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Strindberg, August, 1849-1912

"Married"

He told her he could buy them cheaper
ready-made. She burst into tears. What was she to do? The maid did all
the work of the house, there was not enough work in the kitchen for
two. She always dusted the rooms. Did he want her to send the maid
away?
"No, no!"
"What did he want, then?"
He didn't know himself, but he was sure that something was wrong. Their
expenses were too high. That was all. They couldn't go on living at their
present rate, and then--somehow he could never find time to work at his
dissertation.
Tears, kisses, and a grand reconciliation! But now he started staying
away from home in the evening several times a week. Business! A man
must show himself! If he stays at home, he will be overlooked and
forgotten!
A year had passed; there were no signs of the arrival of a baby. "How
like a little liaison I once had in the old days," he thought; "there
is only one difference: this one is duller and costs more." There was
no more conversation, now; they merely talked of household matters.
"She has no brain," he thought. "I am listening to myself when I am
talking to her, and the apparent depths of her eyes is a delusion, due
to the size of her pupils--the unusual size of her pupils.--"
He talked openly about his former love for her as of something that
was over and done with.


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