Bertha stood pale at the foot of the bed, quivering and helpless, despairing of devices, like a cunning animal whose hiding-places are surrounded by swift-advancing flame.  Even Meunier looked paralysed; life for that moment ceased to be a scientific problem to him.  As for me, this scene seemed of one texture with the rest of my existence:  horror was my familiar, and this new revelation was only like an old pain recurring with new circumstances.

* * * * *

Since then Bertha and I have lived apart—­she in her own neighbourhood, the mistress of half our wealth, I as a wanderer in foreign countries, until I came to this Devonshire nest to die.  Bertha lives pitied and admired; for what had I against that charming woman, whom every one but myself could have been happy with?  There had been no witness of the scene in the dying room except Meunier, and while Meunier lived his lips were sealed by a promise to me.

Once or twice, weary of wandering, I rested in a favourite spot, and my heart went out towards the men and women and children whose faces were becoming familiar to me; but I was driven away again in terror at the approach of my old insight—­driven away to live continually with the one Unknown Presence revealed and yet hidden by the moving curtain of the earth and sky.  Till at last disease took hold of me and forced me to rest here—­forced me to live in dependence on my servants.  And then the curse of insight—­of my double consciousness, came again, and has never left me.  I know all their narrow thoughts, their feeble regard, their half-wearied pity.

* * * * *

It is the 20th of September, 1850.  I know these figures I have just written, as if they were a long familiar inscription.  I have seen them on this pace in my desk unnumbered times, when the scene of my dying struggle has opened upon me . . .

(1859)