pushed down overtheir foreheads as if in deep meditation whomthey were to embalm next. They all glaredsavagely at me as I drove past, they all knew meby sight. Soon they had to know me in personas well, as, whether they wanted it or not, I beganto be called in consultation by their dying patients.I tried my best to observe rigorously the etiquetteof our profession and to tell their patients theywere lucky indeed to be in such good hands, butit was not always easy. We were indeed a sadcrew, shipwrecked from various lands and seas,landed in Rome with our scanty kit of knowledge.We had to live somewhere, there was surely noreason why we shouldn't live in Rome as long wedidn't interfere with the living of our patients.

Soon it became very difficult for any foreignerin Rome to die without my being called in to seehim through. I became to the dying foreignerswhat the Illustrissimo Professore Baccelli was tothe dying Romans—the last hope, alas, so seldomfulfilled. Another person who never failed toturn up on these occasions was Signor Cornacchia,undertaker to the foreign colony and director ofthe Protestant Cemetery by Porta San Paolo.He never seemed to have to be sent for, he alwaysturned up in good time, his big hook nose seemedto smell the dead at a distance like the carrion-vulture.Correctly dressed in a long frock-coatand top hat, in the fashion of a colleague, he wasalways hanging about in the corridor waitingfor his turn to be called in. He seemed to havetaken a great liking to me, saluting me mostcordially with a waving of his top hat wheneverhe met me in the street. He always expressedhis regrets when I was the first to leave Rome inthe spring, he always greeted me with outstretchedhands and a friendly: Ben tornato,Signor Dottore, when I returned in the autumn.There had been a slight misunderstanding betweenus the previous Christmas when he had sent metwelve bottles of wine with his hopes for a fruitfulcooperation during the coming season. Heseemed deeply hurt by my inability to accept hisgift, he said none of my colleagues had everrefused his little token of sympathy. The sameunfortunate misunderstanding had besides cooleddown for some time the cordial relations betweenmyself and the two foreign chemists.

One day I was greatly surprised to receive avisit from old Doctor Pilkington who had veryparticular reasons for hating me. He said thathe and his colleagues had so far waited in vainfor my calling on them according to the unwrittenrules of etiquette. Since the mountainhad not come to Mahomet, Mahomet had cometo the mountain. He had nothing in commonwith Mahomet except his long, white, venerablebeard, he looked more like a false prophet than areal one. He said he had come in his quality ofthe doyen of the resident foreign doctors in Rometo invite me to become a member of their recentlyformed Society for Mutual Protection with theobject of putting an end to the war which hadbeen raging amongst them for so long. All hiscolleagues had become members except that oldruffian Doctor Campbell with whom none ofthem were on speaking terms. The thorny questionof their professional fees had already beensettled to everybody's satisfaction by a mutualagreement fixing the minimum fee at twentyfrancs, maximum fee at the discretion of eachmember according to circumstances. No embalmmentof man, woman or child was to bemade for less than five thousand francs. He wassorry to have to tell me that the Society had oflate received several complaints of gross carelessnesson my part in collecting my fees and even fornot having collected any fees at all. Not laterthan yesterday Signor Cornacchia, the undertaker,had confided to him almost with tears inhis eyes that I had embalmed the wife of theSwedish parson for a hundred lire, a most deplorablebreach of loyalty to all my colleagues. Hefelt sure I would realize the advantages to myselfof becoming a member of their Society for MutualProtection and would be glad to welcome meamongst them at their next meeting to-morrow.

I answered I was sorry I could not see theadvantage either for me or for them of my becominga member, that anyhow I was willing todiscuss with them the fixing of a maximum feebut not of a minimum fee. As to the injectionsof sublimate they called embalmment, its costdid not exceed fifty francs. Adding another fiftyfor the loss of time, the sum I had charged forembalming the parson's wife was correct. Iintended to earn from the living, not from thedead. I was a doctor, not a hyæna.

He rose from his seat at the word hyæna witha request not to disturb myself in case I everwished to call him in consultation, he was notavailable.

I said it was a blow both to myself and tomy patients, but that we would have to try todo without him.

I was sorry I had lost my temper, and I toldhim so at our next meeting, this time in hisown house in Via Quattro Fontane. Poor DoctorPilkington had had a slight stroke the very dayafter our interview and had sent for me toattend him. He told me the Society for MutualProtection had broken down, they were all atdaggers drawn again, he felt safer in my handsthan in theirs. Luckily there was no cause foralarm, in fact I thought he looked livelier afterhis stroke than before. I tried to cheer himup as well as I could, said there was nothingto worry about and that I had always believedhe had already had several slight strokes before.He was soon on his legs again, more active thanever, he was still flourishing when I left Rome.

Soon afterwards I made the acquaintance ofhis deadly enemy Doctor Campbell, whom hehad called an old ruffian. Judging from myfirst impression he seemed to have hit upon theright diagnosis this time. A more savage-lookingold gentleman I never saw, wild blood-shot eyesand cruel lips, the flushed face of a drunkard,all covered with hair like a monkey, and a long,unkempt beard. He was said to be over eighty,the retired old English chemist told me helooked exactly the same thirty years ago whenhe first arrived in Rome. Nobody knew fromwhere he came, it was rumoured he had beena surgeon in the Southern army in the Americanwar. Surgery was his speciality, he was in factthe only surgeon among the foreign doctors,he was on speaking terms with none of them.One day I found him standing by my carriagepatting Tappio.

"I envy you that dog," he said abruptly in arough voice. "Do you like monkeys?"

I said I loved monkeys.

He said I was his man, he begged me to comeand have a look at his monkey who had beenscalded almost to death by upsetting a kettle ofboiling water.

We climbed up to his flat at the top of thecorner house of Piazza Mignanelli. He beggedme to wait in his salon and appeared a minutelater with a monkey in his arms, a huge baboonall wrapped up in bandages.

"I am afraid he is very bad," said the olddoctor in quite a different voice, tenderly caressingthe emaciated face of his monkey. "I do notknow what I shall do if he dies, he is my onlyfriend. I have brought him up on the bottlesince he was a baby, his dear mother died whenshe gave birth to him. She was almost as bigas a gorilla, you never saw such a darling, shewas quite human. I do not mind in the leastcutting my fellow creatures to pieces, I ratherlike it, but I have no more courage left in me todress his scalded little body, he suffers so horriblywhen I try to disinfect his wounds that I cannotstand it any longer. I am sure you like animals,will you take him in hand?"

We unwrapped the bandages soaked with bloodand pus, it was a pitiful sight, his whole bodywas one terrible wound.

"He knows you are a friend or he wouldnot sit as still as he does, he never allows anybodybut me to touch him. He knows everything,he has more brains than all the foreigndoctors in Rome put together. He has eatennothing for four days," he went on, with a tenderexpression in his blood-shot eyes. "Billy, myson, won't you oblige your papa by trying thisfig?"

I said I wished we had a banana, there wasnothing monkeys liked better.

He said he would telegraph at once to Londonfor a bunch of bananas, never mind the cost.

I said it was a question of keeping up hisstrength. We poured a little warm milk intohis mouth, but he spat it out at once.

"He cannot swallow any more," groanedhis master, "I know what it means, he isdying."

We improvised with a sound a sort of feedingtube and this time he kept the milk to the delightof the old doctor.

Billy got slowly better. I saw him every dayfor a fortnight, and I ended by becoming quitefond both of him and his master. Soon I foundhim sitting in his specially constructed rocking-chairon their sunny terrace by the side of hismaster, a bottle of whisky on the table betweenthem. The old doctor was a great believer inwhisky to steady one's hand before an operation.To judge from the number of empty whiskybottles in the corner of the terrace his surgicalpractice must have been considerable. Alas!they were both addicted to drink, I had oftencaught Billy helping himself to a little whiskyand soda out of his master's glass. The doctorhad told me whisky was the best possible tonicfor monkeys, it had saved the life of Billy'sbeloved mother after her pneumonia. One eveningI came upon them on their terrace, both blinddrunk. Billy was executing a sort of negrodance on the table round the whisky bottle,the old doctor sat leaning back in his chairclapping his hands to mark the time, singing ina hoarse voice:

"Billy, my son, Billy, my sonny, soooooooonny!"They neither heard nor saw me coming. Istared in consternation at the happy family.The face of the intoxicated monkey had becomequite human, the face of the old drunkard lookedexactly like the face of a gigantic gorilla. Thefamily likeness was unmistakable,

"Billy, my son, Billy, my son, sooooooony!"

Was it possible? No, of course it was notpossible but it made me feel quite creepy. . .

A couple of months later I found the old doctorstanding again by my carriage talking to Tappio.No, thank God, Billy was all right, it was hiswife who was ill this time, would I oblige himby having a look at her?

We climbed once more up to his flat, I had sofar had no idea that he shared it with anybodybut Billy. On the bed lay a young girl, almost achild, with closed eyes, evidently unconscious.

"I thought you said it was your wife who wasill, is this your daughter?"

No, it was his fourth wife, his first wife hadcommitted suicide, the second and the third haddied of pneumonia, he felt sure this one was goingthe same way.

My first impression was that he was quiteright. She had double pneumonia, but an enormouseffusion in the left pleura had evidentlyescaped his notice. I gave her a couple ofhypodermic injections of camphor and etherwith his dirty syringe, and we started rubbingher limbs vigorously with apparently littleeffect.

"Try to rouse her, speak to her!" I said.

He bent over her livid face and roared in herear:

"Sally, my dear, pull yourself together, do getwell or I shall marry again!"

She drew a deep breath and opened her eyeswith a shudder.

The next day we tapped her pleura, youthdid the rest, she recovered slowly, as if unwillingly.My suspicion of some chronic mischief in herlungs soon proved well founded. She was in anadvanced state of consumption. I saw her everyday for a couple of weeks, I could not helpfeeling very sorry for her. She was evidentlyin terror of the old man and no wonder, for hewas horribly rough with her, though perhaps hedid not mean it. He had told me she came fromFlorida. As autumn came I advised him totake her back there the sooner the better, shewould never survive a Roman winter. Heseemed to agree, I soon found out that thechief difficulty was what to do with Billy. Itended by my offering to keep the monkey duringhis absence in my little courtyard under theTrinità dei Monti steps, already occupied byvarious animals. He was to be back in threemonths. He never came back, I never knewwhat became of him nor did anybody else. Iheard a rumour that he had been shot duringa brawl in a public house but I do not know if itwas true. I have often wondered who this manwas and whether he was a doctor at all. Ionce saw him amputate an arm with amazingrapidity, he must have known something aboutanatomy but evidently very little about dressingand disinfecting a wound, and his instrumentswere incredibly primitive. The English chemisthad told me he always wrote out the sameprescriptions often with wrong spelling and wrongdose. My own belief is that he was no doctorat all but a former butcher or perhaps an orderlyin an ambulance who had had some good reasonfor leaving his own country.

Billy stayed with me in Piazza di Spagna tillthe spring when I took him down to San Michelewhere he gave me a hell of a time for the restof his happy life. I cured him of dipsomania,he became in many ways a quite respectablemonkey. You will hear more about him later on.

XXIII
MORE DOCTORS

One day there appeared in my consultingroom a lady in deep mourning with aletter of introduction from the English chaplain.She was of decidedly mature age, of very voluminousdimensions, arrayed in loose flying garmentsof a very unusual cut. Seating herselfwith great precaution on the sofa she said shewas a stranger in Rome. The death of theReverend Jonathan, her lamented husband, hadleft her alone and unprotected in the world.The Reverend Jonathan had been everything toher, husband, father, lover, friend. . . .

I looked sympathetically at her round, blankface and silly eyes and said I was very sorry forher.

The Reverend Jonathan had. . . .

I said I was unfortunately in a great hurry,the waiting-room was full of people, what couldI do for her? She said she had come to putherself in my hands, she was going to have ababy. She knew that the Reverend Jonathanwas watching over her from his heaven but shecould not help feeling very anxious, it was herfirst child. She had heard a lot about me, now,since she had seen me, she felt sure she wouldbe as safe in my hands as in the hands of theReverend Jonathan. She had always had agreat liking for Swedes, she had even once beenengaged to a Swedish parson, love at first sightwhich however had not lasted. She was surprisedto find me so young-looking, just the sameage as the Swedish parson, she even thought therewas a certain likeness between us. She had astrange feeling as if we had met before, as if wecould understand each other without words. Asshe spoke she looked at me with a twinkle in hereye which would have made the Reverend Jonathanfeel very uncomfortable had he been watchingover her just at that moment.

I hurried to tell her that I was no accoucheurbut that I felt sure she would be safe in the handsof any of my colleagues who, I understood, wereall specialists in this branch of our profession.There was for instance my eminent colleague DoctorPilkington. . . .

No, she wanted me and nobody else. Surely Icould not have the heart to leave her alone and unprotectedamongst strangers, alone with a fatherlesschild! There was besides no time to lose, thebaby was expected any day, any moment. I roserapidly from my seat and offered to send for a cabto take her at once to Hôtel de Russie where shewas staying.

What would not the Reverend Jonathan havegiven, had it been granted to him to see their child,he who had loved its mother so passionately!Theirs had been a love-match if ever there was one,a melting into one of two ardent lives, of two harmonioussouls. She burst into a paroxysm of tearsending in a fit of convulsion which shook her wholebody in a most alarming way. Suddenly sheturned pale and sat quite still clasping her handsprotectively over her abdomen. My fears turnedinto terror. Giovannina and Rosina were in VillaBorghese with the dogs, Anna was also away, therewas no woman in the house, the waiting-room wasfull of people. I sprang from my chair and lookedattentively at her. All of a sudden I recognizedthat face, I knew it well, it was not in vain I hadspent fifteen years of my life among hystericalwomen from all lands and of all ages. I told hersternly to wipe off her tears, pull herself togetherand listen to me without interruption. I put afew professional questions to her, her evasive answersroused my interest in the Reverend Jonathanand his untimely death. Untimely indeed for thedemise of her lamented husband proved to havetaken place at a very awkward time of the previousyear from my point of view as a doctor. Itold her at last as gently as I could that she wasnot going to have any baby at all. She boundedfrom the sofa, her face scarlet with rage and rushedout of the room shrieking at the top of her voicethat I had insulted the memory of the ReverendJonathan!

A couple of days later I met the English chaplainin the Piazza and thanked him for havingrecommended me to Mrs. Jonathan, expressing myregret for not having been able to take charge ofher. I was struck by the chaplain's reserved manner.I asked him what had become of Mrs. Jonathan.He left me abruptly saying she was in thehands of Doctor Jones, she was expecting her babyat any moment.

It all came out in less than twenty-four hours.Everybody knew it, all the foreign doctors knewit and loved it, all their patients knew it, the twoEnglish chemists knew it, the English baker in ViaBabuino knew it, Cook's knew it, all the pensionsin Via Sistina knew it, in all the English tea-roomspeople talked of nothing else. Soon every memberof the British Colony in Rome knew that I hadcommitted a colossal blunder and that I had insultedthe Reverend Jonathan's memory. Everybodyknew that Doctor Jones had not left theHôtel de Russie and that the midwife had beensent for at midnight. The next day the Englishcolony in Rome split into two hostile camps. Wasthere going to be a baby or was there not goingto be a baby? All the English doctors and theirpatients, the clergy and the faithful congregation,the English chemist in Via Condotti, were all certainthere was going to be a baby. All my patients,the rival chemist in Piazza Mignanelli, all the flower-sellersin Piazzi di Spagna, all the models on theTrinità dei Monti steps under my windows, all thedealers in roba antica, all the scalpellini in ViaMargutta, denied emphatically that there was goingto be a baby. The English baker was wavering.My friend the English Consul was, thoughreluctantly, forced to take up his position againstme for reasons of patriotism. The position of SignorCornacchia, the undertaker, was a particularlydelicate one, requiring careful handling. Therewas on one hand his unshaken faith in my efficiencyas his principal collaborator. There was on theother hand the undeniable fact that his prospectsas an undertaker were much brighter if I provedto be wrong than if I proved to be right. Soon therumor spread that old Doctor Pilkington had beencalled to the Hôtel de Russie in consultation andhad discovered that there were to be two babies insteadof one. Signor Cornacchia realized that theonly right policy was to wait and see. When itbecame known that the English chaplain had beenwarned to hold himself in readiness at any hour ofthe day or the night for a christening in articulomortis in view of the prolonged strain, there wasno more room for hesitation. Signor Cornacchiawent over to the enemy's camp, bag and baggage,abandoning me to my fate. From Signor Cornacchia'sprofessional point of view as an undertakera baby was as good as a full-grown person. Butwhy not two babies? And why not also . . .?

Already when a wet nurse in her picturesquecostume from the Sabine mountains had been seenentering the Hôtel de Russie unmistakable signsof discouragement had become apparent among myallies. When a perambulator arrived from Englandand was placed in the hall of the hotel, myposition became almost critical. All the touristladies in the hotel gave a friendly glance at theperambulator as they crossed the hall, all the waiterswere offering bets of two to one on twins, allthe betting on no baby at all having ceased. I wascut by several people at the garden party at theEnglish Embassy, where Doctor Pilkington andDoctor Jones, once more on speaking terms, formedthe centre of an animated group of listeners to thelast news from the Hôtel de Russie. The SwedishMinister took me aside and told me in an angry voicehe did not want to have anything more to do withme, he had had more than enough of my eccentricities,to use a mild word. Last week he hadbeen told I had called a most respectable old Englishdoctor a hyæna. Yesterday the wife of theEnglish chaplain had told his own wife that I hadinsulted the memory of a Scotch parson. If Imeant to go on in this way, I had better return toAnacapri before the whole foreign colony turnedits back upon me.

After another week of intense suspense signs ofreaction began to set in. The betting among thewaiters now stood at evens, with a few timid offersof five lire on no baby at all. When the newsspread that the two doctors had quarrelled and thatDoctor Pilkington had retired with the secondbaby under his long frock-coat, all the betting ontwins came to an end. As time went on the numbersof deserters increased day by day, the Englishchaplain and his congregation still rallying bravelyround the perambulator. Doctor Jones, the midwifeand the nurse were still sleeping in the hotelbut Signor Cornacchia warned by his keen scenthad already abandoned the sinking ship.

Then came the crash in the shape of a shrewdlooking old Scotsman who walked one day into myconsulting-room and sat down on the sofa wherehis sister had sat. He told me he had the misfortuneto be Mrs. Jonathan's brother. He saidhe had arrived straight from Dundee the eveningbefore. He did not seem to have lost his time.He had settled his accounts with Doctor Pilkingtonby paying him one third of his bill, he hadkicked out Doctor Jones, he now asked me for theaddress of a cheap lunatic asylum. The doctor,he thought, ought to be locked up in another place.

I told him that, unfortunately for him, his sister'scase was not a case for a lunatic asylum. Hesaid that if she was not a case for a lunatic asylumhe did not know who was. The Reverend Jonathanhad died of old age and softening of the brainover a year ago, she was not likely to have beenexposed to any further temptations, the crazy oldthing. She had already made herself the laughing-stockof the whole of Dundee in the same way shehad now made herself the laughing-stock of thewhole of Rome. He said he had had enough ofher, he did not want to have anything more to dowith her. I said neither did I, I had been surroundedby hysterical females for fifteen years, Iwanted a rest. The only thing was to take herback to Dundee.

As to her doctor, I am sure he had acted to thebest of his ability. I understood he was a retiredIndian army doctor with limited experience inhysteria. I believe what we called "phantomtumour" was rarely met with in the English army.It was not very rare with hysterical women.

Did I know she had had the cheek to order theperambulator from the stores in his name, he hadhad to pay five pounds for it, she could have gotan excellent second hand one in Dundee for twopounds. Could I help him to find a purchaser forthe perambulator? He did not want to make anyprofits on it, but he would like to get his moneyback.

I told him that if he left his sister in Rome shewould be quite capable of ordering another perambulatorfrom the stores. He seemed much impressedby this argument. I lent him my carriageto take his sister to the station. I have never seenthem again.

******

So far the prophecy of the Swedish Minister hadbeen fulfilled, I had been an easy winner. Soonhowever I had to deal with a far more serious rivalwho had just then taken up his practice in Rome.I was told and I believe it was true that it was myrapid success which had made him give up hislucrative practice in —— and settle in the capital.He enjoyed an excellent reputation among hiscountrymen as an able doctor and a charming man.He soon became a conspicuous figure in the Romansociety from which I was vanishing more and more,having learned what I wanted to know. He droveabout in a carriage as smart as my own, he entertaineda lot in his sumptuous apartment in theCorso, his rise was as rapid as my own had been.He had called on me, we had agreed there was roomin Rome for both of us, he was always very courteousto me whenever we met. He had evidently avery large practice, chiefly drawn from wealthyAmericans, many of them flocking to Rome, I wastold, in order to be under his care. He had his ownstaff of nurses, his own private nursing home outsidePorta Pia. I understood at first he was aladies' doctor, but heard later that he was a specialistin diseases of the heart. He evidently possessedthe inestimable gift of inspiring confidencein his patients, I never heard his name mentionedexcept with praise and gratitude. It did not surpriseme for, compared with the rest of us, he wasin fact a rather striking personality, a fine forehead,extraordinarily penetrating and intelligenteyes, a remarkable facility for speaking, very winningmanners. He ignored completely his othercolleagues, but he had called me in consultation acouple of times, chiefly for nervous cases. Heseemed to know his Charcot pretty well, he hadalso visited several German clinics. We nearlyalways agreed as to diagnosis and treatment, I sooncame to the conclusion that he knew his businessat least as well as I did.

One day he sent me a rapidly scribbled note askingme to come at once to the Hôtel Constanzi fora consultation. He seemed more excited thanusual. He told me in a few rapid words that thepatient had been under his care for some weeks,had at first much benefited by his treatment. Theselast days there had been a change for the worse,the action of the heart was unsatisfactory, he wouldlike to have my opinion. Above all I was not toalarm the patient nor his family. Judge of mysurprise when I recognized in his patient a man Ihad loved and admired for years as did everybodyelse who had ever met him, the author of 'HumanPersonality and its Survival of bodily Death.' Hisbreathing was superficial and very difficult, his facewas cyanotic and worn, only his wonderful eyeswere the same. He gave me his hand and said hewas glad I had come at last, he had been longingfor my return. He reminded me of our last meetingin London, when I dined with him at the Societyfor Psychical Research, how we had been sittingup the whole night talking about death andthereafter. Before I had time to answer, my colleaguetold him he was not to speak for fear ofanother attack and handed me his stethoscope.There was no need for a prolonged examination,what I had seen was enough. Taking my colleagueaside I asked him if he had told the family.To my intense surprise he did not seem to realizethe situation, spoke of repeating the injections ofstrychnine at shorter intervals, of trying his serumnext morning, of sending to the Grand Hôtel fora bottle of burgundy of a special vintage. I saidI was against stimulants of any kind, their onlypossible effect might be to rouse once more hiscapacity for suffering, already subdued by mercifulnature. There was nothing else for us to dobut help him not to suffer too much. As we werespeaking, Professor William James, the famousphilosopher, one of his nearest friends, entered theroom. I repeated to him the family must be toldat once, it was a question of hours. As they allseemed to believe more in my colleague than inmyself, I insisted that another doctor should becalled at once in consultation. Two hours laterarrived Professor Baccelli, the leading consultingdoctor in Rome. His examination was even moresummary than my own, his verdict still shorter.

"Il va mourir aujourd'hui," he said in his deepvoice.

William James told me of the solemn pact betweenhim and his friend that whichever of themwas to die first should send a message to the otheras he passed over into the unknown—they bothbelieved in the possibility of such a communication.He was so overcome with grief that he could notenter the room, he sank down on a chair by theopen door, his note-book on his knees, pen in hand,ready to take down the message with his usualmethodical exactitude. In the afternoon set in theCheyne-Stokes respiration, that heartrending signof approaching death. The dying man asked tospeak to me. His eyes were calm and serene.

"I know I am going to die," he said, "I knowyou are going to help me. Is it to-day, is it to-morrow?"

"To-day."

"I am glad, I am ready, I have no fear. I amgoing to know at last. Tell William James, tellhim . . ."

His heaving chest stood still in a terrible minuteof suspense of life.

"Do you hear me?" I asked bending over thedying man, "do you suffer?"

"No," he murmured, "I am very tired and veryhappy."

These were his last words.

When I went away William James was still sittingleaning back in his chair, his hands over hisface, his open note-book still on his knees. Thepage was blank.

I saw a good deal of my colleague and also ofseveral of his patients during that winter. He wasalways talking about the marvellous results of hisserum, and of another new remedy for anginapectoris he had been using of late in his nursinghome with wonderful success. Upon my tellinghim how interested I had always been in anginapectoris he consented to take me to his nursinghome and show me some of his patients cured bythe new remedy. I was greatly surprised to recognizein one of them a former patient of mine, awealthy American lady with all the classical stigmasof hysteria, classified by me as a malade imaginaire,looking remarkably well as she had alwaysdone. She had been in bed for over a month, attendednight and day by two nurses, temperaturetaken every four hours, hypodermic injections ofunknown drugs several times a day, the minutestdetails of her diet regulated with utmost scrupulosity,sleeping-draughts at night, in fact, everythingshe wanted. She no more had angina pectoristhan I had. Luckily for her she was as strong as ahorse and quite capable of resisting any treatment.She told me my colleague had saved her life. Soonit dawned upon me that the majority of the patientsin the nursing home consisted of more orless similar cases under the same severe hospitalrégime with nothing the matter with them exceptan idle life, too much money and a craving forbeing ill and being visited by the doctor. WhatI saw seemed to me at least as interesting as anginapectoris. How was it done, what was his method?As far as I could make it out the method consistedin putting these women to bed at first sight with astunning diagnosis of some grave ailment and toallow them to recover slowly by gradually liftingthe load of the suggestion from their confusedbrains. To classify my colleague as the mostdangerous doctor I had ever met was easy. Toclassify him as a mere charlatan I was not prepared.That I considered him as an able doctorwas of course quite compatible with his being acharlatan—the two go well together, the chiefdanger of charlatans lies there. But the charlatanoperates single-handed like the pick-pocket andthis man had taken me to his nursing home to demonstratehis most damaging cases with great pride.Of course he was a charlatan, but surely a charlatanof an unusual type, well worth a closer study.The more I saw of him the more was I struck withthe morbid acceleration of his whole mental machinery,his restless eyes, the extraordinary rapidityof his speech. But it was the way he handled digitalis,our most powerful but most dangerousweapon in combating heart diseases, that soundedthe first note of alarm in my ears. One night Ireceived a note from the daughter of one of hispatients begging me to come at once at the urgentrequest of the nurse. The nurse took me asideand said she had sent for me as she feared somethingwas wrong, she was feeling very uneasy about whatwas going on. She was right there. The hearthad been kept too long under digitalis, the patientwas in immediate danger of his life from the effectof the drug. My colleague was just going to givehim another injection when I snatched the syringefrom him and read the terrible truth in his wildeye. He was not a charlatan, he was a madman.

What was I to do? Denounce him as a charlatan?It would only increase the number of his patientsand maybe of his victims. Denounce him as alunatic? It would mean the irreparable ruin ofhis whole career. What proofs could I produce?The dead could not speak, the living would notspeak. His patients, his nurses, his friends wouldall side against me, I who of all men would profitby his downfall. Do nothing, and leave him in hisplace, a maniac arbiter of life and death?

After long hesitation I decided to speak to hisambassador who was, I knew, on very friendlyterms with him. The ambassador refused to believeme. He had known my colleague for years,he had always looked upon him as an able and reliabledoctor, he had himself greatly benefited by histreatment and so had his family. He had alwaysconsidered him a very excitable and somewhat eccentricman, but as to the lucidity of his mind hewas sure he was as sound in his head as we were.Suddenly the ambassador burst into one of hisusual roars of laughter. He said he could not helpit, it was too funny, he felt sure I would not takeit amiss, he knew I was not devoid of a certainsense of humour. He then told me that my colleaguehad called upon him that same morning toask him for a letter of introduction to the SwedishMinister, to whom he had to speak on a very gravematter. He thought it his duty to warn the SwedishMinister to keep an eye on me, he was convincedthere was something wrong with my head. Ipointed out to the ambassador that it was a valuablepiece of evidence, it was exactly what a lunaticmight do under the circumstances, the cunning ofa madman could never be overrated.

On coming home I was handed an almost illegiblenote from my colleague which I made out as aninvitation to luncheon the next day—the changeof his handwriting had already attracted my attention.I found him in his consulting-room, standingbefore the mirror, staring with his protruding eyesat the slight swelling of his throat, the enlargementof his thyroid gland I had already noticed. Theextraordinary rapidity of his pulse made the diagnosiseasy. I told him he had Graves' disease. Hesaid he had suspected it himself and asked me totake him in hand. I told him he was overworkedand must give up his practice for some time, thebest thing for him to do was to return to his countryfor a long rest. I succeeded in keeping him in bedtill the arrival of his brother. He left Rome aweek later, never to return again. He died the followingyear, I understand, in an asylum.

XXIV
GRAND HÔTEL

When Doctor Pilkington introduced himselfto me as the doyen of the foreign doctorshe usurped the title which belonged to anotherman, far superior to the rest of us foreign doctorsin Rome. Let me write here his real name in fullletters as it is written in my memory in letters ofgold—old Doctor Erhardt, one of the best doctorsand one of the most kind-hearted men I have evermet. Survival from the vanished Rome of PioNono, his reputation had stood the wear and tear ofover forty years of practice in the Eternal City.Although over seventy he was still in full possessionof his mental and physical vigour, day and nighton the go, always ready to help, rich and poor allthe same to him. He was the most perfect type Ihave ever seen of the family doctor of bygonetimes, now almost extinct—so much the worse forsuffering humanity. It was impossible not to lovehim, impossible not to trust him. I am sure he hadnever had an enemy during his long life exceptProfessor Baccelli. He was a German by birth,and had there been many like him in the Fatherlandin 1914 there would never have been awar.

That so many people even among his formerpatients would flock to Keats' house to ask advicefrom me when a man like old Erhardt was livingin the same Piazza will always remain a mysteryto me. He was the only one of my colleagues Iused to consult when in doubt, he always turnedout to be right and I not seldom wrong, but henever gave me away, he stood up for me wheneverhe had a chance and he had it often enough. Maybehe was somewhat unfamiliar with the latest conjuringtricks of our profession and kept aloof frommany of our newest miraculous patent drugs fromall lands and creeds. But he handled his welltested old pharmacopoeia with masterly skill, hispenetrating eyes detected the mischief wherever itlay lurking, there were no secrets left in lung orheart once he had put his stethoscope to his oldear. No modern discovery of any importance escapedhis notice. He was keenly interested inbacteriology and sero-therapeutics, then almost anew science, he knew his Pasteur at least as wellas I did. He was the first doctor in Italy to experimentwith Behring's anti-diphtheric serum,then not out of the experimental stage, and notavailable for the public, now saving the lives ofhundreds of thousands of children every year.

I am not likely ever to forget this experimentof his. Late one evening I was summoned to theGrand Hôtel by an urgent message from anAmerican gentleman with a letter of introductionfrom Professor Weir Mitchell. I was met in thehall by a furious-looking little man who told mein great agitation he had just arrived by the trainde luxe from Paris. Instead of the best suite ofrooms he had reserved, he and his family had beencrammed into two small bed-rooms with no sitting-roomand not even a bath-room. The director's wirethat the hotel was full had been sent too late andnever reached him. He had just telegraphed toRitz to protest against this sort of treatment. Tomake matters worse his little boy was ill with afeverish cold, his wife had been sitting up withhim the whole night in the train, would I be kindenough to come and see him at once? Two littlechildren were lying asleep in one bed, face to face,almost lips to lips. The mother looked anxiouslyat me and said the boy had been unable to swallowhis milk, she feared he had a sore throat. Thelittle boy was breathing laboriously with wide openmouth, his face was almost blue. I put the littlegirl still asleep on the mother's bed and told herthe boy had diphtheria and that I must send for anurse at once. She said she wanted to nurse theboy herself. I spent the night scraping off thediphtheric membranes from the boy's throat, hewas almost choking. Towards day-break I sent forDoctor Erhardt to help me with the tracheotomy,the boy was on the point of suffocation. The actionof the heart was already so bad that he darednot give him chloroform, we both hesitated tooperate, we feared the boy might die under theknife. I sent for the father, at the mention ofthe word diphtheria he rushed out of the room,the rest of the conversation took place throughthe half opened door. He would not hear of anoperation, spoke of sending for all the leadingdoctors of Rome to have their opinion. I said itwas unnecessary and besides too late, the decisionof operation or no operation remained with Erhardtand me. I wrapped a blanket round the littlegirl and told him to take her to his room. Hesaid he would give a million dollars to save the lifeof his son, I told him it was not a question of dollarsand banged the door in his face. The motherremained by the side of the bed, watching us withterror in her eyes, I told her that the operationmight have to be done at any moment, it wouldtake at least an hour to get a nurse, she wouldhave to help us. She nodded her assent withoutsaying a word, her face twitching under the effortto keep back her tears, she was a brave and a finewoman. While I was putting a clean towel onthe table under the lamp and preparing the instruments,Erhardt told me that by a strange coincidencehe had received that very morningthrough the German Embassy a sample of Behring'snew anti-diphtheric serum sent to him at hisrequest from the laboratory in Marburg. It had,as I knew, already been tried with remarkable successin several German clinics. Should we try theserum? There was no time for discussion, the boywas sinking rapidly, we both thought his chancesvery small. With the consent of the mother wedecided to inject the serum. The reaction wasterrific and almost instantaneous. His whole bodyturned black, his temperature sprang up to a hundredand six, suddenly to drop under normal in aviolent shivering fit. He was bleeding from hisnose and from his bowels, the action of the heartbecame very irregular, symptoms of immediatecollapse set in. None of us left the room duringthe whole day, we expected him to die any moment.To our surprise his breathing became easier towardsevening, the local conditions of the throat seemedsomewhat better, the pulse less irregular. I beggedold Erhardt to go home for a couple of hourssleep, he said he was too interested in watching thecase to feel any fatigue. With the arrival of SoeurPhilippine, the English Blue Sister, one of thebest nurses I have ever had, the rumor that diphtheriahad broken out on the top floor had spreadlike wildfire all over the crowded hotel. The directorsent me word that the boy must be removed atonce to a hospital or nursing home. I answeredthat neither Erhardt nor I would take the responsibility,he would certainly die on the way. Besideswe knew of no place to take him to, the arrangementsfor dealing with such an emergency casewere in those days hopelessly inadequate. A momentlater the Pittsburgh millionaire told methrough the half open door that he had orderedthe director to clear out the whole top floor at hisexpense, he would rather buy the whole GrandHôtel than have his son removed at the peril ofhis life. Towards the evening it became evidentthat the mother had caught the infection. Nextmorning the whole wing of the top floor had beenevacuated. Even the waiters and the chambermaidshad fled. Only Signor Cornacchia, the undertaker,was slowly patrolling up and down thedeserted corridor, top hat in hand. Now andthen the father looked in through the half opendoor almost crazy with terror. The mothergrew worse and worse, she was removed to theadjoining room in charge of Erhardt and anothernurse, I and Sister Philippine remainingwith the boy. Towards noon he collapsedand died of paralysis of the heart. The conditionof the mother was then so critical that wedared not tell her, we decided to wait till nextmorning. When I told the father that the bodyof the boy was to be taken to the mortuary ofthe Protestant Cemetery the same evening andmust be buried in twenty-four hours, he staggeredand nearly fell into the arms of SignorCornacchia who stood bowing respectfully byhis side. He said his wife would never forgivehim for leaving the boy in a strange land, hemust be buried in the family vault in Pittsburgh.I answered it was impossible, it wasforbidden by the law in such a case as thisto send the body away. A moment later thePittsburgh millionaire handed me through thehalf open door a cheque for a thousand poundsto be used at my discretion, he was willingto write out another cheque for whatever sumI liked but the body must be sent to America.I locked myself up in another room with SignorCornacchia and asked him what would bethe approximate price for a first class funeraland a grave in perpetuo in the Protestant Cemetery.He said times were hard, there had oflate been a rise in the price of coffins, aggravatedby an unforeseen falling off in the numberof clients. It was a point of honour tohim to make the funeral a success, ten thousandlire excluding tips would cover everything.There was also the gravedigger who, I knew,had eight children, the flowers of course wouldbe extra. Signor Cornacchia's oblong, felinepupils widened visibly as I told him that Iwas authorized to hand him the double of thatsum if he could arrange to have the body sentto Naples and put on board the next steamerfor America. I wanted his answer in twohours, I knew it was against the law, he hadto consult his conscience. I had already consultedmy own. I was going to embalm thebody myself that same night and have thelead coffin soldered in my presence. Havingthus satisfied myself that all possible danger ofinfection was excluded I was going to sign adeath certificate that the cause of death wasseptic pneumonia followed by paralysis of theheart, omitting the word diphtheria. SignorCornacchia's consultation with his consciencetook less time than anticipated, he returned anhour later, accepting the bargain on conditionthat half of the sum should be paid in advanceand without a receipt. I handed him the money.An hour later Erhardt and I performed tracheotomyon the mother, there is no doubt that theoperation saved her life.

The memory of that night haunts me stillwhenever I visit the beautiful little cemetery byPorta San Paolo. Giovanni, the gravedigger,stood waiting for me at the gate with a dimlantern. I suspected by the way he greeted methat he had had an extra glass of wine to steadyhimself for the night's work. He was to bemy only assistant, I had good reasons for wantingnobody else. The night was stormy andvery dark with pelting rain. A sudden gustof wind blew out the lantern, we had to gropeour way as best we could in pitch darkness.Half-way across the cemetery my foot stumbledagainst a heap of upturned earth, and I fellheadlong into a half-finished grave, Giovannisaid he had been digging it the same afternoonby order of Signor Cornacchia, luckilyit was not very deep, it was the grave of asmall child.

The embalmment proved to be a difficult andeven dangerous undertaking. The body wasalready in an advanced state of decomposition.The light was insufficient, and to my horror Icut myself slightly in the finger. A big owlkept on hooting the whole time behind theCestius Pyramid, I remember it well because itwas the first time the sound seemed to disagreewith me, me who have always been a great loverof owls.

I was back in the Grand Hôtel early in themorning. The mother had had a good night,her temperature had dropped to normal. Erhardtconsidered her out of danger. It was impossibleto postpone any longer telling her that her sonwas dead. As neither the father nor Erhardtwanted to tell her it fell to me to do it. Thenurse said she thought she already knew. Asshe had been sitting by her side the motherhad suddenly waked up from her sleep and triedto spring out of bed with a cry of distress, butfallen back in a swoon. The nurse thoughtshe was dead and was just rushing to call me whenI came in and said the boy had died that moment.The nurse was right in her belief. Before Ihad time to speak the mother looked me straightin the eyes and said she knew her son was dead.Erhardt seemed quite broken down by the deathof the boy, he reproached himself for having recommendedthe serum. Such was the integrity andthe straightforwardness of this fine old manthat he wanted to write a letter to the fatheralmost accusing himself of having caused thedeath of his son. I told him the responsibilitywas mine, I being in charge of the case and thatsuch a letter might make the father, alreadyhalf-crazy with grief, go off his head altogether.The next morning the mother was carried downand put into my carriage and taken to thenursing home of the Blue Sisters where I hadalso succeeded in getting a room for her littlegirl and her husband. Such was his fear ofdiphtheria that he presented me with his wholewardrobe, two big trunks full of clothes, not tospeak of his ulster and his top hat. I wasdelighted, second-hand clothes are often moreuseful than drugs. I persuaded him with difficultyto keep his gold repeater, his pocket aneroidis still in my possession. Before leaving thehotel the Pittsburgh millionaire settled quiteunconcerned the gigantic bill, which made mestagger. I superintended myself the disinfectionof the rooms and, remembering my trick in theHôtel Victoria in Heidelberg, I spent an hourcrawling about on my knees in the room theboy had died in, detaching the Brussels carpetnailed to the floor. That there could be anyspare room left in my head for thinking of theLittle Sisters of the Poor at that moment passesmy understanding. I can still see the faces ofthe hotel officials when I had the carpet broughtdown to my carriage and taken to the MunicipalDisinfection Establishment on the Aventine.I told the director that the Pittsburgh millionaireafter having paid for the carpet over threetimes its value, had presented it to me as asouvenir.

At last I drove home to Piazza di Spagna. Iposted on the front door a notice in Frenchand English that the Doctor was ill, pleaseaddress yourself to Dr. Erhardt, Piazza diSpagna, 28. I made myself a hypodermic injectionof a triple dose of morphia and sank downon the couch in my consulting-room with aswollen throat and a temperature of a hundredand five. Anna was quite frightened and wasmost anxious to send for Doctor Erhardt. Itold her I was all right, all I wanted was twenty-fourhours' sleep, she was not to disturb me unlessthe house was on fire.

The blessed drug began to spread forgetfulnessand peace in my exhausted brain, even the hauntingterror of the cut in my finger dropped out ofmy benumbed thoughts. I was falling asleep.Suddenly the front bell rang repeatedly, furiously.I heard from the hall the loud voice of a womanof unmistakable nationality arguing with Anna inbroken Italian.

"The doctor is ill, please address yourself toDoctor Erhardt next door."

No, she must speak at once to Doctor Muntheon very urgent business.

"The doctor is in bed, please go away."

No, she must see him at once, "take in my card."

"The doctor is asleep, please. . . ."

Asleep, with that terrible voice screaming in thehall, not I!

"What do you want?"

Anna had not time to hold her back, she liftedthe curtain to my room, a picture of health, strongas a horse, Mrs. Charles W. Washington LongfellowPerkins, Junior.

"What do you want?"

She wanted to know if there was any danger ofher catching diphtheria in the Grand Hôtel, shehad been given a room on the top floor, was it truethe boy had died on the first floor, she must notrun any risk.

"What is the number of your room?"

"Three hundred and thirty-five."

"By all means stay where you are. It is thecleanest room in the whole hotel, I have disinfectedit myself. It is the room the boydied in."

I sank back on the bed, through the bed itseemed to me, the morphia set to work oncemore.

The front bell rang again. Again I heard thesame pitiless voice in the hall telling Anna shehad just remembered the other question she hadcome to ask me, most important.

"The doctor is asleep."

"Throw her downstairs," I roared to Anna, halfher size.

No, she would not go, she must ask me thatquestion.

"What do you want?"

"I have broken a tooth, I fear it must bepulled out, what is the name of the best dentistin Rome?"

"Mrs. Washington Perkins, Junior, can youhear me?"

Yes, she could hear me quite well.

"Mrs. Perkins, Junior, for the first time in mylife I am sorry I am not a dentist, I would justlove to pull out all your teeth."

XXV
THE LITTLE SISTERS OF THE POOR

The Little Sisters of the Poor in San Pietroin Vincoli, about fifty in number andmost of them French, were all friends of mine,and so were many of the three hundred old menand women sheltered in the huge building. TheItalian doctor who was supposed to look afterall these people never showed me any sign ofprofessional jealousy, not even when the Pittsburghmillionaire's carpet from the Grand Hôtel,duly disinfected, was spread over the ice-coldstone floor of the chapel to the greatest delightof the Little Sisters. How these Sisters managedto provide food and clothing for all their inmateswas a mystery to me. Their rickety old cartcrawling about from hotel to hotel to collectwhatsoever scraps of food could be got, was afamiliar sight to all visitors of Rome in thosedays. Twenty Little Sisters, two by two, wereon their feet from morning till night with theirhuge hamper and their moneybox. Two ofthem were generally to be found standing in thecorner of my hall at the hour of my consultation,many of my former patients will no doubtremember them. Like all nuns they were veryjolly and full of fun, and they thoroughly enjoyeda little chat whenever there was a chance. Theywere both young and rather pretty—the MotherSuperior had long ago confided to me that oldand plain nuns were no good for collectingmoney. In return for her confidence I had toldher that a young and attractive looking nursehad a far greater chance of being obeyed by mypatients than a plain one, and that a sulkynurse was never a good nurse. These nuns whoknew so little of the world at large, knew a lotabout human nature. They knew at first sightwho was likely to put something in their moneyboxand who was not. Young people, thesenuns told me, gave generally more than oldpeople, children alas! seldom gave anythingexcept when told by their English nurses. Mengave more than women, people on foot morethan people sitting in their carriages. TheEnglish were their best customers, then camethe Russians. French tourists there were so fewabout. The Americans and the Germans weremore reluctant to part with their money, theupper class Italians were still worse but the Italianpoor were very generous. Royalties and clergy ofall nationalities were as a rule not very good clients.The hundred and fifty old men in their care wereon the whole easy to handle, not so the hundredand fifty old women, who were always quarrellingand fighting with one another. Terribledrames passionels were not seldom enacted betweenthe two wings of the home, when the Little Sistershad to try to extinguish the fires smouldering underthe cinders to the best of their limited understanding.

The pet of the house was Monsieur Alphonse,the tiniest little Frenchman you ever saw, wholived behind a pair of blue curtains in the cornerof the big ward, sixty beds in all. None of theother beds were provided with curtains, this wasa privilege granted to Monsieur Alphonse aloneas being the senior of the whole house. Hehimself said he was seventy-five, the Sistersbelieved he was over eighty, judging from thestate of his arteries I put him down as not farfrom ninety. He had come there several yearsago with a small handbag, a threadbare frockcoat and a top hat, nobody knew from where.He spent his days behind his curtains in strictestseclusion from all the other inmates, only toappear on Sundays when he strutted off to thechapel, top hat in hand. What he did behindhis curtains the whole day nobody knew. TheSisters said that when they brought him his plateof soup or his cup of coffee, another privilege,he was always sitting on his bed fumbling amonghis bundle of papers in the old bag or brushinghis top hat. Monsieur Alphonse was very particularabout receiving visitors. You were supposedto knock first at the little table by theside of the bed. He would then carefully lockup all his papers in his bag, call out in his pipingvoice: "Entrez, Monsieur!" and invite youwith an apologetic waving of his hand to sitdown by his side on the bed. He seemed toenjoy my visits and we soon became great friends.All my efforts to know something of his pastlife proved in vain, all I knew was that he was aFrenchman but not I should say a Parisian. Hedid not speak a word of Italian and seemed toknow nothing of Rome. He had not even beenin St. Peter's, but he meant to go there un deces quatre matins, as soon as he had time. TheSisters said he would never go there, he wouldnever go anywhere, though he was quite capableof trotting about if he wanted to. The realreason why he stayed at home on Thursdays,the day out for men, was the irremediablecollapse of his top hat and of his old frock coatfrom constant brushing.

The memorable day when he was made to tryon the Pittsburgh Millionaire's top hat and brandnew frock coat, latest American fashion, openedthe last chapter in Monsieur Alphonse's life,and perhaps the happiest. All the Sisters ofthe wards, even the Mother Superior, were downat the entrance door the following Thursday tosee him off as he stepped into my smart victoria,solemnly raising his new top hat to his admirers.

"Est-il chic!" they laughed as we drove off."On dirait un milord anglais!" We drove downthe Corso and made a short appearance on thePincio before we stopped at the Piazza di Spagnawhere Monsieur Alphonse had been invited toluncheon by me.

I should like to see the face of the man whocould have resisted the temptation to make thisinvitation a standing one for every Thursday tofollow. Sharp at one o'clock on every Thursdayof that winter my victoria deposited MonsieurAlphonse at 26 Piazza di Spagna. An hour laterwhen my consultation began he was escorted byAnna to the waiting carriage for his accustomeddrive round the Pincio. Then half-an-hour's stopat Café Aragno where Monsieur Alphonse satdown in his reserved corner for his cup of coffeeand his 'Figaro' with the air of an old ambassador.Another half hour of glorious life driving downthe Corso, eagerly looking out for some of hisacquaintances from Piazza di Spagna to whom toraise his new top hat. Then to vanish againbehind his blue curtains till the following Thursdaywhen he began brushing his top hat at daybreak,according to the Little Sisters. As oftenas not a friend or two dropped in to share theluncheon party to the huge delight of MonsieurAlphonse. More than one of them will surelystill remember him. None of them ever hadthe slightest suspicion of where he came from.He looked besides very neat and dapper in hislong, smart frock coat and in his new top hatwhich he was most reluctant to part with evenwhile at table. Not knowing myself what tomake out of Monsieur Alphonse, I had endedby turning him into a retired diplomat. All myfriends addressed him as "Monsieur le Ministre,"and Anna invariably called him "Vostra Eccellenza,"you should have seen his face! Luckilyhe was extremely deaf, and the conversation wasgenerally limited to a few polite remarks aboutthe Pope or about the scirocco. Anyhow I hadto keep a vigilant eye and ear upon the proceedings,ready to interfere at any moment to putaside the decanter or to come to his rescue atsome embarrassing question or some even moreembarrassing answer after his second glass ofFrascati. Monsieur Alphonse was an ardentroyalist, ready to overthrow the French Republicat any cost. He was expecting news any dayfrom a very confidential source to return toParis at any moment. So far we were on safeground, I had heard many Frenchmen abolishthe republic. But when he began to talk familymatters I had to be very careful lest he shouldlet the jealously kept secret of his past out ofthe bag. Luckily I was always warned in timeby his brother-in-law: mon beau-frère le sous-préfet.It was a tacit understanding betweenmy friends and me that at the very mentioningof this mysterious personage the decanter wasto be put away and not another drop of winepoured in Monsieur Alphonse's glass.

I remember it quite well, Waldo Storey, thewell known American sculptor and a particularfriend of Monsieur Alphonse, was lunching withus that Thursday. Monsieur Alphonse was intearing spirits and unusually talkative. Alreadybefore he had finished his first glass of Frascatihe was consulting Waldo about raising an armyof ex-Garibaldians to invade France and marchon Paris to overthrow the Republic. After allit was only a question of money, five millionfrancs would be ample, he was willing to raiseone million himself if it came to the worst.

I thought he looked somewhat flushed, I feltsure his brother-in-law was not far away. I gaveWaldo the usual signal not to give him anotherdrop of wine.

"Mon beau-frère le sous-préfet. . . ." hechuckled.

He stopped short as I pushed the decanterout of his reach and looked down on his plateas he used to do when he was somewhatvexed.

"Never mind," said I, "here's another glassof wine to your health, sorry to have vexedyou, and à bas la République! since you want itso."

To my surprise he did not stretch out his handtowards his glass. He sat quite still staring at hisplate. He was dead.

Nobody knew better than I what it wouldmean to Monsieur Alphonse and me, had I followedthe usual course and sent for the policeaccording to the law. Inspection of the bodyby the Medico-Legal Officer, perhaps a post-mortem,intervention of the French Consulate,last not least the stealing from the dead of hisonly possession, the secret of his past. Anna wassent down to tell the coachman to put up thehood, Monsieur Alphonse had had a faintingfit, I was going to take him home myself. Fiveminutes later Monsieur Alphonse was sitting bymy side in the carriage in his usual corner, thecollar of the Pittsburgh millionaire's ulster wellpulled over his ears, his top hat deep down on hisforehead as was his custom. He looked exactlyas he used to do, only that he looked much smallerthan in life, all dead people do.

"By the Corso?" asked the coachman.

"Yes, of course by the Corso, it is MonsieurAlphonse's favourite drive."

The Mother Superior was somewhat uneasy atfirst, but my certificate of: "death from heartfailure" dated from the home made it all rightwith the police regulations. In the eveningMonsieur Alphonse was put in his coffin withhis bag as a pillow for his old head, its key stillon its ribbon round his neck. The Little Sistersdo not ask any questions either of the living orof the dead. All they want to know of thosewho come to them for shelter is that they areold and hungry. The rest concerns God andnot them nor anybody else. They know quitewell that many of their inmates live and dieamong them under assumed names. I wantedto let him take his beloved top hat with him inthe coffin, but the Sisters said it would not do.I said I was sorry, I felt sure he would haveliked it.

******

One night I was awakened by an urgentmessage from the Little Sisters of the Poor tocome at once. All the wards of the huge buildingwere dark and silent but I heard the Sisterspraying in the chapel. I was let into a smallroom in the Sisters' quarters where I had neverbeen before. On the bed lay a nun, still young,her face white as the pillow under her head, hereyes closed, her pulse hardly perceptible. It wasLa Mère Générale des Petites Soeurs des Pauvreswho had arrived the same evening from Napleson her way back to Paris from a journey of inspectionround the world. She was in immediatedanger of death from a severe disease of theheart. I have stood by the bedside of kingsand queens and of famous men at an hour whentheir lives were at stake, maybe even in myhands. But I never felt the responsibility ofmy profession more heavily than I did that nightwhen this woman slowly opened her wonderfuleyes and looked at me:

"Faites ce que vous pouvez, Monsieur leDocteur," she murmured, "car quarante millepauvres dépendent de moi."

******

The Little Sisters of the Poor are toiling frommorning till night at their work, the most usefuland the most ungrateful form of charity I knowof. You need not come to Rome to find them,poverty and old age are all over the world andso are the Little Sisters of the Poor with theirempty hamper and their empty moneybox.Do put your suit of old clothes in their hamper,never mind your size, all sizes will do for theLittle Sisters of the Poor. Top hats are gettingout of fashion, you had better give them yourtop hat as well. There will always be in theirwards an old Monsieur Alphonse, hidden behinda pair of blue curtains, busy brushing his broken-downtop hat, the last vestige of bygone prosperity.Do send him on his day out for a joyridedown the Corso in your smart victoria. Itis much better for your liver to go for a longwalk in the Campagna with your dog. Doinvite him to luncheon next Thursday, there isno better stimulant for lost appetite than towatch a hungry man having his fill. Give himhis glass of Frascati wine to help him to forget,but put the decanter away when he begins toremember.

Do put some of your savings in the LittleSisters' moneybox, even a penny will do, believeme you never made a safer investment. Rememberwhat I have written on another pageof this book—what you keep to yourself youlose, what you give away you keep for ever.Besides you have no right to keep this money toyourself, it does not belong to you, money belongsto nobody up here. All money belongs to theDevil who sits at his counter night and daybehind his sacks of gold trading with humansouls. Do not hold on too long to the dirtycoin he puts in your hand, get rid of it as soonas you can or the cursed metal will soon burnyour fingers, penetrate into your blood, blindyour eyes, infect your thoughts and harden yourheart. Put it into the moneybox of the LittleSisters, or throw the damned stuff into thenearest gutter, it is the very place for it! Whatis the good of hoarding your money, it will soonbe taken from you in any case. Death hasanother key to your safe.

The gods sell all things at a fair price, said anold poet. He might have added that they selltheir best goods at the cheapest rate. All thatis really useful to us can be bought for littlemoney, it is only the superfluous that is put upfor sale at a high price. All that is really beautifulis not put up for sale at all but is offeredus as a gift by the immortal gods. We areallowed to watch the sun rise and set, the cloudssailing along in the sky, the forests and the fields,the glorious sea, all without spending a penny.The birds sing to us for nothing, the wild flowerswe may pick as we are walking along by the roadside.There is no entrance fee to the starlit hallof the Night. The poor man sleeps better thanthe rich man. Simple food tastes in the longrun better than food from Ritz. Contentmentand peace of mind thrive better in a smallcountry cottage than in the stately palace in atown. A few friends, a few books, indeed avery few, and a dog is all you need to have aboutyou as long as you have yourself. But youshould live in the country. The first town wasplanned by the Devil, that is why God wantedto destroy the tower of Babel.

Have you ever seen the Devil? I have. Hewas standing leaning his arms against the parapetof the tower of Notre Dame. His wings werefolded, his head was resting in the palms of hishands. His cheeks were hollow, his tongue wasprotruding between his foul lips. Pensive andgrave he looked down on Paris at his feet.Motionless and rigid as if he were of stone, hehas been standing there for nearly a thousandyears gloating over the city of his choice as ifhe could not tear his eyes away from what hesaw. Was this the arch-fiend whose very namehad filled me with awe since I was a child, theformidable champion of evil in the struggle betweenright and wrong?

I looked at him with surprise. I thought helooked far less wicked than I had imagined, Ihad seen worse faces than his. There was noglimmer of triumph in those stony eyes, he lookedold and weary, weary of his easy victories,weary of his Hell.

Poor old Beelzebub! Maybe when all is saidit is not altogether your fault when things gowrong up here in our world. After all it wasnot you who gave life to this world of ours, itwas not you who let loose sorrow and deathamongst men. You were born with wings andnot with claws, it was God who turned you intoa devil and hurled you to his hell to be the keeperof his damned. Surely you would not havestood here in storm and rain on the top of thetower of Notre Dame for a thousand years hadyou liked your job. I am sure it is not easy tobe a devil for one who was born with wings.Prince of Darkness, why don't you extinguishthe fire in your subterranean kingdom and comeup to settle amongst us in a big town—believeme the country is no place for you—as a privategentleman of means with nothing to do thewhole day but eat and drink and hoard yourmoney. Or if you must increase your capitaland try your hand at some new congenial job,why don't you open another gambling hell inMonte Carlo or start a brothel or become a usurerto the poor or the proprietor of a travellingmenagerie with defenceless wild animals starvingbehind their iron bars! Or if you want a changeof air why don't you go to Germany and startanother factory for your latest poison gas!Who but you could have directed their blind airraid over Naples and dropped their incendiarybomb on the home of the Little Sisters of thePoor among their three hundred old men andwomen!

But will you allow me in return for the adviceI have given you to ask you a question? Whydo you put out your tongue like that? I donot know how it is looked upon in hell, but, withall respect to you, amongst us it is looked uponas a sign of defiance and disrespect. Pardon me,sire, at whom are you putting out your tonguethe whole time?

XXVI
MISS HALL

Many of my patients of those days willsurely remember Miss Hall, indeed onceseen she was not easily forgotten. Great Britainalone, Great Britain at its very best, could haveproduced this unique type of the early Victorianspinster, six feet three inches, dry and stiff likea stick, arida nutrix of at least two unborngenerations of Scotchmen. During the fifteenyears I knew Miss Hall I never saw any changein her appearance, always the same glorious faceenshrined by the same curls of faded gold, alwaysthe same gaily-coloured dress, always the samebower of roses in her hat. How many years ofuneventful life Miss Hall had spent in varioussecond-class Roman pensions in search of adventure,I do not know. But I know that the dayshe met Tappio and me in the Villa Borgheseher real mission in life began, she had foundherself at last. She spent her mornings brushingand combing the dogs in my ice-cold back sitting-roomunder the Trinità dei Monti steps only toreturn to her pension for luncheon. At threeo'clock she sailed forth from Keats' house acrossthe Piazza with Giovannina and Rosina, half hersize, on each side of her in their wooden shoes withtheir red handkerchiefs round their heads andsurrounded by all my dogs barking joyously inanticipation of their walk in Villa Borghese—afamiliar sight to the whole Piazza di Spagna inthose days. Giovannina and Rosina belongedto the San Michele household, better servants Ihave never had, light of hand and foot, singingthe whole day at their work. Of course nobodybut I could ever have dreamt of taking these twohalf-tamed Anacapri girls to Rome. It wouldbesides never have worked had not Miss Hallturned up in time to become a sort of foster-motherto them, to watch over them with thesolicitude of an old hen over her chickens. MissHall said she could never understand why I didnot allow the girls to walk about alone in theVilla Borghese, she had been walking all overRome by herself for many years without anybodyever having taken any notice of her or saida word to her. True to her type Miss Hall hadnever succeeded in saying a single word of comprehensibleItalian, but the girls understood herquite well and were very fond of her, althoughI fear they did not take her more seriously thanI did. Of me Miss Hall saw very little, and Isaw even less of her, I never looked at her whenI could help it. On the rare occasions whenMiss Hall was invited to be present at myluncheon, a huge flower vase was always placedon the table between us. Although Miss Hallwas strictly forbidden to look at me, she neverthelessmanaged now and then to pop her headover the flower-vase and have a shot at me fromthe corner of her old eye. Miss Hall neverseemed to understand how beastly selfish andungrateful I was in return for all she did for me.Considering her limited means of communication—MissHall was not allowed to ask me anyquestions—she succeeded somehow in finding outa good deal of what was going on in the houseand what people I saw. She kept a vigilant eyeon all my lady patients, she used to patrol thePiazza for hours to see them coming in and outduring my consultations. With the opening ofthe Grand Hôtel, Ritz had dealt a final blowto the vanishing simplicity of Roman life. Thelast invasion of the barbarians had begun, theEternal City had become fashionable. The hugehotel was crammed with the smart set from Londonand Paris, American millionaires and leadingrastaqouères from the Riviera. Miss Hallknew all these people by name, she had watchedthem for years through the society columns ofthe 'Morning Post.' As to the English nobilityMiss Hall was a perfect encyclopedia. Sheknew by heart the birth and the coming of ageof their sons and heirs, the betrothal and themarriage of their daughters, the dresses theyhad worn when presented at Court, their dances,their dinner-parties, their journeys abroad. Manyof these smart people ended by becoming mypatients whether they wanted it or not, to thehuge delight of Miss Hall. Others, unable tobe alone a single moment, invited me to lunchor dinner. Others called at Piazza di Spagnato see the room Keats had died in. Othersstopped their carriages in the Villa Borgheseto pat my dogs with some complimentary wordsto Miss Hall how well they were groomed. GraduallyMiss Hall and I emerged hand in hand fromour natural obscurity into the higher spheres ofsociety. I went out a good deal that winter.I had still a lot to learn from these easy-goingidlers, their capacity for doing nothing, theirgood spirits, their good sleep puzzled me. MissHall now kept a special diary of the socialevents of my daily life. Beaming with prideshe trotted about in her best frock leaving mycards right and left. The lustre of our ascendingstar grew brighter and brighter, higher andhigher went our way, nothing could stop us anymore. One day as Miss Hall was walking withthe dogs in the Villa Borghese a lady with ablack poodle on her lap signalled to her to comeup to her carriage. The lady patted the Laplanddog and said it was she who had given Tappio asa tiny puppy to the doctor. Miss Hall felt herold knees shaking under her, it was H.R.H. theCrown Princess of Sweden! A beautiful gentleman,seated by her illustrious side, stretchedout his hand with a charming smile and actuallysaid:

"Hullo, Miss Hall, I have heard a lot about youfrom the doctor."

It was H.R.H. Prince Max of Baden, thehusband of nobody less than the niece of herbeloved Queen Alexandra! From that memorableday Miss Hall abandoned the smart set ofthe Grand Hôtel to devote all her spare time toroyalties, there were at least half-a-dozen ofthem that winter in Rome. She stood for hoursoutside their hotels waiting for a chance to seethem coming in or out, she watched them withbent head driving on the Pincio or in the VillaBorghese, she followed them like a detective inthe churches and the museums. On Sundaysshe sat in the English church in Via Babuino asnear to the Ambassador's pew as she dared, withone eye on her prayer-book and the other on aRoyal Highness, straining her old ear to catchthe particular sound of the royal voice in thesinging of the congregation, praying for the RoyalFamily and their relations in every land with thefervour of an early Christian.

Soon Miss Hall started another diary, entirelydevoted to our associations with Royalty. Theprevious Monday she had had the honour tocarry a letter from the doctor to H.R.H. theGrand Duchess of Weimar at the Hôtel Quirinale.The porter had given her an answer adornedwith the Grandducal crown of Saxe and Weimar.The envelope had been graciously presented toher by the doctor as a precious souvenir. OnWednesday she had been entrusted with a letterfor H.R.H. the Infanta Eulalia of Spain in theGrand Hôtel. Unfortunately there was no answer.One afternoon, as she was with the dogs in theVilla Borghese, Miss Hall had noticed a talllady in black walking rapidly up and down aside alley. She recognized her at once as thesame lady she had seen in the garden of SanMichele, standing motionless by the Sphinx andlooking out over the sea with her beautiful, sadeyes. As the lady passed before her now, shesaid something to her companion and stretchedout her hand to pat Gialla, the borzoi. Judgeof Miss Hall's consternation when a detectivecame up to her and told her to move on at oncewith the dogs—it was H.I.H. the Empress ofAustria and her sister Countess Trani! Howcould the doctor have been so cruel not to havetold her in the summer? Only by a mere accidentdid she know much later that a week afterthe lady's visit to San Michele the doctor hadreceived a letter from the Austrian Embassy inRome with an offer to buy San Michele andthat the would-be purchaser was no less a personthan the Empress of Austria. Luckily the doctorhad declined the offer, it would indeed be apity if he should sell a place like San Michelewith such unique opportunities for seeing Royalties!Had she not last summer for weeks beenwatching at a respectful distance a granddaughterof her own beloved Queen Victoria, painting inthe pergola! Had not a cousin of the Tsar himselfbeen living there for a whole month! Hadshe not had the honour to stand behind thekitchen door to see the Empress Eugénie passbefore her at an arm's length the first time shecame to San Michele. Had she not heard withher own ears H.I.H. say to the doctor that shehad never seen a more striking likeness to thegreat Napoleon than the head of Augustus thedoctor had dug up in his garden! Had she notseveral years later heard the commanding voiceof the Kaiser himself lecturing to his suite onthe various antiquities and works of art as theypassed along accompanied by the doctor whohardly opened his mouth! Close to where shestood hidden behind the cypresses, H.I.H. hadpointed to a female torso half covered by the ivyand told his suite that what they saw was worthyof a place of honour in his Museum in Berlin, forall he knew it might be an unknown masterpieceby Phidias himself. Horror-struck MissHall had heard the doctor say it was the onlyfragment in San Michele that was not good. Ithad been dumped upon him by a well meaningpatient who had bought it in Naples, it wasCanova at his worst. To Miss Hall's great regretthe party had left almost immediately for theMarina to embark on their dispatch boat Sleipnerfor Naples.

A propos of the Empress of Austria I musttell you, that Miss Hall was a K.C. of the ImperialOrder of St. Stefan. This high distinction hadbeen bestowed upon Miss Hall one day by mewhen my conscience must have been particularlybad, as a reward for her faithful services to meand my dogs. Why it had been bestowed uponmyself I had never succeeded in understanding.Miss Hall received this decoration from my handswith bent head and tear-filled eyes. She said shewould take it with her to her grave. I said Isaw no objection, she was sure to go to Heavenanyhow. But that she would take it with herto the British Embassy I had not anticipated.I had succeeded in obtaining from kind LordDufferin an invitation for Miss Hall to thereception at the Embassy in honour of the Queen'sbirthday, all the English colony in Rome havingbeen invited except poor Miss Hall. Overwhelmedwith joyful anticipation Miss Hall hadbeen invisible for several days, hard at workwith her toilette. Judge of my consternationwhen on presenting Miss Hall to her ambassador,I saw Lord Dufferin screw in his monacle andstare speechless at Miss Hall's sternum. LuckilyLord Dufferin was not an Irishman for nothing.All he did was to take me aside with a roar oflaughter and make me promise to keep MissHall out of the sight of his Austrian colleague.Miss Hall told me as we drove home that it hadbeen the proudest day of her life. Lord Dufferinhad been most gracious to her, everybody hadsmiled at her, she felt sure her toilette had beena great success.

Yes, it is all very well to make fun of MissHall! But I should like to know what will becomeof Royalty when Miss Hall is no more thereto keep a diary of their doings, to watch themwith shaking knees and bent head driving on thePincio and in the Villa Borghese, to pray forthem in the English church of Via Babuino? Whatwill become of their stars and ribbons when mankindwill have outgrown playing with toys? Whynot give them all to Miss Hall and be done withthem! There will always remain the V.C., we alluncover our heads to courage face to face withdeath. Do you know why the V.C. is so rare inthe British Army? Because bravery in its highestform, Napoleon's courage de la nuit, seldom getsthe V.C. and because courage unassisted by luckbleeds to death unrewarded.

Next after the V.C. the most coveted Englishdecoration is the Garter—it would be an evil dayfor England if the order should ever be reversed.

"I like the Garter," said Lord Melbourne,"there is no damned merit about it."

My friend the Swedish Minister in Romeshowed me only the other day the copy of aletter of mine written nearly twenty years ago.The original he said he had forwarded to theSwedish Foreign Office for perusal and meditation.It was a belated answer to a repeatedofficial request from the Swedish Legation thatI should at least have the decency to acknowledgewith thanks the receipt of the Messinamedal bestowed on me by the Italian Governmentfor something I was supposed to havedone during the earthquake. The letter ran asfollows:

"Your Excellency,

"My guiding principle in the matter ofdecorations has so far been only to accept adecoration if I had done nothing whatsoever todeserve it. A glance at the Red Book will makeyou realize the remarkable results of my strictadherence to this principle during a number ofyears. The new method suggested by your Excellency'sletter, i.e. to seek public recognitionfor what little useful work I may have tried to do,seems to me a risky undertaking of doubtful practicalvalue. It would only bring confusion into myphilosophy, and it might irritate the immortal gods.I slipped unnoticed out of the cholera slums ofNaples, I mean to do the same from the ruins ofMessina. I need no commemorative medal to rememberwhat I saw."

******

As it happens, I must admit that this letteris all humbug. The Swedish Minister never returnedmy Messina medal to the Italian Government,I have got it somewhere in a drawer, witha clear conscience and no greater confusion inmy philosophy than before. There was in factno reason why I should not accept this medal,for what I did in Messina was very little comparedwith what I saw hundreds of unnamedand unrecorded people do at the peril of theirlives. I myself was in no peril except that ofdying from hunger and from my own stupidity.It is true that I brought a number of half-suffocatedpeople back to life by means of artificialrespiration, but there are few doctors, nurses orcoastguards who have not done the same fornothing. I know that I dragged single-handedan old woman from what had been her kitchenbut I also know that I abandoned her in thestreet screaming for help, with her two legs broken.There was indeed nothing else for me to do, untilthe arrival of the first hospital ship no dressingmaterial and no medicine whatsoever was obtainable.There was also the naked baby I foundlate one evening in a courtyard, I took it to mycellar where it slept peacefully the whole night,tucked under my coat, now and then sucking mythumb in its sleep. In the morning I took it tothe nuns of S. Teresa in what remained of theirchapel where already over a dozen babies werelying on the floor screaming with hunger, as fora whole week not a drop of milk could be foundin Messina. I always marvelled at the numberof unhurt babies picked out of the ruins or foundin the streets, it almost looked as if AlmightyGod had shown a little moreon the grown-up people. The aqueduct havingbeen broken, there was no water either exceptfrom a few stinking wells, polluted by the thousandsof putrefied bodies strewn all over thetown. No bread, no meat, hardly any macaroni,no vegetables, no fish, most of the fishing-boatshaving been swamped or smashed to pieces bythe tidal wave which swept over the beach, carryingaway over a thousand people, huddled therefor safety. Hundreds of them were hurled backon the sand, where they lay for days rotting inthe sun. The biggest shark I have ever seen—thestrait of Messina is full of sharks—was alsothrown up on the sand, still alive. I watchedwith hungry eyes when he was being cut open,hoping to snatch a slice for myself. I had alwaysbeen told that the flesh of the shark is very good.In his belly was the whole leg of a woman in awoollen red stocking and a thick boot, amputatedas by a surgeon's knife. It is quite possiblethat there were other than sharks that tastedhuman flesh during those days, the less saidabout it the better. Of course the thousands ofhomeless dogs and cats, sneaking about the ruinsduring night, lived on nothing else, until theywere caught and devoured by the living wheneverthere was a chance. I myself have roasteda cat over my spirit lamp. Luckily there wereplenty of oranges, lemons and mandarins to stealin the gardens. Wine was plentiful, the lootingof the thousands of wine cellars and wine shopsbegan the very first day, most people were moreor less drunk in the evening, myself included, itwas a real blessing, it took away the faintingsensation of hunger, and few people would havedared to fall asleep had they been sober. Shocksoccurred almost every night, followed by theroar of falling houses and renewed screams ofterror from the people in the streets. On thewhole I slept rather well in Messina, notwithstandingthe inconvenience of having constantlyto change my sleeping quarters. The cellarswere of course the safest place to sleep in ifone could overcome the haunting fear of beingentrapped like a rat by a falling wall. Betterstill was to sleep under a tree in an orange grovebut after two days of torrential rain the nightsbecame too cold for a man whose whole outfitwas in the haversack on his back. I tried toconsole myself as best I could for the loss of mybeloved Scotch cape by the thought that it wasprobably wrapped round some even more dilapidatedgarments than my own. I would howevernot have exchanged them for anythingbetter even had I had a chance. Only a verybrave man would have felt comfortable in adecent suit of clothes among all these peoplesaved in their nightshirts, maddened by terror,hunger and cold—he would besides not havekept it for long. That robbery from the livingand the dead, assaults, even murders, occurredfrequently before the arrival of the troops andthe declaration of martial law is not to be wonderedat. I know of no country where they wouldnot have occurred under similar indescribablecircumstances. To make matters worse, the lawof irony had willed it that while of the eighthundred carabinieri in the Collegio Militare onlyfourteen escaped alive, the first shock openedthe cells for over four hundred unhurt professionalmurderers and thieves on life sentences inthe prison by the Capuccini. That these gaol-birds,after having looted the shops for clothesand the armourers for revolvers, had a real goodtime in what remained of the rich city is certain.They even broke open the safe of the Banco diNapoli, killing two night watchmen. Such washowever the terror that prevailed in all mindsthat many of these bandits preferred to givethemselves up and be locked up in the hull ofa steamer in the harbour, rather than remain inthe doomed city, notwithstanding their uniqueopportunities. As far as I am concerned Iwas never molested by anybody, on the contrarythey were all touchingly kind and helpful to meas they were to each other. Those who had gothold of any clothing or food were always gladto share it with those who had not. I was evenpresented by an unknown shoplifter with a smartquilted ladies' dressing-gown, one of the mostwelcome presents I have ever received. Oneevening, in passing by the ruins of a palazzo, Inoticed a well-dressed man throwing down somepieces of bread and a bundle of carrots to twohorses and a little donkey imprisoned in theirunderground stable, I could just see the doomedanimals through a narrow chink in the wall. Hetold me he came there twice a day with whateverscraps of food he could get hold of, thesight of these poor animals dying of hunger andthirst, was so painful to him that he would rathershoot them with his revolver if only he had thecourage, but he had never had the courage toshoot any animal, not even a quail.[1] I lookedin surprise at his handsome, intelligent and rathersympathetic face and asked him if he was aSicilian, he said he was not but that he hadlived in Sicily for several years. It began torain heavily and we walked away. He askedme where I was living and when I answerednowhere in particular, he looked at my drenchedclothes and offered to put me up for the night,he was living with two friends close by. Wegroped our way among huge blocks of masonryand piles of smashed furniture of all descriptions,descended a flight of steps and stood in a largeunderground kitchen dimly lit by an oil-lampunder a colour print of the Madonna stuck upon the wall. There were three mattresses onthe floor, Signor Amedeo said I was welcome tosleep on his, he and his two friends were to beaway the whole night to search for some of theirbelongings under the ruins of their houses. Ihad an excellent supper, the second decent mealI had had since my arrival at Messina. Thefirst had been a couple of days before when Ihad unexpectedly come upon a joyous luncheonparty in the garden of the American Consulate,presided over by my old friend Winthrop Chanler,who had arrived the same morning in his yachtloaded with provisions for the starving city. Islept soundly the whole night on Signor Amedeo'smattress, only to be awakened in the morningby the safe return of my host and his two friendsfrom their perilous night expedition—perilousindeed, as I knew that troops were ordered toshoot at sight any person attempting to carryanything away, were it even from the ruins ofhis own house. They flung their bundles underthe table and themselves on their mattresses andwere all fast asleep when I left. Dead tiredthough he looked, my kind host had not forgottento tell me that I was welcome to staywith him as long as I liked, and of course Iasked for nothing better. The next evening Ihad supper again with Signor Amedeo, his twofriends were already fast asleep on their mattresses,they were all three to be off again fortheir night's work after midnight. A kinder manthan my host I never saw. When he heard Iwas out of cash, he offered at once to lend mefive hundred lire, I regret to say I owe him themstill. I could not help expressing my surprise thathe was willing to lend his money to a strangerof whom he knew nothing. He answered me witha smile that I would not be sitting by his side ifhe did not trust me.

[Footnote 1:] Itmight interest animal lovers to know that these twohorses and the little donkey were got out alive on the seventeenthday after the earthquake and that they recovered.

Late the following afternoon as I was crawlingamong the ruins of the Hôtel Trinacria in searchof the corpse of the Swedish Consul, I was suddenlyconfronted with a soldier pointing his rifleat me. I was arrested and taken to the nearestpost. Having overcome the preliminary difficultyof locating my obscure country and havingscrutinized my permit signed by the prefect,the officer in charge let me off, my only corpusdelicti consisting in a half-carbonized SwedishConsular Register. I left the post rather uneasy,for I had noticed the somewhat puzzled look inthe officer's eye when I had told him I was unableto give my exact address, I did not evenknow the name of the street my kind host wasliving in. It was already quite dark, soon Istarted running, for I imagined I heard stealthyfootsteps behind me as if somebody was followingme, but I reached my sleeping quarters withoutfurther adventures. Signor Amedeo and histwo friends were already asleep on their mattresses.Hungry as usual I sat down to thesupper my kind host had left for me on thetable. I meant to keep awake till they wereabout to start and offer Signor Amedeo to helphim that night in his search for his belongings.I was just saying to myself that it was the leastI could do in return for his kindness to me whenI suddenly heard a sharp whistle and the soundof footsteps. Somebody was coming down thestairs. In an instant the three men asleep onthe mattresses sprang to their feet. I hearda shot, a carabiniere fell headlong down the stairson the floor at my very feet. As I bent rapidlyover him to see if he was dead I distinctly sawSignor Amedeo pointing his revolver at me. Thesame instant the room was full of soldiers, Iheard another shot, after a desperate strugglethe three men were overpowered. As my hostpassed before me, handcuffed, with a stout ropetied round his arms and legs, he raised his headand looked at me with a wild flash of hatredand reproach that made the blood freeze in myveins. Half an hour later I was back again atthe same post, where I was locked up for thenight. In the morning I was interrogated againby the same officer to whose intelligence andkindness I probably owe my life. He told methe three men were escaped prisoners on life sentencein the prison by the Capuccini, all "pericolosissimi."Amedeo was a famous bandit whohad terrorized the country round Girgenti foryears with a record of eight homicides. It wasalso he and his gang who had broken into theBanco di Napoli and killed the watchmen theprevious night while I was sound asleep on hismattress. The three men had been shot at daybreak.They had asked for a priest, had confessedtheir sins and had died fearlessly. Thepolice officer said he wished to compliment mefor the important rôle I had played in theircapture. I looked him in the eye and said Iwas not proud of my achievement. I had realizedlong ago that I was not fit to play the rôle of anaccuser and still less the rôle of an executioner.It was not my business, maybe it was his, maybeit was not. God knew how to strike when Hewished to strike, He knew how to take a life aswell as how to give it.

Unfortunately for me my adventure reachedthe ears of some newspaper correspondents hangingabout outside the Military Zone—no newspapercorrespondents could enter the town inthose days and for good reason—in search ofsensational news, the more incredible the better;and surely this story would seem incredible enoughto those who were not in Messina during the firstweek after the earthquake. Only a lucky mutilationof my name saved me from becoming famous.But when I was informed by those whoknew the long arm of the Mafia that it would notsave me from being murdered if I remained inMessina, I sailed the next day with some coastguardsacross the straits to Reggio.

Reggio itself, where twenty thousand peoplehad been killed outright by the first shock, wasindescribable and unforgettable. Still more terrifyingwas the sight of the small coast townsstrewn among the orange groves, Scilla, Canitello,Villa S. Giovanni, Gallico, Archi, San Gregorio,formerly perhaps the most beautiful land in Italy,now a vast cemetery for more than thirty thousanddead and several thousand wounded lyingamong the ruins during two nights of torrentialrain followed by an ice-cold tramontana, withoutany assistance whatsoever, and many thousandsof half-naked people running about in thestreets like lunatics, screaming for food. Furthersouth the intensity of the seismic convulsionseemed to have reached its climax. In Pellaro,for instance, where only a couple of hundred ofits five thousand inhabitants escaped alive, Iwas unable to distinguish even where the streetshad been. The church, crammed with terrifiedpeople, collapsed at the second shock, killingthem all. The churchyard was strewn with split-opencoffins, literally shot out of the graves—Ihad already seen the same ghastly sight in thecemetery of Messina. On the heap of ruins wherethe church had stood sat a dozen womenshivering in their rags. They did not cry, theydid not speak, they sat there quite still with bentheads and half-closed eyes. Now and then oneof them lifted her head and stared with vacanteyes towards a shabby old priest, gesticulatingwildly among a group of men close by. Nowand then he raised his clenched fist with aterrific curse in the direction of Messina acrossthe waters, Messina, the city of Satan, the Sodomand Gomorrah in one, the cause of all theirmisery. Had he not always prophesied that thecity of the sinners would end with——? A seriesof sussultory and undulatory gesticulations withboth his hands in the air left no doubt what theprophecy had been. Castigo di Dio! Castigodi Dio!

I gave the woman next to me with a babyin her lap a little loaf of stale bread from myhaversack. She grabbed it without saying aword, handed me instantly an orange from herpocket, bit off a piece of the bread to put it inthe mouth of the woman behind her on the pointof becoming a mother and started devouring therest ravenously like a starving animal. She toldme in a low, monotonous voice how she, withthe baby at her breast, had escaped, she did notknow how, when the house tumbled down at thefirst "staccata," how she had worked till thefollowing day to try to drag out her other twochildren and their father from the wreckage, shecould hear their moans till it was broad daylight.Then came another staccata and all was silent.She had an ugly cut across the forehead, but her"creatura"—the touching word the mothers calltheir babies here—was quite unhurt, grazie aDio. As she spoke, she put the baby to thebreast, a magnificent little boy, entirely naked,strong as the infant Hercules, evidently not inthe least the worse for what had happened. Ina basket by her side slept another baby under somewisps of rotten straw; she had picked it up inthe street, nobody knew to whom it belonged.As I stood up to go, the motherless baby beganto fret, she snatched it from the basket and putit to her other breast. I looked at the humbleCalabrian peasant woman, strong limbed andbroad bosomed with the two splendid babies suckingvigorously at her breasts, and suddenly Iremembered her name. She was the Demeter ofthe Magna Graecia where she was born, theMagna Mater of the Romans. She was MotherNature, from her broad bosom flowed the riverof life as before over the graves of the hundredthousand dead. O Death, where is Thy sting?O Grave, where is Thy victory?

******

To return to Miss Hall: With all these royaltieson her hands it became increasingly difficultfor her to control the coming and going of mylady patients. My hope to have done with neuroticwomen when I left Paris had not beenfulfilled, my consulting-room in the Piazza diSpagna was full of them. Some of them wereold and dreaded acquaintances from Avenue deVilliers, others had been dumped upon me in ever-increasingnumbers by various worn-out nervespecialists in legitimate self-defence. The dozensof undisciplined and unhinged ladies of all agesthat Professor Weir-Mitchell alone used to handover to me would be enough to test the solidityof any man's brain and patience. ProfessorKraft-Ebing of Vienna, the famous author of'Psychopathia Sexualis,' was also constantlysending me patients of both sexes and of no sex,all more or less difficult to handle, specially thewomen. To my great surprise and satisfactionI had also been attending of late a good manypatients with various nervous disorders, undoubtedlyaddressed to me by the master of theSalpêtrière, though never with a word in writing.Many of these patients were ill definedborder-cases, more or less irresponsible for theiracts. Some were nothing less than disguisedlunatics, up to anything. It is easy to be patientwith lunatics, I confess to a sneaking likingfor them. With a little kindness one comes toterms with most of them as often as not. But itis not easy to be patient with hysterical women,and as to being kind to them, one had betterthink it over twice before being too kind to them,they ask for nothing better. As a rule you cando but little for these patients, at least outsidethe hospital. You can stun their nerve centreswith sedatives but you cannot cure them. Theyremain what they are, a bewildering complex ofmental and physical disorders, a plague to themselvesand to their families, a curse to their doctors.Hypnotic treatment, so beneficial in manyhitherto incurable mental troubles, is as a rulecontra-indicated in the treatment of hystericalwomen of all ages, hysteria has no age limit.It should in any case be limited to Charcot'ssuggestion à l'état de veille. It is besides unnecessary,for these helpless women are in any casealready too willing to be influenced by their doctor,to depend upon him too much, to imagine heis the only one who can understand them, to hero-worshiphim. Sooner or later the photographsbegin to turn up, there is nothing to be done,"il faut passer par la," as Charcot used to saywith his grim smile. My dislike of photographsis of old date, personally I have never submittedto be photographed since I was sixteen yearsold, except for the unavoidable snapshots formy passport when I served in the Red Crossduring the war. I have never taken any interesteven in the photographs of my friends, I canat will reproduce their unretouched features onmy retina with far more exactitude than canthe best of photographers. For the student ofpsychology an ordinary photograph of a humanface is besides of scant value. But old Anna wastremendously interested in photographs. Fromthe memorable day of her promotion from thehumblest of all the flower sellers in Piazza diSpagna to open the door in Keats' house, Annahad become a keen collector of photographs.Often, after having blown her up too harshlyfor some of her many shortcomings, I used todespatch the dove of peace with a photographin her beak to Anna's little dug-out under theTrinità dei Monti steps. When at last worn outby insomnia, I left Keats' house for good, Annagrabbed a whole drawer in my writing table fullof photographs of all sizes and descriptions. Forthe sake of truth I am bound to admit I was gladto get rid of them. Anna is quite innocent, Ialone am the culprit. On a short visit to Londonand Paris the following spring, I was struckby the aloofness, not to say coolness of severalof my former patients and their relatives. Inpassing through Rome on my return journey toCapri I had just time to dine at the SwedishLegation. I thought the Minister seemed rathersulky, even my charming hostess was unusuallysilent. As I was leaving for the station to catchthe night train to Naples, my old friend told meit was high time I returned to San Micheleto remain there for the rest of my days amongmy dogs and monkeys. I was not fit for anyother society, I had broken my own recordwith my last performance when leaving Keats'house. In a furious voice he went on to tellme that on Christmas Eve on passing throughPiazza di Spagna, thronged with tourists asusual that day, he had come upon Anna in thedoorway of Keats' house before a table full ofphotographs, yelling to the passers-by in a shrillvoice:

"Venite a vedere questa bellissima signorinacoi cappelli ricci, ultimo prezzo due lire."

"Guardate la Signora Americana, guardateche collana di perle, guardate che orecchini conbrillanti, ve la do per due cinquanta, una veracombinazione!"

"Non vi fate scappare questa nobile marchesa,tutta in pelliccia!"

"Guardate questa duchessa, tutta scollata, investe di ballo e con la corona in testa, quattro lire,un vero regalo!"

"Ecco la Signora Bocca Aperta, prezzo ridottouna lira e mezzo."

"Ecco la Signora Mezza Pazza, rideva sempre,ultima prezzo una lira!"

"Ecco la Signora Capa Rossa che puzzavasempre di liquore, una lira e mezzo."

"Ecco la Signorina dell'Albergo di Europache era impazzita per il Signor Dottore due lire emezzo."

"Vedete la Signora Francese che portava viail porta sigarette sotto il mantello, povera signora,non era colpa sua, non aveva la testa apposto,prezzo ristretto una lira."

"Ecco la Signora Russa che voleva ammazzarela civetta, due lire, ne anche un soldo di meno."

"Ecco la Baronessa Mezzo Uomo Mezza Donna,mamma mia, non si capisce niente, il Signor Dottorediceva che era nata cosi, due lire venti cinque,una vera occasione."

"Ecco la Contessina Bionda che il SignorDottore voleva tanto bene, guardate com'e carina,non meno di tre lire!"

"Ecco la . . ."

In the midst of all the ladies throned his owncabinet photo, in full dress uniform, decorationsand cocked hat and in the corner: "To A.M.from his old friend C.B." Anna said she waswilling to part with it at the reduced price ofone lira as she was dealing chiefly in ladies'photographs. The Legation had received heapsof letters from several of my former patients,their fathers, husbands and sweethearts, protestingindignantly against this scandal. Aninfuriated Frenchman who on his honeymoon inRome had discovered a large photo of his bridefor sale in the shop window of a barber in ViaCroce, had appealed for my address, he was goingto challenge me to a duel with pistols at the frontier.The Minister hoped that the Frenchman was agood shot, he had besides always predicted that Ishould not die a natural death.

Old Anna is still selling flowers in Piazza diSpagna, you had better buy a bunch of violets fromher unless you prefer to give her your photograph.Times are hard, old Anna has cataracts inboth eyes.

So far as I know there is no way of gettingrid of these patients, any suggestion in that directionwould be welcomed by me. To write totheir families to come and take them home isuseless. All their relations have got tired of themlong ago and will stop at no sacrifice to make themremain with you. I well remember a dejected-lookinglittle man who entered my consulting-roomone day after my other patients had gone.He sank down on a chair and handed me his card.His very name was hateful to me, Mr. CharlesW. Washington Longfellow Perkins, Junior. Heapologized for not having answered my two lettersand my cable, he had preferred to comehimself to make a last appeal to me. I repeatedmy request, I said it was not fair to throw thewhole burden of Mrs. Perkins, Junior, on me, Icould do no more. He said neither could he. Hesaid he was a business man, he wanted to treatthe question on business lines, he was willing topart with half of his annual income payable inadvance. I said it was not a question of money,I was in need of rest. Did he know that for morethan three months she had been bombarding mewith letters at an average rate of three letters aday, and that I had had to stop my telephonein the evening? Did he know that she had boughtthe fastest horses in Rome and was following meall over the town, that I had had to give up myevening walks on the Pincio? Did he know thatshe had taken a flat in the opposite corner houseof Via Condotti to watch through a powerful telescopethe people who were coming and going inand out of my house?

Yes, it was a very good telescope. Dr. Jenkinsof St. Louis had had to move to another housebecause of that telescope.

Did he know that I had been summoned threetimes in the night to the Grand Hôtel to pumpher stomach for an overdose of laudanum?

He said she always used veronal with Dr.Lippincott, he suggested I should wait till themorning next time she sent for me, she was alwaysvery careful about the dose. Any river aboutthis town?

Yes, we called it the Tiber. She had thrownherself from Ponte Sant'Angelo last month, apoliceman had jumped after her and pickedher up.

He said it had been unnecessary, she was anexcellent swimmer, she had kept afloat off Newportfor over half-an-hour. He was surprised tohear that his wife was still in the Grand Hôtel,as a rule she never remained in any place morethan a week.

I said it was her last chance, she had alreadybeen in all the other hotels of Rome. The directorhad just told me it was impossible to keep herany longer, she was quarrelling with all the waitersand chambermaids the whole day and was movingthe furniture in her sitting-room the whole night.Could he not stop her allowance, her only chancewould be if she should have to earn her living byhard work.

She had ten thousand dollars a year inher own right and another ten thousand fromher first husband, who had got out of itcheap.

Couldn't he have her locked up in America?

He had tried in vain, she was not supposed tobe mad enough, he would like to know what morewas wanted of her. Couldn't I have her lockedup in Italy?

I feared not.

We looked at each other with growing sympathy.

He told me that according to Dr. Jenkins's statisticsshe had never been in love with the samedoctor for more than a month, the average was afortnight, my time would soon be up in any case,wouldn't I have pity on him and hold out untilthe spring?

Alas, Dr. Jenkins's statistics proved wrong,she remained my chief tormentor during mywhole stay in Rome. She invaded Capri in thesummer. She wanted to drown herself in theBlue Grotto. She climbed the garden wall ofSan Michele; in my exasperation I nearly threwher over the precipice. I almost think I wouldhave done it had not her husband warned mebefore we parted that a drop of thousand feetwould mean nothing to her.

I had good reason for believing him, only acouple of months before a half-crazy Germangirl had jumped over the famous wall of thePincio and escaped with a broken ankle. Aftershe had worn out all the resident German doctorsin turn I had become her prey. It was a particularlytrying case, for Fraülein Frida had anuncanny facility for writing poetry, her lyricaloutput averaging ten pages a day, all dumpedon me. I stood it for a whole winter. Whenspring came—these cases always get worse atspringtime—I told her silly mother that unlessshe returned with Miss Frida from whence theycame, I would stop at nothing to have her lockedup. They were to leave for Germany in themorning. I was awakened in the night by thearrival of the fire brigade to the Piazza di Spagna,the first floor of the Hôtel de l'Europe next doorwas on fire. Miss Frida in her night-gown spentthe remainder of the night in my sitting-roomwriting poetry in tearing spirits. She had gotwhat she wanted, they had to remain a whole weekin Rome for the police investigations and the settlementof the damage, the fire having broken outin their sitting-room. Miss Frida had soaked atowel with petroleum, thrown it in the piano andset it on fire.

One day as I was leaving my house I wasstopped at the door by a spanking-lookingAmerican girl, the very picture of health, nothingwrong with the nerves, this time, thank God.I said she looked as if we might postpone theconsultation till to-morrow, I was in a hurry.She said so was she, she said she had come toRome to see the Pope and Doctor Munthe whohad kept Aunt Sally out of mischief for a wholeyear, a thing which no other doctor had succeededin doing. I offered her a very handsomecolour-print of Botticelli's Primavera if shewould take her aunt back with her to America,she said she would not hear of it if I offered herthe original. The aunt was not to be dependedupon. I do not know if the Keats Society whobought the house when I left it has put in newdoors in the room Keats had died in and whereI might have died myself had my number beenup. If the old door is still there, there is also asmall bullet-hole in the left corner at about theheight of my head, filled with stucco and paintedover by myself.

Another constant visitor to my consulting-roomwas a timid-looking, otherwise quite wellbehaved lady who one day with a pleasant smilestuck a long hat-pin in the leg of an Englishmannext to her on the sofa. The company alsoincluded a couple of kleptomaniacs who used tocarry away under their cloaks any object theycould lay their hands on, to the consternation ofmy servants. Some of my patients were notfit at all to be admitted to the waiting-room buthad to be established in the library or in theback sitting-room under the vigilant eye ofAnna who was wonderfully patient with them,much more so than I. To gain time some ofthem were admitted to the dining-room to tellme their tales of woe while I was having myluncheon. The dining-room opened on a littlecourtyard under the Trinità dei Monti steps,transformed by me into a sort of infirmary andconvalescent home for my various animals.Among them was a darling little owl, a directdescendant from the owl of Minerva. I hadfound it in the Campagna with a broken winghalf dead of hunger. Its wing healed, I hadtwice taken it back where I had found it and setit free, twice it had flown back to my carriageto perch on my shoulder, it would not hear ofour parting. Since then the little owl wassitting on her perch in the corner of the dining-room,looking lovingly at me with her goldeneyes. She had even given up sleeping in theday in order not to lose sight of me. When Iused to stroke her soft little person she wouldhalf close her eyes with delight and nibblegently at my lips with her tiny, sharp beak, asnear to a kiss as an owl can get. Among thepatients admitted to the dining-room was avery excitable young Russian lady, who wasgiving me lots of trouble. Would you believeit, this lady got so jealous of the owl, she usedto glare at the little bird so savagely that I hadto give strict orders to Anna never to leavethese two alone in the room. One day oncoming in for luncheon Anna told me that theRussian lady had just called with a deadmouse wrapped in paper. She had caught itin her room, she felt sure the owl would likeit for breakfast. The owl knew better, afterhaving bitten off its head, owl fashion, sherefused to eat it. I took it to the Englishchemist, it contained enough arsenic to kill acat.

******

To give Giovannina and Rosina a treat I hadinvited their old father to come to Rome to spendEaster with us. Old Pacciale had been a particularfriend of mine for many years. In his earlydays he had been a coral-fisher like most of themale population of Capri in those days. Aftervarious vicissitudes he had ended by becomingthe official gravedigger of Anacapri, a bad jobin a place where nobody dies as long as he keepsclear of the doctor. Even after I had establishedhim and his children in San Michele he would nothear of giving up his job as a gravedigger. He hada peculiar liking for handling dead people, hepositively enjoyed burying them. Old Paccialearrived on Easter Thursday in a state of completebewilderment. He had never travelled onthe railway before, he had never been in a town,he had never sat in a carriage. He had to getup at three o'clock every morning when he wentdown on the Piazza to wash his hands and facein Bernini's fountain under my window. Afterhaving been taken by Miss Hall and the childrento kiss the bronze toe of St. Peter and to crawlup the Scala Santa and by his colleague Giovanniof the Protestant Cemetery to inspect the variouscemeteries of Rome, he said he would not see anythingmore. He spent the rest of his time seatedby the window overlooking the Piazza, in his longfisherman's cap of Phrygian cut which he nevertook off his head. He said it was the finest viewin Rome, nothing could beat Piazza di Spagna.So thought I for the matter of that. I asked himwhy he liked Piazza di Spagna best.

"Because there are always funerals passing,"explained old Pacciale.

XXVII
SUMMER

Spring had come and gone, it was getting ontowards Roman summer. The last foreignerswere vanishing from the stuffy streets. Themarble goddesses in the empty museums wereenjoying their holidays, cool and comfortablein their fig-leaves. St. Peter was taking his siestain the shade of the Vatican gardens. The Forumand the Coliseum were sinking back into theirhaunted dreams. Giovannina and Rosina werelooking pale and tired, the roses in Miss Hall'shat were drooping. The dogs were panting, themonkeys under the Trinità dei Monti steps wereyelling for change of air and scenery. My beautifullittle cutter was riding at her anchor off Portod'Anzio, waiting for the signal to hoist sail for myisland home, where Mastro Nicola and his threesons were scanning the horizon from the parapetof the chapel for my return. My last visit beforeleaving Rome was to the Protestant Cemeteryby Porta San Paolo. The nightingales were stillsinging to the dead, who did not seem to mindbeing forgotten in so sweet a place, so fragrantwith lilies, roses and myrtle in full bloom. Giovanni'seight children were all down with malaria,there was plenty of malaria in the outskirts ofRome in those days, Baedeker might say what heliked. The eldest girl, Maria, was so emaciatedby repeated attacks of fever that I told her fatherthat she would not survive the summer if she wasleft in Rome. I offered him to let her spend thesummer in San Michele with my household. Hehesitated at first, the poor class Italians are mostreluctant to be separated from their sick children,they prefer to let them die at home rather thanto have them taken to a hospital. He ended byaccepting when he was told to take his daughter toCapri himself to see with his own eyes how wellshe would be looked after by my people. MissHall with Giovannina and Rosina and all the dogswent by rail to Naples as usual. I with Billy thebaboon, the mongoose and the little owl had aglorious sail in the yacht. We rounded MonteCirceo as the sun was rising, caught the morningbreeze from the Bay of Gaeta, darted at racingspeed under the Castle of Ischia and droppedanchor at the Marina of Capri as the bells wereringing mezzogiorno. Two hours later I was atwork in the garden of San Michele with hardlyany clothes on.

After five long summers' incessant toil fromsunrise till sunset San Michele was more or lessfinished but there was still a lot to be done in thegarden. A new terrace was to be laid out behindthe house, another loggia to be built over thetwo small Roman rooms which we had discoveredin the autumn. As to the little cloister court Itold Mastro Nicola we had better knock it down,I did not like it any more. Mastro Nicolaimplored me to leave it as it was, we had alreadyknocked it down twice, if we kept on knockingdown everything as soon as it was built, SanMichele would never be finished. I told MastroNicola that the proper way to build one's house wasto knock everything down never mind how manytimes and begin again until your eye told youthat everything was right. The eye knew muchmore about architecture than did the books.The eye was infallible, as long as you relied onyour own eye and not on the eye of other people.As I saw it again I thought San Michele lookedmore beautiful than ever. The house was small,the rooms were few but there were loggias,terraces and pergolas all around it to watch thesun, the sea and the clouds—the soul needs morespace than the body. Not much furniture inthe rooms but what there was could not be boughtwith money alone. Nothing superfluous, nothingunbeautiful, no bric-à-brac, no trinkets. A fewprimitive pictures, an etching of Dürer and aGreek bas-relief on the whitewashed walls. Acouple of old rugs on the mosaic floor, a few bookson the tables, flowers everywhere in lustrousjars from Faenza and Urbino. The cypressesfrom Villa d'Este leading the way up to the chapelhad already grown into an avenue of stately trees,the noblest trees in the world. The chapel itselfwhich had given its name to my home had at lastbecome mine. It was to become my library.Fine old cloister stalls surrounded the whitewalls, in its midst stood a large refectory tableladen with books and terracotta fragments. Ona fluted column of giallo antico stood a hugeHorus of basalt, the largest I have ever seen,brought from the land of the Pharaohs by someRoman collector, maybe by Tiberius himself.Over the writing table the marble head of Medusalooked down upon me, fourth century B.C., foundby me at the bottom of the sea. On the hugeCinquecento Florentine mantelpiece stood theWinged Victory. On a column of africano bythe window the mutilated head of Nero lookedout over the gulf where he had caused his motherto be beaten to death by his oarsmen. Over theentrance door shone the beautiful Cinquecentostained glass window presented to Eleonora Duseby the town of Florence and given by her to mein remembrance of her last stay in San Michele.In a small crypt five feet below the Roman floorof coloured marble slept in peace the two monksI had come upon quite unaware when we weredigging for the foundations of the mantelpiece.They lay there with folded arms just as they hadbeen buried under their chapel nearly five hundredyears ago. Their cassocks had moulderedalmost to dust, their dried-up bodies were lightas parchment, but their features were still wellpreserved, their hands were still clasping theircrucifixes, one of them wore dainty silver buckleson his shoes. I was sorry to have disturbed themin their sleep, with infinite precautions I laidthem back in their little crypt. The lofty archwaywith Gothic columns outside the chapellooked just right, I thought. Where are suchcolumns to be found to-day? Looking downfrom the parapet on the island at my feet, I toldMastro Nicola that we were to begin at once theemplacement for the sphinx, there was no time tolose. Mastro Nicola was delighted, why didn'twe fetch the sphinx at once, where was it now?I said it was lying under the ruins of the forgottenvilla of a Roman Emperor somewhere on themainland. It had been lying waiting for methere for two thousand years. A man in a redmantle had told me all about it the first time Ilooked out over the sea from the very spot wherewe now stood, so far I had only seen it in mydreams. I looked down on the little white yachton the Marina under my feet and said I wasquite sure I would find the sphinx at the righttime. The difficulty would be to bring it acrossthe sea, it was in fact far too heavy a cargo formy boat, it was all of granite and weighed Idid not know how many tons. Mastro Nicolascratched his head and wondered who was goingto drag it up to San Michele? He and I of course.

The two small Roman rooms under the chapelwere still full of debris from the fallen ceilingbut the walls were intact to a man's height, thegarlands of flowers and the dancing nymphs onthe red intonaco looked as though they had beenpainted yesterday.

"Roba di Timberio?" asked Mastro Nicola.

"No," said I looking attentively at the delicatepattern of the mosaic floor with its dainty borderof vine leaves of nero antico, "this floor was madebefore his time, it dates from Augustus. Theold emperor was also a great lover of Capri, hestarted building a villa here, God knows where,but he died at Nola on his return to Rome beforeit was finished. He was a great man and a greatEmperor but, mark my word, Tiberius was thegreatest of them all."

The pergola was already covered with youngvines; roses, honeysuckle and Epomea wereclustering round the long row of white columns.Among the cypresses in the little cloister courtstood the Dancing Faun on his column of cipollino,in the centre of the big loggia sat the bronzeHermes from Herculaneum. In the little marblecourt outside the dining-room all ablaze withsun, sat Billy the baboon, hard at work catchingTappio's fleas, surrounded by all the other dogsdrowsily awaiting their turn for the customarycompletion of their morning toilette. Billy had awonderful hand for catching fleas, no jumping orcrawling thing escaped his vigilant eye, the dogsknew it quite well and enjoyed the sport as muchas he did. It was the only sport tolerated by thelaw of San Michele. Death was fulmineous andprobably painless, Billy had swallowed his preybefore there was time to realize the danger.Billy had given up drinking and become a respectablemonkey in the full bloom of manhood, alarminglylike a human being, on the whole well behavedthough somewhat boisterous when I wasout of sight, making fun of everybody. I oftenwondered what the dogs really thought of him atthe back of their heads. I am not sure they werenot afraid of him, they generally turned theirheads away when he looked at them. Billy wasafraid of nobody but me. I could always see byhis face when he had a bad conscience which wasgenerally the case. Yes, I think he was afraidof the mongoose who was always sneaking aboutthe garden on restless feet, silent and inquisitive.There was something very manly about Billy, hecould not help it, his Maker had made him so.Billy was not at all insensible to the attractionsof the other sex. Billy had taken a great likingat first sight to Elisa, the wife of my gardener,who stood for hours staring at him with fascinatedeyes, where he sat in his private fig-tree smackinghis lips at her. Elisa was expecting a baby asusual, I had never known her otherwise. SomehowI did not quite like this sudden friendshipwith Billy, I had even told her she had betterlook at somebody else.

Old Pacciale had gone down to the Marina toreceive his colleague, the gravedigger of Rome,who was to arrive at noon with his daughter bythe Sorrento sailing boat. As he had to be backat his job at the Protestant Cemetery the eve ofthe following day, he was to be taken in the afternoonto inspect the two cemeteries of the island.In the evening my household was to offer a dinnerwith vino a volontà on the garden terrace to theirdistinguished visitor from Rome.

The bells in the chapel rang Ave Maria. I hadbeen on my legs since five o'clock in the morninghard at work in the blazing sun. Tired andhungry I sat down to my frugal supper on theupper loggia, grateful for another happy day.On the garden terrace below sat my guests intheir Sunday clothes, round a gigantic plate ofmacaroni and a huge piretto of San Michele'sbest wine. In the place of honour at the head ofthe table sat the gravedigger of Rome with thetwo gravediggers of Capri, one on each side ofhim. Next sat Baldassare my gardener andGaetano my sailor, and Mastro Nicola with histhree sons, all talking at the top of their voices.Round the table stood their womenfolk in admiration,according to Neapolitan custom. Thesun was slowly sinking over the sea. For thefirst time in my life it seemed a relief to me whenit disappeared at last behind Ischia. Why was Ilonging for the twilight and the stars, I the sun-worshipper,who had been afraid of darkness andnight ever since I was a child? Why had myeyes been burning so when I looked up to theglorious sun god? Was he angry with me, washe going to turn his face away from me and leaveme in the dark, I who was working on my kneesto build him another sanctuary? Was it truewhat the tempter in the red mantle had told metwenty years ago when I looked down upon thefair island for the first time from the chapel of SanMichele? Was it true that too much light wasnot good for mortal eyes?

"Beware of the light! Beware of the light!"His sinister warning echoed in my ears.

I had accepted his bargain, I had paid his price,I had sacrificed my future to gain San Michele,what else did he want of me? What was theother heavy price he had said I would have topay before I died?

A dark cloud suddenly descended over the seaand over the garden at my feet. My burningeyelids closed with terror . . .

"Listen, compagni!" shouted the gravediggerof Rome from the terrace below, "listen to whatI tell you! You peasant folk who only see himgoing about in this wretched little village, bare-footedand with no more clothes on than you have,do you know that he is driving about the streetsof Rome with a carriage and pair, they say he evenwent to see the Pope when he had influenza?I tell you, compagni, there is nobody like him,he is the greatest doctor in Rome, come with meto my cemetery and you will see for yourself!Sempre lui! Sempre lui! As to me and myfamily I do not know what we should do withouthim, he is our benefactor. To whom do you thinkmy wife is selling all her wreaths and flowers, ifnot to his customers! And all these foreignerswho ring the bell at the gate and give their pennyto my children for being let in, why do you thinkthey have come there, what do you think theywant? Of course my children don't understandwhat they are talking about, and often had towander all over the cemetery with them before theyfound what they wanted. Now as soon as someforeigners ring the bell my children know at oncewhat they want and take them straight to hisrow of graves, and they are always very pleasedand give the children an extra penny. Semprelui! Sempre lui! There is hardly a month hedoes not cut open some of his patients in themortuary chapel to try to find out what was thematter with them, he gives me fifty lire apiecefor putting them back in their coffins. I tellyou, compagni! there is nobody like him!Sempre lui! Sempre lui!"

The cloud had already drifted away, the sea wasonce more radiant with golden light, my fear wasgone. The devil himself can do nothing to a manas long as he can laugh.

The dinner party broke up. Glad to be alive,and with plenty of wine in our heads, we all wentto bed to sleep the sleep of the just.

******

Hardly had I fallen asleep, than I found myselfstanding on a lonely plain strewn with débris ofbroken masonry, huge blocks of travertine andfragments of marbles half hidden by ivy, rosemaryand wild honey-suckle, cistus and thyme. Ona crumbling wall of opus reticulatum sat anold shepherd playing on the flute of Pan to hisflock of goats. His wild, long-bearded face wasscorched by sun and wind, his eyes were burninglike fire under his bushy eyebrows, his leanemaciated body was shivering under his long bluecloak of a Calabrian shepherd. I offered him alittle tobacco, he handed me a slice of fresh goat-cheeseand an onion. I understood him withdifficulty.

What was the name of this strange place?

It had no name.

Where did he come from?

From nowhere, he had always been here, thiswas his home.

Where did he sleep?

He pointed with his long staff to a flight ofsteps under a tumbledown archway. I climbeddown the step hewn in the rock and stood in adim, vaulted room. In the corner a straw mattresswith a couple of sheepskins as bedcover.Suspended round the walls and from the ceilingbunches of dried onions and tomatoes, an earthenwarejug of water on the rough table. This washis home, these were his belongings. Here hehad lived his whole life, here he would lie downone day to die. In front of me opened a darksubterranean passage half filled with débris fromthe fallen roof. Where did it lead to?

He did not know, he had never been there. Hehad been told as a boy that it led to a cavehaunted by an evil spirit who had lived there forthousands of years, in the shape of a huge werewolfwho would devour any man who shouldapproach his cave.

I lit a torch and groped my way down a flightof marble steps. The passage widened more andmore, an ice-cold blast of air blew in my face. Iheard an uncanny moan which made the bloodfreeze in my veins. Suddenly I stood in a largehall. Two huge columns of African marble stillsupported a part of the vaulted roof, two otherslay across the mosaic floor wrenched from theirpedestals by the grip of the earthquake. Hundredsof huge bats were hanging in black clustersround the walls, others were fluttering in wildflight round my head, blinded by the sudden lightof the torch. In the midst of the hall crouched ahuge granite sphinx, staring at me with stony,wide-open eyes . . .

I started in my sleep. The dream vanished.I opened my eyes, the day was breaking.

Suddenly I heard the call of the sea, imperious,irresistible like a command. I sprang to my feet,flung myself into my clothes and rushed up to theparapet of the chapel to hoist the signal to theyacht to make ready for the start. A couple ofhours later I boarded my boat with provisionsfor a week, coils of stout rope, pick-axes andspades, a revolver, all my available money, abundle of torches of resinous wood, such as fishermenuse for night fishing. A moment later wehoisted sail for the most stirring adventure of mylife. The following night we dropped anchor in alonely cove, unknown to all but a few fishermenand smugglers. Gaetano was to wait for methere with the yacht for a week and to run forshelter to the nearest port in case bad weatherset in. We knew this dangerous coast well, withno safe anchorage for a hundred miles. I alsoknew its wonderful inland, once the MagnaGraecia of the Golden Ages of Hellenic art andculture, now the most desolate province of Italyabandoned by man to malaria and earthquake.

Three days later I stood on the same lonelyplain strewn with broken masonry and hugeblocks of travertine and fragments of marbleshalf hidden under ivy, rosemary and wild honeysuckle,cistus and thyme. On the crumblingwall of opus reticulatum sat the old shepherdplaying on his pipe to his flock of goats. Ioffered him a little tobacco, he handed me a sliceof fresh goat-cheese and an onion. The sun hadalready gone down behind the mountains, thedeadly mist of malaria was slowly creeping overthe desolate plain. I told him I had lost my way,I dared not wander about alone in this wilderness,might I stay with him for the night?

He led the way to his underground sleepingquarters I knew so well from my dream. I laydown on his sheepskins and fell asleep.

It is all too weird and fantastic to be translatedinto written words, you would besides not believeme if I tried to do so. I hardly know myselfwhere the dream ended and where reality began.Who steered the yacht into this hidden, lonelycove? Who led my way across this tracklesswilderness to the unknown ruins of Nero's villa?Was the shepherd of flesh and blood or was he notPan himself who had come back to his favouritehaunts of old to play the flute to his flock ofgoats?

Do not ask me any questions, I cannot tell you,I dare not tell you. You may ask the hugegranite sphinx who lies crouching on the parapetof the chapel in San Michele. But you will askin vain. The sphinx has kept her own secret forfive thousand years. The sphinx will keepmine.

******

I returned from the great adventure, emaciatedfrom hunger and hardships of all sorts, andshivering with malaria. Once I had been kidnappedby brigands, there were plenty of themin Calabria in those days. It was my rags thatsaved me. Twice I had been arrested by thecoastguards as a smuggler. Several times I hadbeen stung by scorpions, my left hand was stillin a bandage from the bite of a viper. Off PuntaLicosa, where Leucosia, the Siren sister of Parthenope,lies buried, we were caught in a south-westerlygale and would have gone to the bottomof the sea with our heavy cargo had not Sant'Antoniotaken the helm in the nick of time.Votive candles were still burning before hisshrine in the church of Anacapri when I enteredSan Michele. The rumour that we had beenwrecked in the heavy gale had spread all overthe island. All my household was overjoyed towelcome me home.

Yes, all was well at San Michele, grazie a Dio.Nothing had happened in Anacapri, as usual nobodyhad died. The parroco had sprained hisankle, some people said he had slipped whendescending the pulpit last Sunday, others said itwas the parroco of Capri who had made himmal'occhio, everybody knew the parroco of Caprihad the evil eye. Yesterday morning the CanonicoDon Giacinto had been found dead in his beddown in Capri. The Canonico had been quitewell when he went to bed, he had died in his sleep.He had been lying in state during the night beforethe High Altar, he was to be buried with greatpomp this morning, the bells had been ringingsince daybreak.

In the garden the work had been going on asusual. Mastro Nicola had found another testadi cristiano when knocking down the cloisterwall, and Baldassare had come upon anotherearthenware jar full of Roman coins while takingup the new potatoes. Old Pacciale who had beendigging in my vineyard at Damecuta took measide with an air of great mystery and importance.Having ascertained that nobody overheardus, he produced from his pocket a brokenclay pipe black with smoke, it might have belongedto some soldier of the Maltese regimentwho camped at Damecuta in 1808.

"La pipa di Timberio!" said old Pacciale.

The dogs had had their baths every middayand their bones twice a week according to theregulations. The little owl was in good spirits.The mongoose was on his legs day and nightalways on the look-out for something or somebody.The tortoises seemed very happy in theirown quiet way.

Had Billy been good?

Yes, Elisa hurried to answer, Billy had beenvery good, un vero angelo.

I thought he did not look like one as I watchedhim grinning at me from the top of his privatefig-tree. Contrary to his habit he did not comedown to greet me. I felt sure he had been upto some mischief, I did not like the look ofhis face. Was it really true that Billy had beengood?

Gradually the truth came out. The very day Ihad sailed Billy had thrown a carrot at the headof a forestiere who was passing under the gardenwall and smashed his eye-glass. The forestierewas very angry and was going to lodge a complaintat Capri. Elisa protested vigorously, it was allthe fault of the forestiere who had no business tostand and laugh at Billy like that, everybodyknew he got angry when people laughed at him.The next day there had been a terrible fightbetween Billy and the fox-terrier, all the dogshad thrown themselves into the fray, Billy hadfought like Il Demonio and even wanted to biteBaldassare when he tried to separate the belligerents.The battle had suddenly ceased withthe arrival of the mongoose, Billy had leaped tohis tree and all the dogs had slunk away as theyalways did when the little mongoose turned up.Billy and the dogs had been at daggers drawn eversince, he had even refused to continue to catchtheir fleas. Billy had chased the Siamese kittenall over the garden and ended by carrying it upto the top of his fig-tree and proceeded to pulloff all its hair. Billy had been constantly teasingthe tortoises. Amanda the biggest tortoise hadlaid seven eggs as big as pigeon-eggs to be hatchedby the sun, tortoise-fashion, Billy had gulpedthem down in an instant. Had they at least beencareful not to leave any wine-bottles about?There was an ominous silence. Pacciale, themost trustworthy of the household, admitted atlast that on two occasions Billy had been seensneaking out of the wine-cellar with a bottle ineach hand. Three days ago two more wine-bottleshad been discovered in the corner of themonkey-house, carefully buried under the sand.According to the instructions Billy had beenimmediately locked up in the monkey-house onwater and bread pending my return. The nextmorning the monkey-house had been foundempty, Billy had broken out in the night in someinexplicable way, the bars were intact, the keyto the padlock was in Baldassare's pocket. Thewhole household had been hunting for Billy invain all over the village. Baldassare had caughthim at last this very morning high up on themountain of Barbarossa, fast asleep, with a deadbird in his hand. While the investigation wasgoing on, Billy was sitting at the top of his treelooking defiantly at me, there could be no doubtthat he understood every word we said. Sterndisciplinary measures were necessary. Monkeyslike children must learn to obey until they canlearn to command. Billy was beginning to lookuneasy. He knew I was the master, he knew Icould catch him with the lasso as I had donebefore, he knew that the whip in my hand wasfor him. The dogs knew it equally well wherethey sat in a circle round Billy's tree waggingtheir tails with clear consciences, thoroughlyenjoying the situation—dogs rather like to assistat the whipping of somebody else. SuddenlyElisa put her hands over her abdomen with apiercing scream and was dragged on to her bedin the cottage in the nick of time by Pacciale andme while Baldassare rushed to fetch the midwife.When I returned to his tree Billy had vanished, somuch the better for him and for me, I hate topunish animals.

I had besides other things to think about. Ihad always taken a keen interest in Don Giacinto.I was most anxious to know something moreabout his death, about his life I knew quiteenough. Don Giacinto had the reputation ofbeing the richest man on the island, he was saidto possess an income amounting to twenty-fivelire every hour of his life, 'anche quando dorme,'even when he was asleep. I had watched him formany years squeezing the last penny out of hispoor tenants, evicting them from their homeswhen the olives had failed and they could notpay their rent, leaving them to starve when theywere getting old and had no more strength totoil for him. I had never heard of his givingaway a penny, nor had anybody else. I knew Ishould cease to believe in any divine justice onthis side of the grave if Almighty God had bestowedupon this old bloodsucker the greatestblessing He can bestow upon any living man—todie in his sleep. I decided to go and see my oldfriend the parroco, Don Antonio, he would besure to be able to tell me what I wanted to know,Don Giacinto had been his deadly enemy for halfa century. The parroco was sitting up in hisbed, his foot wrapped up in an enormous bundleof blankets, his face beaming. The room wasfull of priests, in their midst stood Maria Porta-Lettere,her tongue almost dropping out of hermouth with excitement: Fire had broken outin the church of San Costanzo during the night,while Don Giacinto was lying in state on thecatafalque, the coffin had been consumed by theflames! Some people said it was il Demoniowho had knocked down the wax candelabra bythe catafalque to set Don Giacinto on fire.Others said that it had been done by a band ofbrigands who had come to steal the silver statueof San Costanzo. The parroco was sure that itwas il Demonio who had knocked down the waxcandelabra, he had always believed that DonGiacinto would end in flames.

Maria Porta-Lettere's account of Don Giacinto'sdeath seemed plausible enough. Il Demoniohad appeared in the window while ilCanonico was reading his evening prayers. DonGiacinto had called out for help and been carriedto his bed in a fainting condition and had died offright shortly afterwards.

I was greatly interested, I thought I had bettergo down to Capri myself to investigate the matter.The Piazza was packed with people all screamingat the top of their voices. In their midst stoodthe Sindaco and the municipal councillors eagerlyawaiting the arrival of the carabinieri from Sorrento.On the steps leading to the church stooda dozen priests gesticulating wildly. The churchwas closed pending the arrival of the authorities.Yes, said the Sindaco coming up to me with agrave face, it was all true! The sacristan incoming to open the church in the morning hadfound it full of smoke. The catafalque was halfconsumed by the fire, the coffin itself was badlyscorched, of the precious pall of embroideredvelvet and a dozen wreaths from the Canonico'srelatives and children nothing remained but aheap of smouldering ashes. Three of the hugewax candelabras round the catafalque were stillburning, the fourth had evidently been knockeddown by a sacrilegious hand to set fire to the pall.So far it was impossible to ascertain whether itwas the work of il Demonio or of some criminalsbut the Sindaco shrewdly remarked that the factthat none of the precious jewels round the neck ofSan Costanzo were missing made him, parlandocon rispetto, incline to the former supposition.The mystery deepened more and more as I continuedmy investigations. In the Caffé ZumHiddigeigei, the headquarters of the Germancolony, the floor was strewn with broken glasses,bottles and crockery of all sorts, on a table stooda half-empty bottle of whisky. In the Farmaciadozens of Faenza jars with precious drugsand secret compounds had been hurled fromtheir shelves, castor-oil everywhere. Il ProfessoreRaffaele Parmigiano showed me himself thedevastation of his new Sala di Esposizione, thepride of the Piazza. His 'Eruption of Vesuvius,'his 'Procession of San Costanzo,' his 'Salto diTiberio,' his 'Bella Carmela' lay all in a heapon the floor, their frames broken, their canvasessplit. His 'Tiberio swimming in the Blue Grotto'stood still on the easel all splashed over withpatches of ultramarine in mad confusion. TheSindaco informed me that so far the investigationscarried out by the local authorities had led to noresult. The theory of brigands had been abandonedby the Liberal party since it had beenascertained that nothing of real value had beencarried away. Even the two dangerous Neapolitancamorrists, in villeggiatura in the gaol ofCapri for over a year, had been able to establishtheir alibi. It had been proved that owing to theheavy rain they had remained the whole night inthe prison instead of taking their usual stroll inthe village after midnight as was their custom.They were besides good Catholics and very popularand not likely to disturb themselves withsuch trifles.

The theory of il Demonio had been dismissedby the Clerical party out of respect for thememory of Don Giacinto. Who then were theperpetrators of these dastardly outrages? Thereremained one hypothesis. There remained thesecular enemy, almost at their very door, Anacapri!Of course it was all the work of theAnacapresi! It explained everything! Il Canonicowas the deadly enemy of the Anacapresiwho had never forgiven him for having scoffedat the last miracle of Sant'Antonio in his famoussermon on the day of San Costanzo. The fiercehatred between Zum Hiddigeigei and the newlyopened caffé in Anacapri was a notorious fact.In the time of Caesar Borgia Don Petruccio, theapothecary of Capri, would have thought twicebefore accepting any invitation from his colleaguein Anacapri to partake of his macaroni. Thecompetition between Professore Raffaele Parmigianoof Capri and Professore Michelangelo ofAnacapri for the monopoly of the 'Tiberio swimmingin the Blue Grotto' had of late developedinto a furious war. The opening of the Saladi Esposizione had hit Professore Michelangelobadly in the eye, the sale of his 'Procession ofSant'Antonio' had almost come to a standstill.

Of course Anacapri was at the bottom ofit all.

Abbasso Anacapri! Abbasso Anacapri!

I thought I had better return from where I hadcome, I was beginning to feel very uneasy. Idid not know myself what to believe. The bitterwar between Capri and Anacapri which had beenraging ever since the times of the Spanish viceroysin Naples was still going on in those days withunabated fury. The two sindacos were not onspeaking terms. The peasants hated each other,the notables hated each other, the priests hatedeach other, the two patron saints, Sant'Antonioand San Costanzo, hated each other. A couple ofyears before I had seen with my own eyes a crowdof Capresi dancing round our little chapel ofSant'Antonio when a huge rock from MonteBarbarossa had smashed the altar and the statueof Sant'Antonio.

At San Michele work had already been suspended,all my people were in their Sundayclothes on their way to the Piazza where the bandwas to play to celebrate the event, over a hundredlire having already been collected for the fireworks.The Sindaco had sent word hoping Iwould assist in my quality of cittadino onorario—thisunique distinction had in fact been bestowedupon me the year before.

In the midst of the pergola sat Billy by the sideof the biggest tortoise, too absorbed in his favouritegame to notice my coming. The game consistedin a series of rapid knocks at the back doorof the tortoise-house where the tail comes out.At each knock the tortoise would pop out itssleepy head from the front door to see what wasthe matter, only to receive a stunning blow onthe nose from Billy's fist with the rapidity oflightning. This game was forbidden by the lawof San Michele. Billy knew it quite well andscreamed like a child when, for once quickerthan he, I got hold of the strap round hisstomach.

"Billy," said I sternly, "I am going to have aprivate conversation with you under your fig-tree,there are several accounts to be settled betweenus. It is no good smacking your lips at me likethat, you know that you deserve a good spankingand that you are going to get it. Billy, you havebeen drinking again! Two empty wine-bottleshave been found in a corner of the monkey-house,one bottle of Buchanan's 'Black and White'is missing. Your general conduct during myabsence in Calabria has been disgraceful. Youhave smashed the eyeglass of a forestiere with acarrot. You have been disobedient to my servants.You have quarrelled and fought with thedogs, you have even refused to catch their fleas.You have insulted the mongoose. You havebeen disrespectful to the little owl. You haverepeatedly boxed the ears of the tortoise. Youhave nearly strangled the Siamese kitten. Lastnot least you have broken away from the premisesin a state of intoxication. Cruelty to animalsbelongs to your nature or you would not be acandidate for humanity, but the Lords of Creationalone have the right to get drunk. I tellyou I have enough of you, I am going to sendyou back to America to your drunken old master,Doctor Campbell, you are not fit for decentsociety. You are a disgrace to your father andmother! Billy, you are a disreputable man-cub,an inveterate drunkard, a . . ."

There was an awful silence.

Putting on my spectacles better to look atBilly's ultramarine finger-nails and scorched tail,I said at last:

"Billy, I rather liked your retouches to'Tiberio swimming in the Blue Grotto,' I thoughtit an improvement on the original. It remindedme of a picture I saw last year in the Salon of theFuturists in Paris. Your former master oftentold me of your lamented mother, a most remarkablemonkey, I understand. I suppose you haveinherited your artistic talents from her. Yourgood looks and your sense of humour I guess yougot from your father, whose identity has beenfully established by recent events and who can beno other than the Devil himself. Tell me, Billy,just to satisfy my curiosity, was it you or yourfather who knocked down the wax candelabra andset the coffin on fire?"

XXVIII
THE BIRD SANCTUARY

The Rev. Canonico Don Giacinto's suddendeparture to another world in fire and smokehad had a most invigorating effect upon ourparroco Don Antonio's general condition of healthand spirits. His sprained ankle improved rapidlyand soon he was able to resume his customarymorning walks to San Michele to assist at mybreakfast. I always invited him, according toNeapolitan custom, to "mangiare con me" buthe invariably declined my cup of tea with a polite:No, grazie, sto bene. The sole scope ofhis visit was to sit opposite me by the breakfasttable and look at me while I was eating. DonAntonio had never seen a forestiere before at closequarters and nearly everything I said or did wasa constant source of curiosity to him. He knewI was a Protestant but after some vague attemptsto discuss the matter we had agreed to droptheology from the conversation and leave theProtestants alone. It was a great concession onhis part, for once a week he used to send all livingand dead Protestants to hell from his pulpit withthe most fearful invectives. The Protestants wereDon Antonio's speciality, his sheet-anchor in allhis oratorical difficulties, I do not know what hewould have done without the Protestants. Theold parroco's memory was somewhat shaky, thefeeble thread of his argumentation used to breakat the most awkward moments, in the midst ofhis sermons there was a blank silence. His faithfulcongregation knew it well and did not mindit in the least, everybody continuing peacefullytheir meditations upon their own affairs, their olivesand their vineyards, their cows and their pigs.They also knew what was to follow. Don Antonioblew his nose with a series of thunder-blastsas from the trumpets of the Last Judgment, hewas on safe ground again.

"Ma questi maledetti protestanti, ma questocamorrista Lutero! May il Demonio tear theircursed tongues from their mouths, may he breaktheir bones and roast them alive. In aeternitatem!"

Once on an Easter Sunday I happened to lookin at the church door with a friend of mine atthe very moment when the parroco was losing hisbearings, there was the usual blank silence. Iwhispered in my friend's ear that we were in forit now.

"Ma questo camorrista Lutero, questi maledettiprotestanti! Che il Demonio . . ."

Suddenly Don Antonio caught sight of me inthe doorway. The clenched fist he had just raisedto smite down the cursed infidels loosened into afriendly waving of the hand and an apology inmy direction: But of course not il Signor Dottore!Of course not il Signor Dottore!

I seldom failed to go to church on EasterSunday to take up my place at the door by theside of blind old Cecatiello, the official beggar ofAnacapri. We both stretched out our hands tothe church goers, he for his soldo and I for thebird in the pocket of the men, in the folds of theblack mantiglia of the women, in the palms ofthe hands of the children. It speaks a good dealfor the exceptional position I enjoyed in thosedays among the villagers that they accepted withoutresentment my interfering with their way ofcelebrating the resurrection of Our Lord, consecratedby the tradition of nearly two thousandyears and still encouraged by their priests. Fromthe first day of the Holy Week the traps hadbeen set in every vineyard, under every olive tree.For days hundreds of small birds, a string tiedround their wing, had been dragged about thestreets by all the boys of the village. Now, mutilatedsymbols of the Holy Dove, they were tobe set free in the church to play their rôle in thejubilant commemoration of Christ's return toHeaven. They never returned to their sky, theyfluttered about for a while helpless and bewildered,breaking their wings against the windows beforethey fell down to die on the church floor. At daybreakI had been up on the church roof withMastro Nicola holding the ladder as my unwillingassistant, in order to smash some of the windowpanes,but only a very few of the doomed birdsfound their way to freedom.

The birds! The birds! How much happierwould not my life on the beautiful island have beenhad I not loved them as I do! I loved to seethem come every spring in thousands and thousands,it was a joy to my ear to hear them singin the garden of San Michele. But there camea time when I almost wished that they had notcome, when I wished I could have signalled tothem far out on the sea to fly on, fly on with theflock of wild geese high overhead, straight to myown country far in the North where they wouldbe safe from man. For I knew that the fair islandthat was a paradise to me was a hell to them, likethat other hell that awaited them further on ontheir Via Crucis, Heligoland. They came justbefore sunrise. All they asked for was to rest fora while after their long flight across the Mediterranean,the goal of the journey was so far away,the land where they were born and where theywere to raise their young. They came in thousands:woodpigeons, thrushes, turtle-doves, waders,quails, golden orioles, skylarks, nightingales, wagtails,chaffinches, swallows, warblers, redbreastsand many other tiny artists on their way to givespring concerts to the silent forests and fields inthe north. A couple of hours later they flutteredhelplessly in the nets the cunning of man hadstretched all over the island from the cliffs by thesea high up to the slopes of Monte Solaro andMonte Barbarossa. In the evening they werepacked by hundreds in small wooden boxes withoutfood and water and despatched by steamersto Marseilles to be eaten with delight in the smartrestaurants of Paris. It was a lucrative trade,Capri was for centuries the seat of a bishop entirelyfinanced by the sale of the netted birds."Il vescovo delle quaglie," he was called in Rome.Do you know how they are caught in the nets?Hidden under the thickets, between the poles, arecaged decoy birds who repeat incessantly, automaticallytheir monotonous call. They cannotstop, they go on calling out night and day tillthey die. Long before science knew anythingabout the localization of the various nerve-centresin the human brain, the devil had revealed to hisdisciple man his ghastly discovery that by stingingout the eyes of a bird with a red-hot needle thebird would sing automatically. It is an old story,it was already known to the Greeks and theRomans, it is still done to-day all along theSouthern shores of Spain, Italy[1] and Greece.Only a few birds in a hundred survive the operation,still it is good business, a blinded quail isworth twenty-five lire in Capri to-day. Duringsix weeks of the spring and six weeks of theautumn, the whole slope of Monte Barbarossa wascovered with nets from the ruined castle on thetop down to the garden wall of San Michele atthe foot of the mountain. It was considered thebest caccia on the whole island, as often as notover a thousand birds were netted there in a singleday. The mountain was owned by a man fromthe mainland, an ex-butcher, a famous specialistin the blinding of birds, my only enemy in Anacapriexcept the doctor. Ever since I had begun buildingSan Michele the war between him and me hadbeen going on incessantly. I had appealed to thePrefect of Naples, I had appealed to the Governmentin Rome, I had been told there was nothingto be done, the mountain was his, the law was onhis side. I had obtained an audience from thehighest Lady in the land, she had smiled at mewith her enchanting smile that had won her theheart of the whole of Italy, she had honoured mewith an invitation to remain for luncheon, thefirst word I had read on the menu had been "Pâtéd'alouettes farcies." I had appealed to the Popeand had been told by a fat cardinal that the HolyFather had been carried down in his portantinathat very morning at daybreak to the Vatican gardensto watch the netting of the birds, the cacciahad been good, over two hundred birds had beencaught. I had scraped off the rust from the littletwo-pounder the English had abandoned in thegarden in 1808 and started firing off a shot everyfive minutes from midnight till sunrise in the hopeof frightening away the birds from the fatal mountain.The ex-butcher had sued me for interferingwith the lawful exercise of his trade, I had beenfined two hundred lire damages. I had trainedall the dogs to bark the whole night at the costof what little sleep remained for me. A few dayslater my big Maremma dog died suddenly, I foundtraces of arsenic in his stomach. I caught sightof the murderer the next night lurking behindthe garden wall and knocked him down. He suedme again, I was fined five hundred lire for assault.I had sold my beautiful Greek vase andmy beloved Madonna by Desiderio di Settignanoin order to raise the enormous sum he had askedfor the mountain, several hundred times its value.When I came with the money he renewed his oldtactics and grinned at me that the price had beendoubled. He knew his man. My exasperationhad reached a point when I might have partedwith everything I possessed to become the ownerof the mountain. The bird slaughter went on asbefore. I had lost my sleep, I could think ofnothing else. In my despair I fled from SanMichele and sailed for Monte Cristo to return whenthe last birds had passed over the island.

[Footnote 1:] Now forbidden by law.

The first thing I heard when I came back wasthat the ex-butcher was lying on the point of death.Masses were read for his salvation twice a dayin the church at thirty lire apiece, he was one ofthe richest men in the village. Towards eveningarrived the parroco asking me in the name of Christto visit the dying man. The village doctor suspectedpneumonia, the chemist was sure it was astroke, the barber thought it was un colpo disangue, the midwife thought it was una paura.The parroco himself, always on the look-out forthe evil eye, inclined towards the mal'occhio. Irefused to go. I said I had never been a doctorin Capri except for the poor and that the residentphysicians on the island were quite capable ofcoping with any of these ailments. Only on onecondition would I come, that the man would swearon the crucifix that if he pulled through he wouldnever again sting out the eyes of a bird and thathe would sell me the mountain at his exorbitantprice of a month ago. The man refused. In thenight he was given the Last Sacraments. At daybreakthe parroco appeared again. My offer hadbeen accepted, he had sworn on the crucifix. Twohours later I tapped a pint of pus from his leftpleura to the consternation of the village doctorand to the glory of the village saint, for, contraryto my expectations, the man recovered.—Miracolo!Miracolo!

The mountain of Barbarossa is now a birdsanctuary. Thousands of tired birds of passageare resting on its slopes every spring and autumn,safe from man and beast. The dogs of SanMichele are forbidden to bark while the birds areresting on the mountain. The cats are never letout of the kitchen except with a little alarm-belltied round their necks, Billy the vagabond is shutup in the monkey-house, one never knows what amonkey or a school-boy is up to.

So far I have never said a word to belittle thelast miracle of Sant'Antonio which at a low estimatesaved for many years the lives of at leastfifteen thousand birds a year. But when all isover for me, I mean just to whisper to the nearestangel that with all due respect to Sant'Antonio,it was I and not he who tapped the pus out of thebutcher's left pleura and to implore the angel toput in a kind word for me if nobody else will. Iam sure Almighty God loves the birds or He wouldnot have given them the same pair of wings asHe has given to His own angels.

XXIX
THE BAMBINO

Sant'Anna shook her head and wanted toknow whether it was wise to send out such asmall baby on such a windy day, and if it was atleast a respectable house the grandchild was tobe taken to? The Madonna said there was nothingto worry about, the child would be wellwrapped up, she felt sure he would be all right,she had always heard children were welcome inSan Michele. Better let the boy go since hewanted to go, didn't she know that small as hewas he had already a will of his own? St.Joseph was not even consulted, it is true he neverhad much to say in the Family. Don Salvatore,the youngest priest of Anacapri, lifted the cradlefrom the shrine, the sacristan lit the wax candlesand off they went.[1] First came a small choir-boyringing a bell, then came two Figlie di Mariain their white frocks and blue veils, then camethe sacristan swinging the censer, then came DonSalvatore carrying the cradle. As they passedalong through the village, the men bared theirheads, the women held up their own babies thatthey might see the Royal Infant, a golden crownon his head, a silver rattle in the shape of a sirenround his neck, and the street boys called outto one another: "Il Bambino! Il Bambino!"At the door of San Michele stood the whole householdwith roses in their hands to welcome ourguest. The best room in the house had beenturned into a nursery, full of flowers and hungwith garlands of rosemary and ivy. On a tablespread with our best linen cloth burned two waxcandles, for small children do not like to be leftin the dark. In a corner of the nursery stood myFlorentine Madonna, hugging her own baby andfrom the walls two putti of Luca della Robbia anda Holy Virgin of Mino da Fiesole looked downupon the cradle. From the ceiling burned theholy lamp, woe to the house if it ever flickeredand went out, it meant the death of its ownerbefore the year was over. By the cradle lay afew humble toys, such as our village could produce,to keep company with the Bambino; abald-headed doll, sole survivor from Giovanninaand Rosina's childhood, a wooden donkey lentby Elisa's eldest girl, a rattle in the shape of ahorn against the evil eye. In a basket underthe table lay asleep Elisa's cat with her six new-bornkittens, specially brought there for theoccasion. In a huge earthenware jar on the floorstood a whole bush of rosemary in flower. Doyou know why rosemary? Because when theMadonna washed the linen of the Infant JesusChrist, she hung his little shirt to dry on a bushof rosemary.

[Footnote 1:] Youmay not have heard of this quaint old custom. Duringmy stay in San Michele I used to receive a visit from theBambino every year, the greatest honour that could possiblybe bestowed upon us. He generally remained at San Michelefor a week.

Don Salvatore deposited the cradle in itsshrine and left the Bambino in the charge of mywomenfolk after most detailed recommendationsto watch over him and see that he had all hewanted. Elisa's children played about on thefloor the whole day to keep him company and atAve Maria the whole household kneeled beforethe cradle reciting their prayers. Giovanninapoured a little more oil in the lamp for the night,they waited for a while till the Bambino hadfallen asleep and then they went away as silentlyas they could. When all was still in the house Iwent up to the nursery to have a look at theBambino before I went to bed. The light fromthe holy lamp fell on the cradle, I could just seehim lying there smiling in his sleep.

Poor little smiling child, little did he knowthat the day should come when all of us who werekneeling by his cradle should abandon him, whenthose who said they loved him should betray him,when cruel hands should tear the golden crownfrom his brow and replace it by a crown of thornsand nail him to a cross, forsaken even by God.

The night he died a sombre old man was wanderingup and down the same marble floor where Iwas standing now. He had risen from his couchroused in his sleep by a haunting dream. Hisface was dark as the sky overhead, fear shone inhis eye. He summoned his astronomers and hiswise men from the East and bid them to tell himthe meaning of his dream, but before they couldread the golden writing on the sky, one by onethe stars flickered and went out. Whom had heto fear, he the ruler of the world! What matteredthe life of one single man to him, the arbiterof the lives of millions of men! Who could bringhim to account for the putting to death thatnight of an innocent man by one of his procuratorsin the name of the Emperor of Rome?And his procurator whose execrated name is stillon our lips, was he more responsible than hisImperial Master for signing the death-warrant ofan innocent man? To him, the stern upholderof Roman law and tradition in an unruly province,was it even an innocent man he was puttingto death? And the cursed Jew who still wandersround the world in search of forgiveness, did heknow what he was doing? Or he, the greatestevildoer of all time, when he betrayed his Masterwith his kiss of love? Could he have done otherwise?Did he do it of his own free will? It hadto be done, he had to do it obeying a will strongerthan his. Was there not in that night on Golgothamore than one man who was made tosuffer for a sin which was not his?

I bent over the sleeping child for a while andwent away on tiptoe.

XXX
THE FESTA DI SANT'ANTONIO

The festa di Sant'Antonio was the greatestday in the year for Anacapri. For weeksthe little village had been all astir for the solemncommemoration of our Patron Saint. The streetshad been cleaned, the houses where the processionhad to pass had been whitewashed, thechurch decorated with red silk hangings andtapestries, the fireworks ordered from Naples,the band, most important of all, hired fromTorre Annunziata. The series of festivals openedwith the arrival of the band on the eve of thegreat day. Half across the bay the band hadalready to begin to blow all they were worth,far too far away to be heard by us in Anacapribut near enough with favourable wind to irritatethe ears of the Capresi in the hated village below.On landing at the Marina the band and theirgigantic instruments were packed in two bigcarts and taken as far as the carriage road wasfinished. The rest of the way they had to climbin loose formation up the steep Phoenician steps,blowing incessantly. Under the wall of SanMichele they were received by a deputation fromthe Municipio. The magnificent bandmaster inhis gorgeous uniform all covered with gold laceà la Murat raised his baton and, preceded by theboys of the village, the band made their solemnentrance into Anacapri a tempo di marcia blowingtheir horns, clarinets and oboes, banging theirdrums and cymbals and rattling their triangles ashard as they could. Inauguration concert on thePiazza all decorated with flags and crammed withpeople, lasting without any interval till midnight.A few hours' dreamless sleep in the old barrackswhere the English soldiers slept in 1806, interruptedby the bursting of the first rockets to announcethat the great day was dawning. At 4 a.m.reveille through the village blowing lustily in thefresh morning breeze. At 5 the usual morningmass in church read as always by the parrocoassisted, in honor of the occasion, by the band onempty stomachs. At 7 merenda, a cup of blackcoffee, half a kilo of bread and fresh goat-cheese.At 8 the church was already filled to the last place,the men on one side, the women on the other, theirbabies asleep on their laps. In the center of thechurch the band on their specially erected tribune.The twelve priests of Anacapri in their choirstallsbehind the High Altar embarked courageously onthe Missa Solennis of Pergolesi, trusting to Providenceand the accompanying band to see themthrough. Musical intermezzo, a furious galopplayed by the band with great bravura, much appreciatedby the congregation. At ten o'clockMessa Cantata from the High Altar with painfulsolos by poor old Don Antonio and tremolos ofprotestation and sudden cries of distress from theinside of the little organ, worn out by the wearand tear of three centuries. At eleven sermonfrom the pulpit in commemoration of Sant'Antonioand his miracles, each miracle illustrated and madevisible by a special gesture appropriate to the occasion.Now the orator would raise his hands inecstasy to the Saints in Heaven, now he wouldpoint his index to the floor to locate the undergrounddwellings of the damned. Now he wouldfall on his knees in silent prayers to Sant'Antoniosuddenly to spring to his feet on the point of precipitatinghimself from the pulpit, to smite downan invisible scoffer with a blow from his fist. Nowhe would bend his head in rapturous silence tolisten to the happy chants of the angels, now, palewith terror, he would put his hands to his ears notto hear the grinding of the teeth of il Demonioand the cries of the sinners in their cauldrons. Atlast, streaming with perspiration and prostratedby two hours of tears and sobs and maledictions ata temperature of 105 Fahrenheit, he would sinkdown on the floor of the pulpit with a terrific curseon the Protestants. 12 o'clock. Great excitementon the Piazza. Esce la processione! Esce la processione!The procession is coming out. Firstcame a dozen small children, almost babies, handin hand. Some wore short white tunics and angelwings like Raphael's putti. Some, entirely nakedand adorned with garlands of vine-leaves andwreaths of roses round their brows, looked as ifdetached from a Greek bas-relief. Then came theFiglie di Maria, tall slender girls in white robesand long blue veils with the silver medal of theMadonna round their necks on a blue ribbon. Thencame the bizzocche, in black dresses and black veils,dried-up old spinsters who had remained faithfulto their first love, Jesus Christ. Then came the"Congrega di Carità" preceded by their banner,old, grave-looking men in their quaint black andwhite cassocks of the time of Savonarola.

La musica! La musica!

Then came the band in their gold-laced uniformsfrom the time of the Bourbon kings of Naples, precededby their magnificent bandmaster blowing forall they were worth a wild polka, a special favouritepiece of the saint, I understood. Then, surroundedby all the priests in their gala robes andsaluted by hundreds of crackers, appeared Sant'Antonioerect on his throne, his hand stretched outin the act of blessing. His robe was covered withprecious lace and strewn with jewels and ex-votos,his mantle of magnificent old brocatello was fastenedon his breast with a fibula of sapphires andrubies. From a string of multi-colored glass beadsround his neck hung a huge coral in the shape ofa horn to protect him against the evil eye.

Close on the heels of Sant'Antonio came I, bare-headed,wax taper in hand, walking by the side ofthe sindaco—an honor bestowed upon me by specialpermission from the Archbishop of Sorrento. Thencame the municipal councillors relieved for the dayfrom their grave responsibility. Then came thenotables of Anacapri: the doctor, the notary, theapothecary, the barber, the tobacconist, the tailor.Then came il popolo: sailors, fishermen, contadini,followed at a respectful distance by their womenfolkand their children. In the rear of the processionwalked humbly half-a-dozen dogs, a couple ofgoats with their kids trotting by their side, and apig or two, on the look-out for their owners. Speciallyselected masters of ceremony, gilt sticks intheir hands, Gold Sticks in Waiting to the Saint,rushed incessantly to and fro along the flank of theprocession to keep order in the ranks and to regulatethe speed. As the procession wound its waythrough the lanes, basketfuls of sweet scented ginestra,the favourite flower of the saint, were thrownfrom every window. The broom is in fact calledthe fiore di Sant'Antonio. Here and there a cordhad been stretched across the street from one windowto another and just as the saint passed by, agaily-coloured cardboard angel was seen performinga precipitate flight with flapping wings acrossthe rope to the huge delight of the crowd. In frontof San Michele the procession halted and the saintwas reverently deposited on a specially erectedstand to rest for a while. The clergy wiped theperspiration from their foreheads, the band kepton blowing their fortissimo as they had done eversince they issued from the church two hours before,Sant'Antonio looked on benevolently from hisstand while my womenfolk threw handfuls of rosesfrom the windows, old Pacciale rang the bells fromthe chapel and Baldassare lowered the flag fromthe roof of the house. It was a grand day for usall, everybody was proud of the honour paid to us.The dogs watched the proceedings from the pergola,well behaved and polite as usual though somewhatrestless. In the garden the tortoises continuedimpassive to ponder upon their own problems, themongoose was too busy to give way to his curiosity.The little owl sat blinking with half-closed eyes onhis perch, thinking of something else. Billy, beingan unbeliever, was shut up in the monkey-house,from where he kept up an infernal din, shouting atthe top of his voice, banging his water-bottleagainst his tin bowl, rattling his chain, shaking hisbars and using the most horrible language.

Back to the Piazza where Sant'Antonio salutedby a tremendous detonation of crackers was reinstalledin his shrine in the church and the processionwent home to their macaroni. The band satdown to a banquet offered by the authorities underthe pergola of the Hotel Paradiso, half a kilo ofmacaroni per head, vino a volontà. At four thedoors of San Michele were flung open, half anhour later the whole village was in the garden, richand poor, men, women and children and new-bornbabies, cripples, idiots, blind and lame, those whocould not come by themselves were carried on theshoulders of the others. Only the priests wereabsentees, though not by any fault of theirs. Prostratedby their long wanderings, they leaned backin their choirstalls behind the High Altar in ferventprayers to Sant'Antonio, audible maybe to theSaint himself in his shrine but seldom to anybodyelse who happened to look into the empty church.A long row of tables with huge piretti of SanMichele's best wine stretched from one end of thepergola to the other. Old Pacciale, Baldassare andMastro Nicola were hard at work re-filling thewine-glasses and Giovannina, Rosina and Elisawent round offering cigars to the men, coffee tothe women and cakes and sweets to the children.The band, by special arrangement with the authorities,lent to me for the afternoon, was blowingincessantly from the upper loggia. The wholehouse was thrown open, nothing was locked up,all my precious belongings were lying about asusual in their apparent disorder on tables, chairsand on the floor. Over a thousand people wanderedfreely from room to room, nothing was evertouched, nothing was ever missing. When thebells rang Ave Maria the reception was over andthey all went away after much handshaking, happierthan ever, but that is what wine is made for.The band in better form than ever led the way tothe Piazza. The twelve priests relieved and refreshedby their vigil over Sant'Antonio stood alreadyin compact formation outside the churchdoors. The sindaco, the municipal councillors andthe notables took their seats on the terrace of themunicipio. The band gasping for breath hoistedthemselves and their instruments on the speciallyerected tribune. The popolo stood in the Piazzapacked like herrings. The majestic bandmasterraised his baton, the Gran Concerto began. Rigoletto,Il Trovatore, Gli Ughenotti, I Puritani, IlBallo in Maschera, a choice selection of Neapolitanfolksongs, polkas, mazurkas, minuets andtarantellas in uninterrupted succession and everincreasing tempo until eleven o'clock when twothousand lire worth of rockets, Roman candles,catherine wheels and crackers exploded in the airto the glory of Sant'Antonio. At midnight theofficial programme for the festivity was exhaustedbut not so the Anacapresi and the band. Nobodywent to bed, the village resounded with singing,laughter and music the whole night long. Evvivala gioia! Evviva il Santo! Evviva la musica!

The band was to depart by the six o'clock morningboat. On their way to the Marina they haltedat daybreak under the windows of San Michele fortheir customary "Serenata d'Addio" in my honour.I can still see Henry James looking down from hisbedroom window, shaking with laughter, in hispyjamas. The band had been sadly reduced innumbers and efficiency during the night. Thebandmaster had become delirious, two of the leadingoboists had spit blood, the bassoon had had arupture, the big drummer had dislocated his rightshoulder-blade, the cymbalist had split his eardrums.Two more members of the band incapacitatedby emotion had had to be taken down to theMarina on donkeys. The survivors lay on theirbacks in the middle of the road blowing with theirlast breath their plaintive Serenata d'Addio to SanMichele. Revived by a cup of black coffee theystaggered speechless to their feet and with a friendlywaving of their hands they reeled down thePhoenician steps to the Marina. The Festa diSant'Antonio was over.

XXXI
THE REGATTA

It was the height of summer, a long gloriousday of unbroken sunshine. The BritishEmbassy had moved down from Rome andestablished its headquarters at Sorrento. Onthe balcony of the Hôtel Vittoria sat the ambassadorin his sailor cap, scanning the horizonthrough his monocle for the maestrale to beginto fan the glossy waters of the gulf. In the littleharbour at his feet his beloved 'Lady Hermione'lay riding at her anchor, as impatient as himselffor the start. He had designed and rigged herhimself with marvellous ingenuity and technicalskill as a single-handed fast cruiser. He oftenused to say he would not mind sailing her acrossthe Atlantic, he was prouder of her than of anyof his brilliant diplomatic achievements. He usedto spend the whole day in his boat, his face wasas bronzed as that of a Sorrento fisherman. Heknew the coast from Civita Vecchia to PuntaLicosa almost as well as I did. Once he had challengedme to a race down to Messina and hadbeaten me badly with a following wind and a heavysea to his great delight.

"Wait till I get my new jackyard topsail andmy silk spinnaker," said I.

He loved Capri and thought San Michele themost beautiful place he had ever seen, and he hadseen much. He knew little of the long historyof the island but was as eager as a schoolboy toknow more.

I was just then exploring the Blue Grotto.Twice Mastro Nicola had dragged me halfunconscious out of the famous subterraneanpassage leading, according to tradition, throughthe bowels of the earth up to the Tiberian villasix hundred feet overhead on the plain of Damecuta,maybe a corruption of Domus Augusta.I spent whole days in the Grotto and LordDufferin often used to come in his little dinghyto pay me a visit while I was at work. After adelicious swim in the blue waters we used to sitfor hours outside the mysterious tunnel, talkingabout Tiberius and the Capri orgies. I told theambassador that like all the rest of Suetonius'filthy gossip it was nonsense about the subterraneanpassage through which Tiberius wassupposed to have come down to the Grotto toplay about with his boys and girls before stranglingthem. The tunnel was not made by thehand of man but by the slow infiltration of seawaterthrough the rock. I had crawled in it forover eighty yards and convinced myself at theperil of my life that it led nowhere. That theGrotto was known to the Romans was provedby the numerous traces of Roman masonry.The island having sunk about sixteen feet sincethen, the grotto was in those days entered throughthe huge submerged vault visible through theclear water. The small aperture through whichhe had entered in his dinghy was originally awindow for the ventilation of the Grotto, whichwas of course not blue then but just like thedozens of other grottos on the island. Baedeker'sinformation that the Blue Grotto had been discoveredin 1826 by the German painter Kopischwas incorrect. The grotto was known in theseventeenth century as Grotta Gradula and wasrediscovered in 1822 by the Capri fishermanAngelo Ferraro who was even granted a lifepension for his discovery. As to the sinistertradition of Tiberius handed down to posterityin the Annals of Tacitus, I told Lord Dufferinthat history had never committed a worse blunderthan when condemning this great emperor toinfamy on the testimony of his principal accuser,"a detractor of humanity," as Napoleon hadcalled him. Tacitus was a brilliant writer buthis Annals were historical novels, not history.He had to insert at random his twenty lines aboutthe Capri orgies in order to complete his pictureof the typical tyrant of the rhetorical school towhich he belonged. There was no difficulty intracing the more than suspect source from whichhe had got hold of these foul rumours. I wasbesides pointing out in my "Psychological Studyof Tiberius" that they did not even relate to theEmperor's life in Capri. That Tacitus himselfdid not believe in the Capri orgies is evidentfrom his own narrative since they do not in anyway weaken his general conception of Tiberiusas a great emperor and a great man, "admirablein character and in great esteem" to use his ownwords. Even his far less clever follower, Suetonius,introduces his filthiest stories with theremark that they are "scarcely allowable tobe related and still less to be believed." Beforethe appearance of the Annals—eighty years afterthe death of Tiberius—there was no public manin Roman history with a cleaner record of anoble and unblemished life than the old emperor.None of the various writers on Tiberius, some ofthem his contemporaries with first class opportunitiesfor picking up all the gossip of the eviltongues of Rome, had a word to say about theCapri orgies. Philo, the pious and learned Jew,distinctly speaks of the clean and simple lifeCaligula was forced to lead when staying withhis adopted grandfather in Capri. Even thejackal Suetonius, forgetful of the wise saying ofQuintilian that a liar must have a good memory,blunders into the information that Caligula, whenbent on some debauchery in Capri, had to disguisehimself in a wig to escape the stern eyeof the old Emperor. Seneca, the castigator ofvice, and Pliny—both his contemporaries—speakof the austere solitude of Tiberius in Capri. DioCassius it is true, makes some casual remarksabout these foul rumours but cannot help noticinghimself the inexplicable contradictions into whichhe is falling. Even the scandal-loving Juvenalspeaks of the Emperor's "tranquil old age" inhis island home, surrounded by his learnedfriends and astronomers. Plutarch, the severeupholder of morality, speaks of the old man'sdignified solitude during the last ten years of hislife. That the story of the Capri orgies isabsolutely impossible from the point of view ofscientific psychology was already understood byVoltaire. Tiberius was in his sixty-eighth yearwhen he retired to Capri with an unbrokenrecord of a life of stern morality, unchallengedeven by his worst enemies. A possible diagnosisof some sinister senile dementia is excluded bythe admission of all writers that the old man wasin full possession of his mental health and vigourup to his death in his 79th year. The vein ofinsanity which runs through the Julian stockwas besides absent in the Claudian. His life onthe island was the life of a lonely old man, theweary ruler of an ungrateful world, a sombreidealist, heartbroken and bitter, a hypochondriache might even be called to-day, his magnificentintellect and his rare sense of humourstill surviving his belief in mankind. He distrustedand despised his contemporaries and nowonder, for almost every man or woman he hadtrusted had betrayed him. Tacitus has quotedhis words when, the year before his retirementto Capri, he rejected the petition to erect him atemple for divine worship as had been done toAugustus. Who but the compiler of the Annals,the brilliant master of sarcasm and subtle insinuation,could have had the audacity to quote with asneer the old Emperor's grave appeal to posterityfor a fair judgment?

"As for myself, Conscript Fathers, I declareunto you that I am no more than mortal anddo but discharge the duties of a man; that itsuffices me if I fill worthily the principal placeamong you; this I would have remembered bythose who live after me. Enough and more thanenough will they render to my memory, if theyjudge me to have been worthy of my ancestors,watchful of your interests, steadfast in danger,and undaunted by the enmities encountered inthe public service. These are the temples I woulderect in your hearts, these are the fairest imagesand such as will best endure. As for those built ofstone, if the judgment of posterity turn into hate,they are but dishonoured sepulchres. Hence I hereinvoke the Gods that to the end of my days theygrant me a spirit undisturbed and discerning in myduties towards them and towards mankind; andhence I ask our citizens and allies that when I shallhave departed this world, they will honour my lifeand my name with their approval and their kindlyrecollections."

We climbed up to Damecuta. The oldEmperor knew what he was doing when he builthis largest villa there, next to San MicheleDamecuta commands the most beautiful viewon the island of Capri. I told the ambassadorthat many of the fragments found here had comeinto the hands of his colleague Sir WilliamHamilton, the British Ambassador to Naples inthe time of Nelson, and were now in the BritishMuseum. Many were still lying hidden under thevines, I meant to start excavations here in earnestnext summer, the vineyard now belonged to me.Lord Dufferin picked up a rusty soldier's buttonamong the debris of mosaic and coloured marbleslabs. Corsican Rangers! Yes, two hundredCorsican Rangers were encamped here in 1808but unluckily the bulk of the English garrisonin Anacapri consisted of Maltese troops, whoretired in disorder when the French rushed thecamp. Looking down upon the cliffs at OricoI showed the ambassador where the French hadlanded and climbed the precipitous rock, weagreed it was indeed a marvellous performance.Yes, the English had fought with their usualgallantry but had to retire under cover of thenight to what is San Michele to-day where theircommander, Major Hamill, an Irishman likehimself, had died of his wounds. He lies buriedin a corner of the cemetery of Anacapri. Thetwo-pounder they had to abandon in theirenforced retreat down the Phoenician steps toCapri the next day is still in my garden. Atdaybreak the French opened fire on Capri fromthe heights of Monte Solaro, how they got a gunup there seems almost incomprehensible. Therewas nothing for the English commander in theCasa Inglese in Capri to do but to sign thedocument of surrender. Hardly was the inkdry before the English fleet, becalmed by thePonza islands, appeared in the offing. Thedocument of surrender bore the name of anexceptionally unlucky man, the future gaoler ofthe captive eagle on another island, Sir HudsonLowe.

As we were walking back through the villageto San Michele I pointed to a small house in alittle garden and told the ambassador that theowner of the house was an aunt of La BellaMargherita, the beauty of Anacapri. The aunthad married a "milord inglese" who, unless Iwas mistaken, was a relation of his. Yes, hewell remembered that a cousin of his had marriedan Italian peasant girl to the dismay of hisfamily and had even taken her to England, buthe had never seen her and did not know whathad become of her after her husband's death.He was tremendously interested and wanted meto tell him all I knew about her, adding thatwhat he knew about her husband was quiteenough for him. I told him it had all happenedlong before my time. I had only known herlong after her return from England as a widow,she was then already an old woman. All Icould tell him was what I had heard from oldDon Crisostomo who had been her confessorand also her tutor. Of course she could neitherread nor write but with her quick Caprese mindshe had soon picked up a lot of English. Inorder to prepare her for her life in England asthe wife of a milord inglese, Don Crisostomo,who was a learned man, had been instructed togive her a few lessons in various matters toenlarge the limited range of her conversation.Grace and good manners she already possessedby birthright as all Capri girls do. As to goodlooks it was safe to rely on Don Crisostomo'sassurance that she was the most beautiful girlin Anacapri, for I had always considered him asa great connoisseur. All efforts to rouse herinterest in anything outside her own island havingfailed, it was decided to limit her education tothe history of Capri to give her at least somethingto talk about to her relations. She listenedgravely to the terrible tales how Tiberio hadthrown his victims from the Salto di Tiberio,how he had scratched the face of a fisherman withthe claws of a crab, how he had strangled smallboys and girls in the Blue Grotto. How hisgrandson Nero had had his own mother beaten todeath by his oarsmen in view of the island, how hisnephew Caligula had drowned thousands of peopleoff Pozzuoli. At last she said in her inimitabledialect:

"They must have been very bad all these people,nothing but camorristi."

"I should think so," said the Professor, "didn'tyou hear me say that Tiberio strangled the boysand girls in the Blue Grotto, that . . ."

"Are they all dead?"

"Yes, of course, nearly two thousand yearsago."

"But why on earth should we then trouble aboutthem, do let us leave them alone," she said with herenchanting smile.

Thus ended her education.

After the death of her husband she had returnedto her island and gradually drifted back to thesimple life of her ancestors with a lineage twothousand years older than that of her milordinglese. We found her sitting in the sun on herlittle pergola, a rosary in her hand and a catin her lap, a dignified Roman matron, statelyas the mother of the Gracchi. Lord Dufferinkissed her hand with the courtesy of an old courtier.She had forgotten nearly all her English and fallenback to the dialect of her childhood, and the ambassador'sclassical Italian was as unintelligible toher as to me.

"Tell her," said Lord Dufferin as we rose togo, "tell her from me that she is at least as greata lady as her milord inglese was a gentleman."

Did the ambassador wish to see her niece,La Bella Margherita? Yes, he asked for nothingbetter.

La Bella Margherita received us with her charmingsmile and a glass of the parroco's best wineand the gallant old gentleman was quite willing toacknowledge their cousinship with a smacking kisson her rosy cheek.

The long expected regatta was to come off thefollowing Sunday, a triangular course Capri,Posilipo, Sorrento, where the winner was to receivethe cup from Lady Dufferin's hands. Mybeautiful cutter "Lady Victoria" was as fine aboat as Scotland could build, teak and steel,ready for every emergency, safe in all weather ifproperly handled, and if ever I knew anythingworth knowing it was how to steer a boat. Thetwo little yachts were sister-boats, Lord Dufferin'stwo daughters had given them their names. Ourchances were about equal. In a stiff breezeand a rough sea I should probably be a loser,but I relied on my new jackyard topsail and mynew silk spinnaker to lift the cup in a light windand a smooth sea. The new sails had arrivedfrom England while I was still in Rome and weresafely hung up in the sailroom in the sole custodyof old Pacciale, the most trusted of the wholehousehold. He well knew the importance ofhis position, he slept with the key under hispillow and never allowed anybody to enter thesanctuary. Although he had of late years becomea passionate grave-digger, his heart was still onthe sea where he had lived and suffered since hewas a boy as a "pescatore di coralli." In thosedays, before the curse of America had fallen onCapri, almost the whole male population wentcoral fishing in "Barbaria," off Tunis andTripoli. It was a terrible job, full of hardshipsand privations, even dangers, for many of themnever returned to their island. It took Paccialetwenty years of toil on the sea to put togetherthe three hundred lire needed for a man to takea wife. One hundred for the boats and thefishing nets, two hundred for the bed, the coupleof chairs, and a suit of Sunday clothes to getmarried in, the Madonna would see to the rest.The girl waited for years, spinning and weavingthe house linen which it fell to her to provide.Like everybody else Pacciale had also inheritedfrom his father a strip of land, in his case a merestrip of bare rock, by the water's edge, a thousandfeet below Damecuta. The earth he had carriedin basketfuls on his back, year after year, tillthere was enough soil to plant a few vines andprickly pears. He never made a drop of wine,for the young grapes were regularly burnt bythe salt spray when the S.W. was blowing. Nowand then he came home with a few new potatoes,the first to ripen on the island, which he presentedto me with great pride. He spent all his sparetime down in his masseria, scratching the rockwith his heavy mattock or sitting on a stonelooking out on the sea with his clay pipe in hismouth. Now and then I used to climb down theprecipitous cliffs, where a goat would hesitatewhere to put its foot, to pay him a visit to hishuge delight. Just below our feet was a grotto,inaccessible from the sea and unknown eventoday to most people, semi-dark and hung withhuge stalactites. According to Pacciale it hadbeen habited in bygone times by a lupomanaro,the mysterious, awe-inspiring werewolf who stillhaunts the imagination of the islanders almostas much as Tiberio himself. I knew that thefossil tooth I had found under the sand in thecave was the tooth of a big mammal who hadlain down to die here when the island was stillconnected with the mainland and that thepieces of flint and obsidian were the fragmentsof the tools of primitive man. Maybe even aGod had lived there, for the grotto faces Eastand Mithras, the Sun-God, was often worshippedhere.

But there was no time now for exploring thegrotto, all my thoughts were settled on thecoming regatta. I had sent word to Paccialethat I was coming to inspect my new sailsafter breakfast. The sailroom was open but tomy surprise old Pacciale was not there to meetme. I thought I was going to faint as I unfoldedthe new sails one by one. There was a big rentin my jackyard topsail, my silk spinnaker thatwas to lift the cup was almost split in two, theracing jib was soiled and torn to rags. When Ihad recovered my speech, I roared for Pacciale.He did not come. I rushed out of the sailroomand found him at last standing against thegarden wall. Mad with rage I raised my handto strike him, he did not move, he did notutter a sound, all he did was to bend his headand stretch out his arms horizontally against thewall. My hand fell, I knew what it meant, Ihad seen it before. It meant that he was goingto suffer and that he was innocent, it was thecrucifixion of Our Lord he reproduced with hisoutstretched arms and his bent head. I spoketo him as gently as I could but he did not uttera sound, he did not move from his cross ofagony. I put the key of the sailroom in mypocket and summoned the whole household.Nobody had been in the sailroom, nobody hadanything to say, but Giovannina hid her facein her apron and began to cry, I took her intomy room and succeeded with the greatest difficultyin making her speak. I wish I could relatethe pitiful story word by word as she told it tome between her sobs. It nearly made me crymyself when I remembered that I had been onthe point of striking poor old Pacciale. It hadhappened two months ago on the first of Maywhen we were still in Rome. You may rememberthe famous first of May many years ago whenthere was to be a social upheaval in all countriesof Europe, an assault on the rich, a destructionof their cursed property. That was at leastwhat the newspapers said, the smaller the paper,the bigger the impending calamity. The smallestpaper of all was the 'Voce di San Gennaro'which Maria Porta-Lettere carried twice a weekin her fish-basket to the parroco to be circulatedamong the intellectuals of the village, a faintecho from the happenings of the world resoundingthrough the Arcadian peace of Anacapri. But itwas not a faint echo that reached the ears ofthe intellectuals this time through the columnsof the 'Voce di San Gennaro.' It was a thunderboltfrom the blue sky which shook the wholevillage. It was the long predicted world cataclysmthat was to come off on the first of May.Enlisted by il Demonio the savage hordes ofAttila were to ransack the palaces of the richand burn and destroy their belongings. It wasthe beginning of the end, castigo di Dio! Castigodi Dio! The news spread like wildfire all overAnacapri. The parroco hid the jewels of Sant'Antonioand the sacred vessels of the churchunder his bed, the notables dragged their portablebelongings down to their wine-cellars. Thepopolo rushed to the Piazza yelling for theirPatron Saint to be taken out of his shrine andcarried through the streets for protection. Onthe eve of the fatal day Pacciale went to consultthe parroco. Baldassare had already been thereand had left reassured by the parroco's affirmationthat the brigands would surely not carein the least for il Signor Dottore's broken stonesand crockery and roba antica. Baldassare mightjust as well leave all this rubbish where it waslying. As to Pacciale who was responsible forthe sails, he was in a far worse plight, said theparroco. If the brigands were to invade theisland, they must come in boats, and sails werea most valuable booty to sea-faring men. Tohide them in the wine-cellar was running toogreat a risk, for sea-faring men were also fondof good wine. Why not carry them down to hislonely masseria under the cliffs of Damecuta, it wasthe very place for them, the brigands would surelynot risk their necks down that precipice to fetchthem there.

After dark Pacciale, his brother and two trustedcompagni, armed with heavy sticks, dragged mynew sails down to his masseria. The night wasstormy, soon it rained in torrents, the lanternwent out, at the peril of their lives they gropedtheir way down the slippery cliffs. At midnightthey reached the masseria and deposited theirburden in the grotto of the lupomanaro. Theysat there the whole of the first of May on theirbundles of drenched sails, one of them in turnstanding on guard at the entrance of the cave.Towards sunset Pacciale resolved to send hisunwilling brother to reconnoitre in the villagewithout exposing himself to any undue risk.He returned three hours later to report thatthere was no trace of the brigands, all was goingon as usual. All the people were in the Piazza,candles were lit before the altars in the church,Sant'Antonio was to come out on the Piazzato receive the thanksgivings of Anacapri forhaving once more saved his village from destruction.At midnight the party crept out of thegrotto and climbed to the village again withmy drenched sails. When Pacciale discoveredthe disaster he wanted to drown himself, hisdaughters said they did not dare to leave himout of sight for several days and nights. Hehad never been the same since, he hardly everspoke. I had already noticed it myself and hadseveral times asked him what was the matterwith him. Long before Giovannina had finishedher confession, all trace of anger had gone outof me, I hunted in vain for Pacciale all overthe village to tell him so. I found him at lastdown in his masseria sitting on his usual stonelooking out over the sea as was his wont. Itold him I was ashamed of having raised myhand to strike him. It was all the fault of theparroco. I did not care a d—n about the newsails, the old ones were good enough for me. Imeant to be off for a long cruise on the morrow,he was to come with me and we would forgetall about it. He knew I had always dislikedhis grave-digging, better hand this job over tohis brother and return to the sea. From to-dayhe was promoted to become my sailor in chargeof the cutter. Gaetano had been blind drunktwice in Calabria and nearly made us go to thebottom, I meant to dismiss him in any case.When we came home I made him put on the newjersey just arrived from England with LADYVICTORIA R.C.Y.C. in red letters over thebreast. He never took it off, he lived in it, hedied in it. When I first came across Paccialehe was already an old man, how old he did notknow, nor did his daughters, nor did anybodyelse. I had in vain tried to trace his birth inthe Official Register of the Municipio. He hadbeen forgotten from the very beginning. But heshall never be forgotten by me. I shall alwaysremember him as the most honest, the mostclean-minded, the most guileless man I have evermet in any land and in any station of life,gentle as a child. His own children had toldme they had never heard him say a rash orunkind word to their mother or to them. He waseven kind to animals, he used to take downpocketfuls of breadcrumbs to feed the birds inhis vineyard, he was the only man on the islandwho had not trapped a bird or flogged a donkey.A devoted old servant cancels the name ofmaster. He had become my friend, the honourwas mine, he was a far better man than I.Although he belonged to another world than I,a world almost unknown to me, we understoodeach other quite well. During the long days andnights we were together alone on the sea hetaught me many things I had not read in mybooks or heard from the lips of other men. Hewas a taciturn man, the sea had taught him itssilence long ago. His thoughts were few andso much the better for him. But his sayingswere full of poetry and the archaic simplicity ofhis similes were pure Greek. Many of his verywords were Greek, he remembered them fromthe time he had sailed down that very coast asone of the crew in Ulysses' ship. When we wereat home he continued his life as usual workingin my garden or down in his beloved masseria bythe sea. I did not fancy these expeditions upand down the steep cliffs, I thought his arterieswere getting very hard and he often returnedfrom his long climb rather out of breath. Otherwisehe looked just the same, he never complainedof anything, ate his macaroni with his usualappetite and was on his legs from daybreak tillsunset. All of a sudden he refused one day toeat, we tried to coax him with all sorts of thingsbut he said no. He admitted that he felt "unpoco stanco," a little tired, and seemed quitecontent to sit for a couple of days under thepergola looking out on the sea. Then he insistedupon going down to his masseria, it was withgreat difficulty I persuaded him to remain withus. I do not think he knew himself why hewanted to go there but I knew it well. It wasthe instinct of primitive man that drove himthere to hide from other men and lie down todie behind a rock, or under a bush or in the grottowhere many thousands of years ago other primitivemen had lain down to die. Towards noonhe said he just wanted to lie down for a whileon his bed, he who had never lain on a bed asingle day of his life. I asked him several timesduring the afternoon how he felt, he said hefelt quite well, thank you. Towards evening Ihad his bed moved to the window where hecould see the sun going down in the sea. WhenI returned after Ave Maria the whole household,his brother, his compagni were sitting round theroom. Nobody had told them to come, I didnot even know myself it was so near. Theydid not speak, they did not pray, they just satthere quite still the whole night. As is thecustom here, nobody was near the bed. OldPacciale was lying there quite still and peaceful,looking out on the sea. It was all so simpleand solemn, just as it was meant to be whena life is about to end. The priest came withthe Last Sacrament. Old Pacciale was told toconfess his sins and to ask to be forgiven. Henodded his head and kissed the crucifix. Thepriest gave him the absolution. Almighty Godapproved with a smile and said that old Paccialewas welcome to Heaven, I thought he wasalready there when all of a sudden he raisedhis hand and stroked my cheek gently, almosttimidly.

"Siete buono come il mare," he murmured.

Good as the sea!

I do not write down here these words withconceit, I write them with wonder. Where didthese words come from? Surely they camefrom far, they came as an echo from a long-forgottengolden age when Pan was still alive,when the trees in the forest could speak and thewaves of the sea could sing and man could listenand understand.

XXXII
THE BEGINNING OF THE END

I have been away from San Michele a wholeyear, what a waste of time! I have comeback with one eye less than when I went away.There is nothing more to be said about it, nodoubt it was in order to prepare for such aneventuality that I was made to start life withtwo eyes. I have come back a different man.I seem to be looking out on the world with myone remaining eye from another angle of visionthan I did before. I can no more see what isugly and sordid, I can only see what is beautifuland sweet and clean. Even the men and womenaround me seem different from what they usedto be. By a curious optical illusion I can seethem no more as they are but as they weremeant to be, as they would have liked to be ifthey had had a chance. I can still see with myblind eye a lot of fools strutting about, butthey do not seem to get on my nerves as theyused to do, I do not mind their chatter, let themhave their say. Further I have not come forthe present, if I am ever to love my fellowcreatures I fear I shall have to be blinded inboth my eyes first. I cannot forgive them theircruelty to animals. I believe there is a sort ofretrograde evolution going on in my mind whichmakes me drift further and further away fromother people and draw closer and closer to MotherNature and to the animals. All these men andwomen around me now seem to me of far lessimportance in the world than before. I feel asif I had been wasting too much of my time withthem, as if I could do just as well without themas they can do without me. I well know theyhave no further use for me. Better filer àl'anglaise before one is turned out. I haveplenty of other things to do and maybe there isnot much time left. My wandering about theworld in search of happiness is over, my life asa fashionable doctor is over, my life on the seais over. I am going to stay where I am forgood and try to make the best of it. But shallI be allowed to remain even here in San Michele?The whole bay of Naples lies shining like a mirrorbelow my feet, the columns on the pergola, theloggias and the chapel are all ablaze with light,what will become of me if I cannot stand theglare? I have given up reading and writingand have taken up singing instead, I did notsing when all was well, I am also learning typewriting,a useful and pleasant pastime, I amtold, for a single man with a single eye. Eachhammerstroke of my typewriter strikes simultaneouslythe MS. and my skull with a knockoutblow on the top of every thought thatventures to pop out from my brain. I havebesides never been good at thinking, I seem to goon much better without it. There was a comfortablemainroad leading from the brain to thepen in my hand. Whatever thoughts I havehad to spare have groped their way along thisroad ever since they began to tackle the alphabet.No wonder if they are apt to lose their bearingin this American labyrinth of cogs and wheels!In parenthesis I had better warn the reader thatI can only accept responsibility for what I havewritten with my own hand, not for what hasbeen concocted in collaboration with the CoronaTypewriting Company. I shall be curious tosee which of the two the reader will like best.

But if ever I learn to hold on to this boisterousPegasus I mean to sing a humble song to mybeloved Schubert, the greatest singer of alltimes, to thank him for what I owe him. I owehim everything. Even while I was lying weekafter week in the dark with little hope ever toget out of it, I used to hum to myself one afteranother of his songs like the schoolboy whogoes whistling through the dark forest to pretendthat he is not afraid. Schubert was nineteenwhen he composed the music to Goethe's Erlkönigand sent it to him with a humble dedication. Ishall never forgive the greatest poet of moderntimes for not even having acknowledged thisletter with a single word of thanks to the manwho had made his song immortal, the sameGoethe who had ample time to write letters ofthanks to Zelter for his mediocre music. Goethe'staste in music was as bad as his taste in art, hespent a year in Italy understanding nothing ofGothic art, the severe beauty of the primitiveswas unintelligible to him, Carlo Dolci and GuidoReni were his ideals. Even pure Greek art atits best left him cold, the Apollo Belvedere washis favourite. Schuhert never saw the sea andyet no composer, no painter, no poet exceptHomer has ever made us understand its calmsplendour, its mystery and its anger as he did.He had never seen the Nile and yet the openingbars of his wonderful Memnon might havesounded in the temple of Luxor. Hellenic artand literature were unknown to him, exceptwhat little his friend Mayerhofer might havetold him, and yet his Die Götter Griechenlands,his Prometheus, his Ganymede, his Fragment ausAeschylus are masterpieces from the golden ageof Hellas. He had never been loved by a womanand yet no more heartrending cry of passion hasever reached our ears than his Gretchen amSpinnrade, no more touching resignation thanhis Mignon, no sweeter love-song has ever beensung than his Stächnden. He was thirty-onewhen he died, wretchedly poor as he had lived.He who had written An die Musik had not evena piano of his own! After his death all his earthlybelongings, his clothes, his few books, his bed weresold at auction for sixty-three florins. In a dilapidatedbag under his bed were found a score ofother immortal songs more worth than all the goldof the Rothschilds in their Vienna where he livedand died.

******

Spring has come once more. The air is full ofit. The ginestra is in bloom, the myrtle isbudding, the vines are sprouting, flowers everywhere.Roses and honeysuckle are climbing thestems of the cypresses and the columns of thepergola. Anemones, crocuses, wild hyacinths,violets, orchids, cyclamens are rising out of thesweet-scented grass. Clusters of Campanulagracilis and deep-blue Lithospermum, blue as theBlue Grotto, are springing out of the very rock.The lizards are chasing each other among the ivy.The tortoises are cantering about singing lustilyto themselves—perhaps you do not know thattortoises can sing? The mongoose seems morerestless than ever. The little Minerva owl flapsher wings as if she meant to fly off to look up afriend in the Roman Campagna. Barbarossa,the big Maremma dog, has vanished on errandsof his own, even my rickety old Tappio looks asif he would not mind a little spree in Lapland.Billy wanders up and down under his fig-treewith a twinkle in his eye and an unmistakableair of a young man about town, up to anything.Giovannina is having long talks under the gardenwall with her sunburnt amoroso, it is all right,they are going to be married after Sant'Antonio.The sacred mountain above San Michele is fullof birds on their way home to mate and reartheir young. What a joy to me that they canrest there in peace! Yesterday I picked up apoor little skylark, so exhausted from his longjourney across the sea that he didn't even attemptto fly away, he sat quite still in the palmof my hand as if he understood it was the handof a friend, perhaps a compatriot—I asked himif he wouldn't sing me a song before he went offagain, there was no bird-song I liked better thanhis; but he said he had no time to spare, he hadto hurry home to Sweden to sing the summer in.For more than a week the flute-like notes of agolden oriole have been sounding in my garden.The other day I caught sight of his bride hiding ina laurel bush. To-day I have seen their nest, amarvel of bird-architecture. There is also muchfluttering of wings and a soft murmur of bird-voicesin the thicket of rosemary by the chapel. I pretendto know nothing about it, but I am pretty suresome flirtation is going on there; I wonder whatbird it can be? Last night the secret came out, forjust as I was going to bed a nightingale startedsinging Schubert's Serenade under my window:

Leise flehen meine Lieder
Durch die Nacht zu dir
In den stillen Hain hernieder
Liebchen, komm zu mir.

"What a beautiful girl Peppinella has turnedout," thought I as I was falling asleep; "I wonderif Peppinella . . ."

IN THE OLD TOWER

I

The 'Story of San Michele' ends abruptlyhere just when it was about to begin, ameaningless fragment. It ends with the flutteringof wings and the twitter of birds and the air fullof spring. Would that the meaningless story ofmy own life would end just so with the birdssinging under my window and the sky brightwith light! I have been thinking so muchabout death these last days, I do not know why.The garden is still full of flowers, the butterfliesand the bees are still on the wing, the lizardsare still sunning themselves among the ivy, theearth is still teeming with the life of all creepingthings. Not later than yesterday I heard abelated warbler singing lustily under my window.Why should I think about death? God in Hismercy has made Death invisible to the eyes ofman. We know He is there, close on our heelslike our shadow, never losing sight of us. Yetwe never see Him, hardly ever think about Him.Strangest of all, the further we advance towardsour graves, the further does Death recede fromour thoughts. Indeed it needed a God to performsuch a miracle!

Old people seldom talk about death, their dimeyes seem unwilling to focus anything but thepast and the present. Gradually, as theirmemory weakens, even the past becomes moreand more indistinct, and they live almost entirelyin the present. That is why, granted their daysare tolerably exempt from bodily suffering asnature meant them to be, old people are generallyless unhappy than young people wouldexpect them to be.

We know that we are going to die, in fact itis the only thing we know of what is in store forus. All the rest is mere guesswork, and most ofthe time we guess wrong. Like children in thetrackless forest we grope our way through ourlives in blissful ignorance of what is going tohappen to us from one day to another, whathardships we may have to face, what more orless thrilling adventures we may encounterbefore the great adventure, the most thrillingof all, the Adventure of Death. Now and thenin our perplexity we venture to put a timidquestion to our destiny, but we get no answerfor the stars are too far away. The sooner werealize that our fate lies in ourselves and not inthe stars, so much the better for us. Happinesswe can only find in ourselves, it is a waste oftime to seek for it from others, few have any tospare. Sorrow we have to bear alone as bestwe can, it is not fair to try to shift it on others,be they men or women. We have to fight ourown battles and strike as hard as we can, bornfighters as we are. Peace will come one day forall of us, peace without dishonor even to thevanquished if he has tried to do his bit as longas he could.

As for me, the battle is over and lost. I havebeen driven out of San Michele, the labor of alifetime. I had built it stone by stone with myown hands in the sweat of my brow, I had builtit on my knees to be a sanctuary to the Sunwhere I was to seek knowledge and light fromthe glorious god I had been worshipping mywhole life. I had been warned over and overagain by the fire in my eyes that I was notworthy to live there, that my place was in theshade, but I had paid no heed to the warnings.Like the horses returning to their burningstables to perish in the flames, I had come back,summer after summer to the blinding light of SanMichele. Beware of the light, beware of the light!

I have accepted my fate at last, I am too oldto fight a god. I have retreated to my strongholdin the old tower where I mean to make alast stand. Dante was still alive when the monksset to work to build the Tower of Materita, halfmonastery, half fortress, strong as the rock it standsupon. How often has not his bitter cry of:"Nessun maggior dolore che ricordarsi del tempofelice nella miseria" echoed through its walls sinceI came here. But was he right after all, the Florentineseer? Is it true that there is no greatersuffering than to remember our past happiness inour misery? I for one do not think so. It is withjoy and not with sorrow that my thoughts goback to San Michele, where I have lived the happiestyears of my life. But it is true I do notlike to go there myself any more—I feel as if Iwere intruding upon sacred ground, sacred to apast which can never return, when the world wasyoung and the sun was my friend.

It is good to wander about in the soft lightunder the olives of Materita. It is good to sitand dream in the old tower, it is about the onlything I can do now. The tower looks towardsthe West, where the sun sets. Soon the sunwill sink into the sea, then comes the twilight, thencomes the night.

It has been a beautiful day.

II

The last ray of golden light looked in throughthe Gothic window and wandered round theold tower from the illuminated missals and thethirteenth century silver crucifix on the walls tothe dainty Tanagras and the Venetian glasses onthe refectory table, from the flower-crownednymphs and bacchants dancing to the flute ofPan on the Greek basrelief to the pale featureson gold ground of St. Francis, the belovedUmbrian saint, with St. Claire, lilies in hand, byhis side. Now a halo of gold encircled the stillface of the Florentine Madonna, now the sternmarble goddess, the Artemis Laphria, the swiftarrow of Death in her quiver, stood out from thegloom. Now a radiant Solar Disk crownedonce more the mutilated head of Akhanaten, theroyal dreamer on the banks of the Nile, the Sonof the Sun. Close by stood Osiris, the judge ofthe soul of man, and the falcon-headed Horus,the mysterious Isis and Nepthys, her sister, withAnubis, the watcher of the grave, crouching attheir feet.

The light faded away, night drew near.

"God of day, Giver of light, cannot You staywith me a little longer? The night is so long forthoughts that dare not dream of sunrise, the nightis so dark for eyes that cannot see the stars. Cannotyou grant me a few seconds more of your radianteternity to behold your beautiful world, thebeloved sea, the wandering clouds, the gloriousmountains, the rustling streams, the friendly trees,the flowers among the grass, the birds and beasts,my brothers and sisters, in the sky and in the forestsand the fields? Cannot you leave me at least afew wild flowers in my hand to warm my heart,cannot you leave me a few stars in your heaven toshow me the way?

"If I am no longer to see the features of menand women around me, cannot you at leastgrant me a fugitive glance in the face of a littlechild or a friendly animal? I have looked intothe face of man and woman for long, I know itwell, it has little more to teach me. It is monotonousreading when compared to what I have readin God's own bible, in the mysterious face ofMother Nature. Dear old nurse, who has dispelledso many evil thoughts from my burning foreheadby the gentle stroke of your wrinkled old hand,do not leave me alone in the dark. I am afraidof the dark! Stay with me a little longer, tellme a few more of your wonderful fairy-tales whileyou put your restless child to bed for the longnight's sleep!

"Light of the world, alas! you are a God,and no prayer of mortal man has ever reachedyour heaven. How can I, the worm, hope forpity from you, merciless Sungod, from you whoforsook even the great Pharaoh Akhanatenwhose immortal Hymn to the Sun echoed overthe valley of the Nile five hundred years beforeHomer sang:

'When Thou risest all the land is in joy and gladness
And men say: It is Life to see Thee, it is Death not seeing Thee.
West and East give praise to Thee, When Thou hast risen they live,
When thou settest they die.'"

Yet you looked on with no pity in yourshining eye while the gods of old hurled thetemple of your greatest worshipper in the Nileand tore the Solar Disk from his brow and the royalvulture from his breast and erased his hated namefrom the wrappings of sheeted gold round his frailbody, condemning his nameless soul to wander inthe underworld through all eternity.

Long after the gods of the Nile, the gods ofOlympus and the gods of Walhalla had fallen intodust, another worshipper of yours, St. Francis ofAssisi, the sweet singer of Il Canto del Sole, raisedhis arms to your heaven, immortal Sungod, withthe same prayer on his lips that I am addressingyou to-day, that you should not take away yourblessed light from his ailing eyes, worn out byvigil and tears. Earnestly besought by the brethrenhe journeyed to Rieti to consult a famouseye-doctor and submitted fearlessly to the operationadvised by him. When the surgeon placedthe iron in the fire to heat it St. Francis spoke tothe fire as to a friend, saying:

"Brother Fire, before all other things the MostHoly has created Thee of exceeding comeliness,powerful, beauteous and useful. Be Thou to mein this my hour merciful, be courteous. I beseechthe Great Lord who has created Thee that He maytemper for me Thy heat that I may be able patientlyto endure Thy burning me."

When he had finished his prayer over the iron,glistening with heat, he made the sign of the crossand remained steadfastly unflinching while thehissing iron was plunged into the tender flesh, andfrom the ear to the eyebrow the cautery wasdrawn.

"Brother Medico," said St. Francis to thephysician, "if it is not well burnt, thrust inagain!"

And the physician, beholding in the weaknessof the flesh such wondrous strength of spirit,marvelled and said:

"I tell you, brethren, I have seen strange thingsto-day!"

Alas! the saintliest of all men prayed in vain,suffered in vain, you forsook Il Poverello as youhad forsaken the great Pharaoh. When on theirhomeward journey the faithful brethren depositedthe litter with its frail burden under theolive-trees by the foot of the hill, St. Franciscould no longer see his beloved Assisi as he raisedhis hands to give it his last blessing.

How then can I, the sinner, the humblest ofall your worshippers, hope for mercy from you,impassive Ruler of Life! How dare I ask foryet another favour from you, from you who hasalready given me so many precious gifts withlavish hands! You gave me my eyes to sparklewith joy and to fill with tears, you gave me myheart to throb with longing and to bleed with pity,you gave me sleep, you gave me hope.

I thought you gave it all to me as a gift. Iwas mistaken. It was only a loan, and nowyou want it all returned to you to be handedover to another being who will rise in his turnout of the same eternity into which I am sinkingback. Lord of Light, be it so! The Lord gaveand the Lord taketh away, blessed be the nameof the Lord!

III

The bells in the Campanile were ringing AveMaria. A light wind rustled through thecypresses outside the window where the birdswere twittering before settling to sleep. The voiceof the sea grew fainter and fainter and the blessedsilence of the night fell over the old tower.

I sat there in my Savonarola chair, weary andlonging for rest. Wolf lay asleep at my feet,for days and nights he had hardly left my side.Now and then he opened his eyes and gave mea look so full of love and sorrow that it almostfilled my own with tears. Now and then he satup and laid his big head on my knees. Did heknow what I knew, did he understand what Iunderstood, that the hour for parting wasdrawing near? I stroked his head in silence,for the first time I did not know what to say tohim, how to explain to him the great mystery Icould not explain to myself.

"Wolf, I am going away on a long journey,to a far off land. This time you cannot comewith me, my friend. You have to stay behindwhere you are, where you and I have livedtogether for so long, sharing good and evil. Youmust not mourn for me, you must forget me aseverybody else will forget me, for such is thelaw of life. Do not worry, I shall be all rightand so will you. Everything that could be donefor your happiness has been done. You willlive on in your old familiar surroundings wherefriendly people will look after you with the sameloving care that I did. You will have yourample meal set before you every day as the bellsring mezzogiorno, and your succulent bonestwice a week as before. The large garden whereyou used to romp is still yours, and even shouldyou forget the law and start chasing a poachingcat under the olive trees I shall continue fromwhere I am, to turn my blind eye on the chase,closing the good one as I used to do for friendship'ssake. Then when your limbs have grownstiff and your eyes dim you will rest for goodunder the antique marble column in the cypressgrove by the old tower at the side of your comradeswho have gone there before you. And whenall is said, who knows if we shall not meet again?Great or small our chances are the same."

"Do not go away, stay with me or take mewith you," pleaded the faithful eyes.

"I am going to a land I know nothing about.I do not know what will happen to me there,and still less do I know what would happen toyou, if you came with me. I have read strangetales about this land, but they are only tales,nobody who went there has ever returned totell us what he saw. One man alone mighthave told us, but he was the son of a God, andhe went back to His Father, his lips sealed ininscrutable silence."

I stroked the big head, but my benumbedhands no longer felt the touch of his glossy coat.

As I bent down to kiss him good-bye a suddenfear shone in his eyes, he drew back in terror andcrept to his couch under the refectory table. Icalled him back but he did not come. I knewwhat it meant. I had seen it before. I hadthought there might have been still another dayor two left. I stood up and tried to go to thewindow for a deep breath of air, but my limbsrefused to obey, and I sank back in my chair.I looked round the old tower. All was dark andsilent, but I thought I heard Artemis, the sterngoddess, taking her swift arrow from her quiver,ready to raise her bow. An invisible hand touchedmy shoulder. A shiver ran through my body. Ithought I was going to faint, but I felt no painand my head was clear.

"Welcome, Sire! I heard the galloping ofyour black charger through the night, you havewon the race after all, for I can still see yoursombre face as you bend over me. You are nostranger to me, we have often met before eversince we stood side by side by a bed in Salle St.Claire. I used then to call you wicked andcruel, an executioner enjoying the slow tortureof his victim. I did not know Life then as Iknow it now. I know now that you are by far themore merciful of the two, that what you take awaywith one hand you give back with the other. Iknow now that it was Life, not you that lit theterror in those wide open eyes and strained themuscle in those heaving chests for yet anotherbreath of air, yet another minute of agony.

"I for one am not going to wrestle with you to-day.Had you come to me when the blood wasyoung it would have been another matter.There was plenty of life in me then. I wouldhave put up a good fight and hit back as hardas I could. Now I am weary, my eyes are dim,my limbs are tired and my heart is worn out,I have only my head left to me, and my headtells me it is no use fighting. So I shall sit stillin my Savonarola chair and leave you to dowhat you have to do. I am curious to see howyou are going to set to work, I have always beeninterested in physiology. I had better warnyou I was made of good stuff, hit as hard as youcan or you might miss the mark once more as youhave already missed it a couple of times unlessI am mistaken. I hope, sire, that you do notbear me any grudge from bygone times. Alas!I fear I used to keep you rather busy in thosedays in Avenue de Villiers. Pray, sir, I am notas brave as I pretend to be, if you would justgive me a few drops of your eternal sleepingdraught before you begin, I should be grateful."

"I always do and you for one ought to knowit, you who have seen me at work so often. Doyou wish to send for a priest, there is still time.They always send for a priest when they see mecoming."

"It is no use sending for the priest, he can donothing for me now. It is too late for me torepent and too early for him to condemn, and Isuppose it matters little to you either way."

"I do not care, good men or bad men are allthe same to me."

"It is no good sending for a priest who willonly tell me that I was born evil, that my thoughtsand my deeds were stained with sin, that I mustrepent it all, retract it all. I repent little I havedone, I retract nothing. I have lived accordingto my instinct and I believe my instinct wassound. I have made a fool of myself oftenenough when I tried to be guided by my reason.It was because my reason was at fault, and Ihave already been punished for it. I wish tothank those who have been kind to me. EnemiesI have had few, most of them were doctors, theydid me but little harm, I went on my way justthe same. I wish to ask forgiveness from thoseto whom I have given pain. That is all, the restconcerns God and myself, not the priest, whomI do not accept as my judge."

"I do not like your priests. It is they whohave taught men to fear my approach with theirmenace of eternity and their flaming hell. It isthey who have torn the wings from my shouldersand disfigured my friendly face and turned meinto a hideous skeleton to wander from house tohouse, scythe in hand, like a thief in the nightand to dance their Danse Macabre in the frescoeson their cloister walls, hand in hand with theirsaints and their damned. I have nothing to doeither with their heaven or with their hell. I ama Natural Law."

"I heard a golden oriole sing in the gardenyesterday, and just as the sun went down a littlewarbler came and sang to me under the window,shall I ever hear him again?"

"Where there are angels there are birds."

"I wish a friendly voice could read the 'Phaedo'to me once more."

"The voice was mortal, the words are immortal,you will hear them again."

"Shall I ever hear again the sounds of Mozart'sRequiem, my beloved Schubert and the titan chordsof Beethoven?"

"It was only an echo from Heaven you overheard."

"I am ready. Strike friend!"

"I am not going to strike. I am going to putyou to sleep."

"Shall I awake?"

No answer came to my question.

"Shall I dream?"

"Yes, it is all a dream."

******

"Who are you, beautiful boy? Are youHypnos, the Angel of Sleep?"

He stood there close by my side with flowercrowned locks and dreamheavy forehead, beautifulas the Genius of Love.

"I am his brother, born of the same MotherNight. Thanatos is my name. I am the Angelof Death. It is thy life that is flickering out inthe light of the torch I tread under my foot."

*****

I dreamt I saw an old man staggering wearilyalong on his lonely road. Now and then helooked upwards as if in search of someone toshow him the way. Now and then he sankdown on his knees as if he had no more strengthto struggle on. Already the fields and forests,the rivers and the seas lay under his feet, andsoon even the snow-capped mountains disappearedin the mist of the vanishing earth.Onwards, upwards went his way. Storm drivenclouds lifted him on their mighty shoulders andcarried him with vertiginous speed through thevastness of the infinite, beckoning stars led himnearer and nearer to the land that knows of nonight, no death. He stood at last before theGates of Heaven riveted with golden hinges tothe adamantine rock. The gates were closed.Was it an eternity, was it a day, was it a minutehe knelt on the threshold hoping against hopeto be let in? Suddenly, moved by invisiblehands, the mighty doors swung wide open tolet pass a floating form with the wings of anangel and the still face of a sleeping child. Hesprang to his feet and with the audacity ofdespair he stole in through the Gates just as theywere closing before him.

"Who art thou, daring intruder?" a sternvoice called out. A tall figure, robed in a whitemantle, the golden key in his hands, stoodbefore me.

"Keeper of the Gates of Heaven, holy St.Peter, I beseech Thee, let me stay!"

St. Peter glanced rapidly at my credentials, thescanty records of my life on earth.

"It looks bad," said St. Peter. "Very bad.How did you come here, I am sure there mustbe some mistake. . . ."

He stopped abruptly as a tiny messenger angelalighted swiftly in front of us. Folding hispurple wings he adjusted his short tunic ofgossamer and petals of roses, all glistening withmorning dew. His little legs were bare and rosylike the rose petals, on his tiny feet were goldensandals. Cocked on one side of his curly headhe wore a fairy cap of tulips and lilies of thevalley. His eyes were full of sunglitter and hislips were full of joy. In his small hands he heldan illuminated missal, which he presented toSt. Peter with a smiling air of importance.

"They always turn to me when they are introuble," frowned St. Peter as he read themissal. "When all is well, they pay no heedto my warnings. Tell them," he said to themessenger angel, "tell them I am coming at once,tell them to answer no questions till I am withthem."

The messenger angel lifted his rosy finger tohis tulip cap, unfolded his purple wings and flewaway swift as a bird and singing like one.

St. Peter looked perplexedly at me with hisscrutinizing eyes. Turning to an aged archangelwho, leaning on his drawn sword, stood onguard by the golden curtain, St. Peter saidpointing towards me:

"Let him await my return here. He isaudacious and cunning, his tongue is smooth,see that he does not unloosen yours. We allhave our weaknesses, I know which is yours.There is something strange about this spirit, Icannot even understand how he came here. Forall I know he may belong to that same tribewhich allured you away from Heaven to followLucifer and caused your fall. Be on your guard,be silent, be vigilant!"

He was gone. I looked at the aged archangel,and the aged archangel looked at me. I thoughtit wiser to say nothing, but I watched him fromthe corner of my eye. Presently I saw himunbuckle his sword belt and with great precautionput his sword against a column of lapis-lazuli.He looked quite relieved. His old facewas so kind, his eyes were so mild that I felt surehe was all for peace like myself.

"Venerable Archangel," I said timidly, "shallI have to wait long for St. Peter?"

"I heard the trumpets sounding in the Hallof Judgment," said the Archangel, "they arejudging two cardinals who have summoned St.Peter to assist them in their defence. No, I donot think you will have to wait for long," headded with a chuckle, "as a rule not even St.Ignatius, the sharpest lawyer in Heaven, succeedsin wriggling them through. The PublicProsecutor is more than a match for him. Hewas a monk called Savonarola whom they burnedat the stake."

"God is the Supreme Judge and not man," Isaid, "and God is merciful."

"Yes, God is the Supreme Judge and God ismerciful," repeated the Archangel. "But Godrules over countless worlds, far greater in splendourand wealth than the half-forgotten littlestar these two men came from."

The archangel took me by the hand and ledme to the open archway. With awe-strickeneyes I saw thousands of luminous stars andplanets, all pulsating with life and light, wendingtheir predestined ways through the infinite.

"Do you see that tiny little speck, dim like thelight of a tallow candle on the point of flickeringout? That is the world these two men came from,crawling ants on a clod of earth."

"God created their world and He created them,"said I.

"Yes, God created their world. He orderedthe sun to melt the frozen bowels of their earth,He cleansed it with rivers and seas, He clad itsrugged surface with forests and fields, He peopledit with friendly animals. The world was beautifuland all was well. Then on the last day Hecreated Man. Maybe it would have been betterhad He rested the day before He created Maninstead of the day after. I suppose you knowhow it all came about. One day a huge monkeymaddened by hunger set to work with his hornyhands to forge himself weapons to slay the otheranimals. What could the six-inches long caninesof the Machaerodus do against his sharpenedflint, sharper than the fang of the sabre toothedtiger? What could the sickle like claws of theUrsus Spelaeus do against his tree branch, studdedwith thorns and twig-spikes and set with razor-edgedshells? What could their wild strengthdo against his cunning, his snares, his pitfalls?So he grew up, a brutish Protanthropos slayingfriends and foes, a fiend to all living things, aSatan among animals. Erect over his victimshe raised his blood stained banner of victoryover the animal world, crowning himself king ofcreation. Selection straightened his facial angleand enlarged his brain pan. His raucous cry ofwrath and fear grew into articulate sounds andwords. He learned to tame fire. Slowly heevolved into man. His cubs sucked the blood fromthe palpitating flesh of the animals he had slain,and fought among themselves like hungry wolflingsfor the marrowbones his formidable jawshad cracked and strewn about his cave. So theygrew up, strong and fierce like himself, bent onprey, eager to attack and devour any living thingthat crossed their path, even were it one of theirown foster brothers. The forest trembled at theirapproach, the fear of man was born amongst theanimals. Soon, infuriated by their lust of murder,they started slaying one another with their stoneaxes. The ferocious war began, the war whichhas never ceased.

"Anger shone in the eyes of the Lord, He repentedhaving created man. And the Lord said:

"'I will destroy man from the face of the earth,corrupt as he is and full of violence.'

"He ordered the fountains of the great deepto be broken up and the windows of Heaven tobe opened to engulf man and the world he hadpolluted with blood and crime. Would that Hehad drowned them all! But in His faithful mercyHe willed their world to emerge once morecleansed and purified by the waters of the Flood.The curse remained in the seed of the few of thedoomed race He had suffered to remain in the Ark.The murder began again, the never ceasing warwas let loose once more.

"God looked on with infinite patience, reluctantto strike, willing to the last to forgive. Heeven sent down His own Son to their wicked worldto teach men mildness and love and to pray forthem: you know what they did to Him. Hurlingdefiance against Heaven they soon set their wholeworld ablaze with the flames of Hell. With Sataniccunning they forged themselves new weaponsto murder each other. They harnessed death toswoop down upon their dwellings from the verysky, they polluted the life giving air with thevapours of Hell. The thunderous roar of theirbattles shakes their whole earth. When the firmamentis wrapped in night we up here can see thevery light of their star shining red as if stainedwith blood and we can hear the moaning of theirwounded. One of the angels who surround thethrone of God has told me that the eyes of theMadonna are red with tears every morning andthat the wound in the side of Her Son has openedagain."

"But God himself who is the God of mercy,how can He suffer these torments to go on?" Iasked. "How can He listen impassive to thesecries of anguish?"

The aged archangel looked around uneasily lesthis answer might be overheard.

"God is old and weary," he whispered as if awestruckby the sound of his own words, "and HisHeart is grieved. Those who surround Him andwatch over Him with their infinite love, have notthe heart to disturb His rest with these never endingtidings of horror and woe. Often He wakesup from His haunted slumber and asks whatcauses the roar of thunder that reaches His earsand the flashes of lurid light that pierce the darkness.And those around Him say that the thunderis the voice from His own storm driven cloudsand the flashes are the flashes of His own lightning.And His tired eyelids close again."

"Better so, venerable Archangel, better so!For if His eyes had seen what I have seen andHis ears had heard what I have heard, it wouldhave repented the Lord once more that He hadcreated man. Once more He would have orderedthe fountains of the great deep to be broken up todestroy man. This time He would have drownedthem all and left only the animals in the ark."

"Beware of the wrath of God! Beware of thewrath of God!"

"I am not afraid of God. But I am afraid ofthose who once were men, of the stern prophets,of the Holy Fathers, of St. Peter, whose severevoice bade me await here his return."

"I am rather afraid of St. Peter myself," admittedthe aged Archangel, "you heard how herebuked me for having been led astray by Lucifer.I have been forgiven by God himself and sufferedto return to His Heaven. Does St. Peternot know that to forgive means to forget? Youare right, the prophets are severe. But theyare just, they were enlightened by God, and theyspeak with His own voice. The Holy Fathers canonly read the thoughts of another man by thedim light of mortal eyes, their voices are the voicesof men."

"No man knows another man. How can theyjudge what they do not know, what they do notunderstand? I wish St. Francis was among myjudges, I have loved him my whole life and heknows me, he understands me."

"St. Francis has never judged anybody, he hasonly forgiven like Christ himself, who lays Hishand in his as if He was his brother. St. Francisis not often seen in the Hall of Judgment whereyou soon will stand, he is not even much likedthere. Many of the martyrs and saints are jealousof his holy stigmata, and more than one ofthe Peers of Heaven feel somewhat uncomfortablein their gorgeous mantles all embroidered withgold and precious stones, when 'Il Poverello'appears amongst them in his torn and threadbarecassock, all in rags from wear and tear. TheMadonna keeps on mending and patching it aswell as she can, she says it is no good gettinghim a new cassock, for he would only give itaway."

"I wish I could see him, I long to ask him aquestion I have asked myself my whole life, ifanybody can answer that question it is he. Maybeyou, wise old Archangel, can tell me? Where dothe souls of the friendly animals go to? Whereis their Heaven? I should like to know because,because I have . . ."

I dared not say more.

"'In my father's house there are many mansions'said our Lord. God who has created theanimals will see to that. Heaven is vast enoughto shelter them also."

"Listen," whispered the old Archangel pointinghis finger towards the open archway, "Listen!"

A suave harmony, borne on strings of harpsand sweet voices of children, reached my ears asI looked out over the gardens of Heaven, all fragrantwith the scent of Elysian flowers.

"Lift thy eyes and see," said the Archangel,reverently bending his head.

Ere my eyes had discerned the halo of palegold round her head, my heart had recognizedher. What an incomparable painter was he not,Sandro Botticelli! There she came just as he hadso often painted her, so young, so pure, and yetwith that tender watchfulness of motherhood inher eyes. Flower crowned maidens with smilinglips and girlish eyes surrounded Her witheternal spring, tiny angels with folded wings ofpurple and gold held up Her mantle, othersstretched a carpet of roses before Her feet. St.Clare, the beloved of St. Francis, whispered inthe Madonna's ear and it almost seemed to me asif the Mother of Christ had deigned to look at mefor a moment as she passed by.

"Fear not," said the Archangel softly, "fearnot, the Madonna has seen you, she will rememberyou in her prayers."

"St. Peter tarries," said the Archangel, "he isfighting a hard battle with Savonarola for therescue of his cardinals."

He lifted a corner of the golden curtain andglanced down the peristyle.

"Do you see that friendly spirit in his white robeand a flower stuck over his ear? I often have alittle chat with him, he is beloved by us all here,he is as simple and innocent as a child. I oftenwatch him with curiosity, he always walks aboutby himself picking up angel's feathers fallen onthe ground, he has tied them into a sort of featherbroom, and when he thinks nobody sees him hebends down to sweep a little star dust from thegolden floor. He does not seem to know himselfwhy he does it, he says he cannot help it. I wonderwho he was in life. He came here not long ago,he may be able to tell you all you want to knowabout the Last Judgment."

I looked at the white robed spirit, it was myfriend Arcangelo Fusco, the street sweeper fromthe Italian poor quarter in Paris! The same humble,guileless eyes, the same flower stuck over hisear, the rose he had offered with southern gallantryto the Countess the day I had taken her to presentthe dolls to the Salvatore children.

"Dear Arcangelo Fusco," said I stretching outmy hands towards my friend, "I never doubtedyou would come here."

He looked at me with serene indifference as ifhe did not know me.

"Arcangelo Fusco, don't you recognize me,don't you remember me? Don't you rememberhow tenderly you nursed night and day Salvatore'schildren when they had diphtheria, how yousold your Sunday clothes to pay for the coffinwhen the eldest child died, the little girl youloved so?"

A shadow of suffering passed over his face.

"I do not remember."

"Ah! my friend! what a tremendous secretyou are revealing to me with these words! Whata load you are taking from my heart! You do notremember! But how is it that I remember?"

"Perhaps you are not really dead, perhaps youare only dreaming you are dead."

"I have been a dreamer my whole life, if this isa dream it is the most wonderful of all."

"Perhaps your memory was stronger than mine,strong enough to survive for a while the partingfrom the body. I do not know, I do not understand,it is all too deep for me. I do not ask anyquestions."

"That is why you are here, my friend. But tellme, Arcangelo Fusco, does nobody up here rememberhis life on earth?"

"They say not, they say only those who go toHell remember, that is why it is called Hell."

"But tell me at least, Arcangelo Fusco, wasthe trial hard, were the judges severe?"

"They looked rather severe at first, I was beginningto tremble all over, I was afraid they weregoing to ask me for particulars about the Neapolitanshoemaker who had taken my wife awayfrom me and whom I had stabbed with his ownknife. But luckily they did not want to knowanything about the shoemaker. All they asked mewas, if I had handled any gold and I said I hadnever had anything but coppers in my hands.They asked me if I had hoarded any goods orpossessions of any kind, and I said I possessednothing but the shirt I had died in in the hospital.They asked me nothing more and let me in.Then came an angel with a huge parcel in hishands.

"'Take off your old shirt and put on your Sundayclothes,' said the angel. Would you believeit, it was my old Sunday clothes I had sold to paythe undertaker, all embroidered by the angels withpearls, you will see me wear them next Sunday ifyou are still here. Then came another angel witha big moneybox in his hands.

"'Open it,' said the angel, 'it is all your savings,all the coppers you gave away to those aspoor as yourself. All you give away on earth issaved for you in Heaven, all you keep is lost.'

"Would you believe it, there was not a singlecopper in the moneybox, all my coppers had beenturned into gold."

"I say," he added in a whisper lest the archangelshould hear us, "I do not know who youare but you look rather badly off, do not take itamiss if I just tell you that you are welcome toanything you like from the moneybox. I saidto the angel I did not know what to do with allthis money, and the angel told me to give it tothe first beggar I should meet."

"Would that I had followed your example,Arcangelo Fusco, and I should not be as badly offas I am to-day. Alas! I did not give away mySunday clothes, that is why I am all in rags now.Indeed it is a great relief to me that they did notask you for particulars about the Neapolitanshoemaker you dispatched to another world.God knows how many shoemakers' lives I mighthave been made to answer for, I who have beena doctor for over thirty years!"

The golden curtain was drawn aside by invisiblehands and an angel stood before us.

"Your time has come to appear before yourjudges," said the old Archangel. "Be humbleand be silent, above all be silent! Remember itwas speech that brought about my fall, so it willbring about yours if you loosen your tongue."

"I say," whispered Arcangelo Fusco, blinkingcunningly at me, "I think you'd better take nounnecessary risks. If I were you I wouldn't sayanything about the other shoemakers you spokeabout. I didn't say anything about my shoemakersince they didn't ask me about him.After all perhaps they never knew anything abouthim—chi lo sa?"

The angel took me by the hand and led medown the peristyle to the Hall of Judgment, vastas the Hall of Osiris with columns of jasper andopal and capitals of golden lotus flowers andshafts of sunbeams supporting its mighty vaultall strewn with the stars of Heaven.

I lifted my head and I saw myriads of martyrsand saints in their white robes, hermits, anchoritesand stylites, their wild features scorchedby the Nubian sun, naked cenobites with theiremaciated bodies covered by a fell of hair, stern-eyedprophets, their long beards spread overtheir chests, holy apostles with palm branchesin their hands, patriarchs and Fathers of all landsand all creeds, a few popes in their glitteringtiaras and a couple of cardinals in their red robes.Seated in a semicircle in front of me sat myjudges, stern and impassible.

"It looks bad," said St. Peter handing themmy credentials, "very bad!"

St. Ignatius, the Grand Inquisitor, rose fromhis seat and spoke:

"His life is sullied with heinous sins, his soulis dark, his heart is impure. As a Christian andas a saint I ask for his damnation, may the devilstorment his body and soul through all eternity."

A murmur of assent echoed through the Hall.I lifted my head and looked at my judges. Theyall looked back at me in stern silence. I bentmy head and said nothing, I remembered thewarning of the old Archangel to be silent, andbesides I did not know what to say. Suddenly Inoticed far away in the background a small saintnodding frantically at me. Presently I saw himtimidly making his way among the bigger saintsto where I stood near the door.

"I know you well," said the little saint with afriendly glance in his gentle eyes, "I saw youcoming," and putting his finger to his lips, headded in a whisper, "I also saw your faithfulfriend trotting at your heels."

"Who are you, kind father?" I whispered back.

"I am St. Rocco, the patron saint of the dogs,"announced the little saint, "I wish I could helpyou but I am rather a small saint here, they won'tlisten to what I say," he whispered with a furtiveglance towards the prophets and the holy fathers.

"He was an unbeliever," St. Ignatius went on."A blasphemous scoffer, a liar, an impostor, anenchanter full of black magic, a fornicator . . ."

Several of the old prophets cocked their earsattentively.

"He was young and ardent," pleaded St. Paul,"it is better to . . ."

"Old age did not improve him," muttered ahermit.

"He was fond of children," said St. John.

"He was fond of their mothers too," growled aPatriarch in his beard.

"He was a hard-working doctor," said St.Luke, the Beloved Physician.

"Heaven is full of his patients and so is Hell,I am told," retorted St. Dominic.

"He has had the audacity to bring his dogwith him, he is sitting waiting for his master outsidethe Gates of Heaven," announced St. Peter.

"He will not have to wait for his master forlong," hissed St. Ignatius.

"A dog at the gates of Heaven!" ejaculated agrim-looking old prophet in a furious voice.

"Who is that?" I whispered to the patron saintof the dogs.

"For God's sake don't say anything, rememberthe warning of the Archangel. I believe it isHabakkuk."

"If Habakkuk is amongst my judges I am lostin any case, 'il est capable de tout,' said Voltaire."

"A dog at the gates of Heaven," roared Habakkuk,"a dog, an unclean beast!"

It was too much for me.

"He is not an unclean beast," I shouted backglaring angrily at Habakkuk, "he was created bythe same God who created you and me. If thereis a Heaven for us, there must also be a Heavenfor the animals, though you grim old prophets,so fierce and stalwart in your holiness, have forgottenall about them. So for the matter of thatdid you, Holy Apostles," I went on losing myhead more and more. "Or why did you omit inyour Holy scriptures to record a single saying ofour Lord in defence of our dumb brethren?"

"The Holy Church to which I belonged onearth has never taken any interest in the animals,"interrupted St. Anastasius, "nor do we wish tohear anything about them in Heaven. Blasphemousfool, you had better think of your ownsoul instead of theirs, your own wicked soul aboutto return to the darkness from whence it came."

"My soul came from Heaven and not from theHell you have let loose on earth. I do not believein your Hell."

"You soon will believe in it," wheezed theGrand Inquisitor, his eyeballs reflecting invisibleflames.

"The wrath of God is upon him, he is mad, heis mad!" called out a voice.

A cry of terror rang through the Hall of Judgment:

"Lucifer! Lucifer! Satan is amongst us!"

Moses rose from his seat, gigantic and fierce,his Ten Commandments in his sinewy hands andflashes of lightning in his eyes.

"How angry he looks," I whispered awestruckto the patron saint of the dogs.

"He is always angry," the little saint whisperedback in terror.

"Let no more be said about this spirit,"thundered Moses. "The voice I have heard is avoice from the smoking lips of Satan. Man ordemon, away from here! Jehovah, God ofIsrael, put forth Thy hand to smite him down!Burn his flesh and dry up the blood in his veins!Break all his bones! Cut him off from Heavenand earth and send him back to the Hell fromwhence he came!"

"To Hell! To Hell!" echoed through theHall of Judgment.

I tried to speak but no sound came from my lips.My heart froze, I felt abandoned by God andman.

"I will look after the dog if it comes tothe worst," whispered the little saint at myside.

Suddenly through the awful silence I thoughtI heard the twitter of birds. A little gardenwarbler alighted fearlessly on my shoulder andsang in my ear:

"You saved the life of my grandmother, myaunt and my three brothers and sisters from tortureand death by the hand of man on that rockyisland. Welcome! Welcome!"

At the same moment a skylark picked at myfinger and twittered to me:

"I met a flycatcher in Lapland who told methat when you were a boy you mended the wingof one of his ancestors and warmed his frozenbody near your heart, and as you opened yourhand to set him free you kissed him andsaid: 'Godspeed little brother! Godspeed littlebrother!' Welcome! Welcome!"

"Help me little brother! Help me littlebrother!"

"I will try, I will try," sang the skylark as heunfolded his wings and flew away with a trill ofjoy, "I will trrrrrry!"

My eyes followed the skylark as he flew awaytowards the line of blue hills I could just seethrough the Gothic archway. How well I knewthose hills from the paintings of Fra Angelico!The same silver grey olive trees, the same sombrecypresses standing out against the soft eveningsky. I heard the bells of Assisi ringing theAngelus and there he came, the pale Umbriansaint, slowly descending the winding hill pathwith brother Leo and brother Leonardo at hisside. Swift-winged birds fluttered and sanground his head, others fed from his outstretchedhands, others nestled fearlessly among the foldsof his cassock. St. Francis stood still by my sideand looked at my judges with his wonderful eyes,those eyes that neither God nor man nor beastcould meet with anger in theirs.

Moses sank down in his seat letting fall his TenCommandments.

"Always he," he murmured bitterly. "Alwayshe, the frail dreamer with his flock of birdsand his following of beggars and outcasts. Sofrail and yet strong enough to stay Thy avenginghand, O Lord! Art Thou then not Jehovah,the jealous God, who descended in fire and smokeon Mount Sinai and made the people of Israeltremble with awe? Was it not Thy anger thatbade me stretch forth my avenging rod to smiteevery herb in the field and break every tree thatall men and beasts should die? Was it not Thyvoice that spake in my Ten Commandments?Who will fear the flash of Thy lightning, O Lord!if the thunder of Thy wrath can be silenced bythe twitter of a bird?"

My head sank on St. Francis' shoulder.

I was dead, and I did not know it.

[End of The Story of San Michele, by Axel Munthe]

The Story of San Michele by Axel Munthe,
from Project Gutenberg Canada (2025)

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Job: Community-Services Orchestrator

Hobby: Coffee roasting, Calligraphy, Metalworking, Fashion, Vehicle restoration, Shopping, Photography

Introduction: My name is Tyson Zemlak, I am a excited, light, sparkling, super, open, fair, magnificent person who loves writing and wants to share my knowledge and understanding with you.