One day I was talking to a specialist about the thousands of women who are saved by medical science to linger on and lead a wretched semi-existence.  These women who suffer for years physically and are oppressed by a melancholy for which there seems to be no special cause.  At last they consult a doctor; enter a nursing home and undergo some severe operation.  Then they resume life as though nothing had happened.  Their surroundings are unchanged; they have to fulfil all the duties of everyday life—­even the conjugal life is taken up once more.  And these poor creatures, who are often ignorant of the nature of their illness, are plunged into despair because life seems to have lost its joy and interest.

I ventured to observe to the doctor with whom I was conversing that it would be better for them if they died under the anaesthetic.  The surgeon reproved me, and inquired whether I was one of those people who thought that all born cripples ought to be put out of their misery at once.

I did not quite see the connection of ideas; but I suppressed my desire to close his argument by telling him of an example which is branded upon my memory.

Poor Mathilde Bremer!  I remember her so well before and after the operation.  She was not afraid to die, because she knew her husband was devoted to her.  But she kept saying to the surgeon: 

“You must either cure me or kill me.  For my own sake and for his, I will not go on living this half-invalidish life.”

She was pronounced “cured.”  Two years later she left her husband, very much against his will, but feeling she was doing the best for both of them.

She once said to me:  “There is no torture to equal that which a woman suffers when she loves her husband and is loved by him; a woman for whom her husband is all in all, who longs to keep his devotion, but knows she must fail, because physically she is no longer herself.”

The life Mathilde Bremer is now leading—­that of a solitary woman divorced from her husband—­is certainly not enviable.  Yet she admits that she feels far better than she used to do.

* * * * *

Any one might suppose I was on the way to become a rampant champion of the Woman’s Cause.  May I be provided with some other occupation!  I have quite enough to do to manage my own affairs.

Heaven be eternally praised that I have no children, and have been spared all the ailments which can be “cured” by women’s specialists!

* * * * *

Ye powers!  How interminable a day can be!  Surely every day contains forty-eight hours!

I can actually watch the seconds oozing away, drop by drop....  Or rather, they fall slowly on my head, like dust upon a polished table.  My hair is getting steadily greyer.

It is not surprising, because I neglect it.

But what is the use of keeping it artificially brown with lotions and pomades?  Let it go grey!