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“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure,” replied Helena. “For you are different to other men. You realise what spiritual love means, the love of the souls!”

“Even if the woman did exist, I could never marry her.”

“Why not?”

“Share a room with her!”

“That needn’t be the case. Madame de Stael merely lived in the same house as her husband.”

“Did she?”

“What interesting topic are you two discussing?” asked the professor’s wife, coming out of the drawing-room.

“We were talking of Laocoon,” answered Helena, rising, from her chair. She was offended by the note of condescension in the lady’s voice. And she made up her mind.

A week later her engagement to the lecturer was publicly announced. They decided to be married in the autumn and take up their abode at Upsala.

A brilliant banquet, in celebration of the close of his bachelor life, was given to the lecturer on ethics. A great deal of wine had been consumed and the only artist the town boasted, the professor of drawing at the Cathedral School, had depicted in bold outlines the victim’s career up to date. It was the great feature of the whole entertainment. Ethics was a subject of teaching and a milch cow, like many others, and need not necessarily influence either the life of the community, or the life of the individual. The lecturer had not been a saint, but had had his adventures like everybody else; these were public property, for he had had no reason to keep them dark. With a careless smile he watched his career, pictured in chalk and colours, accompanied by witty verses, unfolding itself before his eyes, but when at last his approaching bliss was portrayed in simple but powerful sketches, he became deeply embarrassed, and the thought “If Helena were to see that!” flashed like lightning through his brain.

After the banquet, at which according to an old, time-honoured custom, he had drunk eight glasses of brandy, he was so intoxicated that he could no longer suppress his fears and apprehensions. Among his hosts was a married man and to him the victim turned for counsel and advice. Since neither of them was sober, they chose, as the most secluded spot in the whole room, two chairs right in the centre, immediately under the chandelier. Consequently they were soon surrounded by an eagerly listening crowd.

“Look here! You are a married man,” said the lecturer at the top of his voice, so as not to be heard by the assembly, as he fondly imagined. “You must give me a word of advice, just one, only one little word of advice, for I am extremely sensitive to-night, especially in regard to this particular point.”

“I will, brother,” shouted his friend, “just one word, as you say,” and he put his arm round his shoulders that he might whisper to him; then he continued, screaming loudly: “Every act consists of three parts, my brother: Progresses, culmen, regressus. I will speak to you of the first, the second is never mentioned. Well, the initiative, so to speak, that is the man’s privilege–your part! You must take the initiative, you must attack, do you understand?”

“But supposing the other party does not approve of the initiative?”

The friend stared at the novice, taken aback; then he rose and contemptuously turned his back on him.

“Fool!” he muttered.

“Thank you!” was all the grateful pupil could reply.

Now he understood.

On the following day he was on fire with all the strong drink he had consumed; he went and took a hot bath, for on the third day was to be his wedding.

The wedding guests had departed; the servant had cleared the table; they were alone.

Helena was comparatively calm, but he felt exceedingly nervous. The period of their engagement had been enhanced by conversations on serious subjects. They had never behaved liked ordinary, every-day fiances, had never embraced or kissed. Whenever he had attempted the smallest familiarity, her cold looks had chilled his ardour. But he loved her as a man loves a woman, with body and soul.