to all those persons who were sixty-one he did not seem old at all.  Only two things could have kept this restless soul chained to the service of the Grand Duke, and those two things were the unique library and Priscilla.  For the rest, his life at Kunitz revolted him.  He loathed the etiquette and the fuss and the intrigues of the castle.  He loathed each separate lady-in-waiting, and every one of the male officials.  He loathed the vulgar abundance and inordinate length and frequency of the meals, when down in the town he knew there were people a-hungered.  He loathed the lacqueys with a quite peculiar loathing, scowling at them from under angry eyebrows as he passed from his apartment to the library; yet such is the power of an independent and scornful spirit that though they had heard all about Westphalia and the pig-days never once had they, who made insolence their study, dared be rude to him.

Priscilla wanted to run away.  This, I believe, is considered an awful thing to do even if you are only a housemaid or somebody’s wife.  If it were not considered awful, placed by the world high up on its list of Utter Unforgivablenesses, there is, I suppose, not a woman who would not at some time or other have run.  She might come back, but she would surely have gone.  So bad is it held to be that even a housemaid who runs is unfailingly pursued by maledictions more or less definite according to the education of those she has run from; and a wife who runs is pursued by social ruin, it being taken for granted that she did not run alone.  I know at least two wives who did run alone.  Far from wanting yet another burden added to them by adding to their lives yet another man, they were anxiously endeavouring to get as far as might be from the man they had got already.  The world, foul hag with the downcast eyes and lascivious lips, could not believe it possible, and was quick to draw its dark mantle of disgrace over their shrinking heads.  One of them, unable to bear this, asked her husband’s pardon.  She was a weak spirit, and now lives prostrate days, crushed beneath the unchanging horror of a husband’s free forgiveness.  The other took a cottage and laughed at the world.  Was she not happy at last, and happy in the right way?  I go to see her sometimes, and we eat the cabbages she has grown herself.  Strange how the disillusioned find their peace in cabbages.

Priscilla, then, wanted to run away.  What is awful in a housemaid and in anybody’s wife became in her case stupendous.  The spirit that could resolve it, decide to do it without being dragged to it by such things as love or passion, calmly looking the risks and losses in the face, and daring everything to free itself, was, it must be conceded, at least worthy of respect.  Fritzing thought it worthy of adoration; the divinest spirit that had ever burned within a woman.  He did not say so.  On the contrary, he was frightened, and tried angrily, passionately, to dissuade.  Yet he knew that if she wavered he