A WOMAN’S SOLILOQUY.

Stratford Evening Post, Volume XXXII, Issue 4, 14 December 1911, Page 3

A WOMAN’S SOLILOQUY.

“In all the countries of Central hirope the most widely road novel at ;e present time is ‘The Dangerous •go. Edition succeeds edition, and ho.,fortune,, of ,the hook has been ini'Cased. by j the quarrels it has prooked; for-it has been much discussed ml criticised, not on account ,of its itcrary value, which is incontestable, at because of the- idea which animtes it.” So says Marcel Provost in is introduction to “The .Dangerous Vge” (Lane, 6s), which purports to be ‘Letters and fragments from a wounds diary.” It is written by a )nnish woman, Karin Michaelis. It is much over-rated hook, and untrue n life. But, like all human documents, has its own interest. The Victims of the Years. “Somebody should found a vast and heerful sisterhood for women between arty and fifty; a kind of refuge for ho victims of the years of transition, for during that time women would he nippier in voluntary exile, or, at any ate, entirely separated from the othr sex,” says the writer of the diary. “Since all are suffering from the vune trouble, they might help each ither to make life, not only endurable, •ut harmonious. We are all more or ess mad then, although we struggle o make others think us sane. “I say ‘we,’ though 1 am not of heir number—in age, perhaps, but tot in temperament. Nevertheless, hear the stealthy footsteps of the approaching .years. By good fortune, ;r calculation, I have preserved my outhful appearance, but it lias cost ne dear to economise my emotions.

“Old age, in truth, is only a goal ■o he foreseen. A mountain to he •limbed; a peak from which wo see if 3 from every side—provided we have lot been blinded by snowfalls on the \ ay. I do not fear old age; only the lard ascent to it lias terrors for me. IMie day, tho hour, when we realise :lnit something has gone from our ives, when the cry of our hearts provokes laughter in others! “To all of us women comes a time n life when we believe we can coupler or deceive time. But soon we earn how unequal is the struggle. ,Vq all come to it in the end. “My senses are re-awakening. Light

nd sound now bring me entirely new

impressions; what I see 1 now feel ilso, with nerves of which hitherto [ did not suspect the existence. When 'veiling draws on I stare into tho twilight until everything seems to •.bimmer before my eyes, and I (ream like a child.

“Yesterday, before going to bed, wont on my balcony, as I usually do, o take a last glance at the son. But

it was the starry sky that fixed my ittention. It seemed to reveal and dier itself to mo. 1 felt 1 had never :'eally soon it before, although I slept with it over my head! 1 Was Aware of my Soul. “Each star to me was like a dew!rop created to slake my thirst. I (rank in the sky like a plant that is •imosb dead for want of moisture. And while I drank it in, 1 was conseiHis of a sensation hitherto unknown :o mo. For the first time in my life 1 was aware of the existence of my soul. 1 threw hack my head to gaze ind gaze. Night enfolded mo in all its splendour, and I wept. What matter that 1 uas growing old? What matter that I have missed the best in life? Every night i can look towards' the skies and he filled with their chill, eternal peace. “I, who never could read a poem without secretly mocking the writer, who never believed in the poets’ ecstasies over Nature, now 1 perceive that Nature is the one divinity worthy to bo worshipped.”