o the cranium, which feeds on the brain,
finds its way into the trunk and limbs, and gnaws up the whole of the
body. The moment I jump out of bed of a morning, work clutches hold
of me, rivets me to my desk without leaving me time to get a breath of
fresh air; then it pursues me at luncheon--I audibly chew my sentences
with my bread. Next it accompanies me when I go out, comes back with me
and dines off the same plate as myself; lies down with me on my pillow,
so utterly pitiless that I am never able to set the book in hand on one
side; indeed, its growth continues even in the depth of my sleep. And
nothing outside of it exists for me. True, I go upstairs to embrace my
mother, but in so absent-minded a way, that ten minutes after leaving
her I ask myself whether I have really been to wish her good-morning. My
poor wife has no husband; I am not with her even when our hands touch.
Sometimes I have an acute feeling that I am making their lives very
sad, and I feel very remorseful, for happiness is solely composed of
kindness, frankness and gaiety in one's home; but how can I escape from
the claws of the monster? I at once relapse into the somnambulism of my
working hours, into the indifference and moroseness of my fixed idea.
If the pages I have written during the morning have been worked off all
right, so much the better; if one of them has remained in distress, so
much the worse. The household will laugh or cry according to the whim of
that all-devouring monster--Work. No, no! I have nothing that I can call
my own. In my days of poverty I dreamt of rest in the country, of travel
in distant lands; and now that I might make those dreams reality, the
work that has been begun keeps me shut up. There is no chance of a walk
in the morning's sun, no chance of running round to a friend's house, or
of a mad bout of idleness! My strength of will has gone with the rest;
all this has become a habit; I have locked the door of the world behind
me, and thrown the key out of the window. There is no longer anything in
my den but work and myself--and work will devour me, and then there will
be nothing left, nothing at all!'

He paused, and silence reigned once more in the deepening gloom. Then he
began again with an effort:

'And if one were only satisfied, if one only got some enjoyment out of
such a nigger's life! Ah! I should like to know how those fellows manage
who smoke cigarettes and complacently stroke their beards while they are