von Brincken to come near me--and
equally for the same reason Richard had power over my senses.

Every time I bite the stalk of a pansy I recall the neighbourhood of
the young Englishman.

Men ought never to use perfumes. The Creator has provided them. But with
women it is different....

* * * * *

To-day is my birthday. No one here knows it. Besides, what woman would
enjoy celebrating her forty-third birthday? Only Lillie Rothe, I am
sure!...

One day I was talking to a specialist about the thousands of women who
are saved by medical science to linger on and lead a wretched
semi-existence. These women who suffer for years physically and are
oppressed by a melancholy for which there seems to be no special cause.
At last they consult a doctor; enter a nursing home and undergo some
severe operation. Then they resume life as though nothing had happened.
Their surroundings are unchanged; they have to fulfil all the duties of
everyday life--even the conjugal life is taken up once more. And these
poor creatures, who are often ignorant of the nature of their illness,
are plunged into despair because life seems to have lost its joy and
interest.

I ventured to observe to the doctor with whom I was conversing that it
would be better for them if they died under the anaesthetic. The surgeon
reproved me, and inquired whether I was one of those people who thought
that all born cripples ought to be put out of their misery at once.

I did not quite see the connection of ideas; but I suppressed my desire
to close his argument by telling him of an example which is branded upon
my memory.

Poor Mathilde Bremer! I remember her so well before and after the
operation. She was not afraid to die, because she knew her husband was
devoted to her. But she kept saying to the surgeon:

"You must either cure me or kill me. For my own sake and for his, I will
not go on living this half-invalidish life."

She was pronounced "cured." Two years later she left her husband, very
much against his will, but feeling she was doing the best for both of
them.

She once said to me: "There is no torture to equal that which a woman
suffers when she loves her husband and is loved by him; a woman for whom
her husband is all in all, who longs to keep his devotion, but knows she
must fail, because physically she is no longer herself."

The life Mathilde Bremer is now leading--that of a solitary woman
divorced from her hu