d let them call me
intellectual. It was Hans Andersen's old tale of "The King's New
Clothes" over again.

We spoke of political economy, of statesmanship, of art and literature,
finance and religion. I knew nothing about all these things, but, thanks
to an animated air of attention, I steered safely between the rocks and
won a reputation for cleverness.

* * * * *

In English novels, with their insipid sweetness that always reminds me
of the smell of frost-bitten potatoes, the heroine sometimes permits
herself the luxury of being blind, lame, or disfigured by smallpox. The
hero adores her just the same. How false to life! My existence would
have been very different if ten years ago I had lost my long eyelashes,
if my fingers had become deformed, or my nose shown signs of redness....

A red nose! It is the worst catastrophe that can befall a beautiful
woman. I always suspected this was the reason why Adelaide Svanstroem
took poison. Poor woman, unluckily she did not take a big enough dose!

* * * * *

JANUARY.

My senses are reawakening. Light and sound now bring me entirely new
impressions; what I see, I now also feel, with nerves of which hitherto
I did not suspect the existence. When evening draws on I stare into the
twilight until everything seems to shimmer before my eyes, and I dream
like a child....

Yesterday, before going to bed, I went on my balcony, as I usually do,
to take a last glance at the sea. But it was the starry sky that fixed
my attention. It seemed to reveal and offer itself to me. I felt I had
never really seen it before, although I sleep with it over my head!

Each star was to me like a dewdrop created to slake my thirst. I drank
in the sky like a plant that is almost dead for want of moisture. And
while I drank it in, I was conscious of a sensation hitherto unknown to
me. For the first time in my life I was aware of the existence of my
soul. I threw back my head to gaze and gaze. Night enfolded me in all
its splendour, and I wept.

What matter that I am growing old? What matter that I have missed the
best in life? Every night I can look towards the stars and be filled
with their chill, eternal peace.

I, who never could read a poem without secretly mocking the writer, who
never believed in the poets' ecstasies over Nature, now I perceive that
Nature is the one divinity worthy to be