VI
A NIGHT
A Watch lying on the writing-table was hurriedly, and with wearying repetition, singing two notes. It was difficult even for a quick ear to distinguish between the two sounds, but to the owner of the watch, the wretched man sitting near this table, the ticking of the watch seemed a whole song.
"It is a joyless and disconsolate song," said he to himself. "It is the song of time itself, and it is being sung apparently for my benefit. It is for my edification that it is singing with such surprising monotony. Three, four, ten years ago the watch ticked as now, and in ten years' time will be ticking in just the same manner . . . exactly as now."
He threw a troubled glance at the watch, but immediately turned his eyes back to where he had been vacantly gazing.
"To the time of its ticking all life with its seeming variety is passing — its sorrows, joys, heart-breakings, and triumphs, hate and love. And only now, at night, when all and everything in this huge town and this huge house is asleep, and when there are no sounds other than the beating of my heart and the ticking of the watch — only now I perceive that all these sorrows, joys, and triumphs which go to make up life — all are unrealities,
for some of which I have striven, and from others have
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