Forgetfulness ! No, you shall not escape me. Though I tear my hands on your sharp claws, I will force your cool wings down on my burning head.
I had no idea it was so difficult to forget!
XXIXI am at my window looking out into the white evening. The first snow has fallen. There is snow on the pointed gables of the old houses, and the bridge stretching across the black water in the canal is white. The ships in the harbour look fantastic with their thick masts of cotton-wool and their crystallised rigging glittering with a million points of light. The streets are still and solemn, not a soul to be seen. But the old houses with the white pointed gables are lit up. In some of the windows the lights are softened by crimson curtains, while through others I can see straight into the rooms. There, a family is gathered for supper; here, a young girl is seated at the piano.
I am resting my head on my hand, and my thoughts are wandering hither and thither. I know not what I am thinking, but my heart is hammering away in uneven measure, hammering so loud that I can hear the throb of its beating right up in my head.
Then some one starts playing on a concertina. The music comes from one of the ships. I catch a glimpse of a dark figure on a white deck, a figure which leans forward, slowly moving its arms out and in.
The first notes are false and harsh, but after a
