wearied

me for years fall from the chairs and the lamp-shade on to the walls
and the floor. When I look at them it seems that it's night already, and the
cursed insomnia has begun. I lie down on the bed; then I get up and walk
about the room then lie down again. My nervous excitement generally reaches
its highest after dinner, before the evening. For no reason I begin to cry and
hide my head in the pillow. All the while I am afraid somebody may come in;
I am afraid I shall die suddenly; I am ashamed of my tears; altogether,
something intolerable is happening in my soul. I feel I cannot look at the lamp
or the books or the shadows on the floor, or listen to the voices in the drawing-
room any more. Some invisible, mysterious force pushes me rudely out of my
house. I jump up, dress hurriedly, and go cautiously out into the street so that
the household shall not notice me. Where shall I go?
The answer to this question has long been there in my brain: "To Katy."

III

As usual she is lying on the Turkish divan or the couch and reading
something. Seeing me she lifts her head languidly, sits down, and gives me her
hand.
"You are always lying down like that," I say after a reposeful silence. "It's
unhealthy. You'd far better be doing something."
"Ah?"
"You'd far better be doing something, I say."
"What?... A woman can be either a simple worker or an actress."
"Well, then—if you can't become a worker, be an actress."
She is silent.
"You had better marry," I say, half-joking.
"There's no one to marry: and no use if I did."
"You can't go on living like this."
"Without a husband? As if that mattered. There are as many men as you
like, if you only had the will."
"This isn't right, Katy."
"What isn't right?"
"What you said just now."
 Katy sees that I am chagrined, and desires to soften the bad impression.
"Come. Let's come here. Here."
She leads me into a small room, very cosy, and points to the writing table.
"There. I made it for you. You'll work here. Come every day and bring
your work with you. They only disturb you there at home.... Will you work
here? Would you like to?"
In order not to hurt her by refusing, I answer that I shall work with her and
that I like the room immensely. Then we both sit down in the cosy room and
begin to talk.
The warmth, the cosy surroundings, the presence of a sympathetic being,
rouses in me now not a feeling of pleasure as it used but a strong desire to
complain and grumble. Anyhow it seems to me that if I moan and complain I
shall feel better.
"It's a bad business, my dear," I begin with a sigh. "Very bad."
"What is the matter?"
"I'll tell you what is the matter. The best and most sacred right of kings is
the right to pardon. And I have always felt myself a king so long as I used this
right prodigally. I never judged, I was compassionate, I pardoned everyone
right and left. Where others protested and revolted I only advised and
persuaded. All my life I've tried to make my society tolerable to the family of
students, friends and servants. And this attitude of mine towards people, I
know, educated every one who came into contact with me. But now I am king
no more. There's something going on in me which belongs only to slaves. Day
and night evil thoughts roam about in my head, and feelings which I never
knew before have made their home in my soul. I hate and despise; I'm
exasperated, disturbed, and afraid. I've become strict beyond measure,
exacting, unkind, and suspicious. Even the things which in the past gave me
the chance of making an extra pun, now bring me a feeling of oppression. My
logic has changed too. I used to despise money alone; now I cherish evil
feelings, not to money, but to the rich, as if they were guilty. I used to hate
violence and arbitrariness; now I hate the people who employ violence, as if
they alone are to blame and not all of us, who cannot educate one another.
What does it all mean? If my new thoughts and feelings come from a change
of my convictions, where could the change have come from? Has the world
grown worse and I better, or was I blind and indifferent before? But if the
change is due to the general decline of my physical and mental powers—I am
sick and losing weight every day—then I'm in a pitiable position. It means that
my new thoughts are abnormal and unhealthy, that I must be ashamed of them
and consider them valueless...."