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Strindberg, August, 1849-1912

"Married"

, etc. And then like
foul fumes arising from a drain, an individual suddenly confronts us
who does not scruple to tear asunder the most sacred bonds, who vomits
malice on all respectable members of society; malice, dictated by the
pettiest vengeance...." He refolded the paper and put it into the
pocket of his dressing-gown. Then he opened the second parcel. It
contained caricatures of himself and his wife. It went the same way as
the first, but he had to be quick, for his wife was re-entering the
dining-room. He finished his breakfast and went into his bed-room to
get ready to go out. They left the house together.
The sunlight fell on the frosted plane-trees of the Champs Elysees,
and in the heart of the stony desert the Place de la Concorde opened
out like a large oasis. He felt her arm on his, and yet he had the
feeling as if she were supporting him. She talked of the presents
which they were going to buy for the children, and he tried to force
himself to take an interest in the subject. But all at once he
interrupted her conversation and asked her, a-propos of nothing:
"Do you know the difference between vengeance and punishment?"
"No, I've never thought about it."
"I wonder whether it isn't this: When an anonymous journalist revenges
himself, it is punishment; but when a well-known writer, who is not a
pressman, fights with an open visor, meting out punishment, then it is
revenge! Let us join the new prophets!"
She begged him not to spoil Christmas by talking of the newspapers.


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