What a mystery was this man, being killed by an ideal!  He aroused sorrow, fear and pity, this madman.  What strange, tremendous and deadly thoughts dwelt within this forehead which they creased with deep wrinkles which were never still?

“He has terrible attacks of rage,” said the doctor to me.  “His is one of the most peculiar cases I have ever seen.  He has seizures of erotic and macaberesque madness.  He is a sort of necrophile.  He has kept a journal in which he sets forth his disease with the utmost clearness.  In it you can, as it were, put your finger on it.  If it would interest you, you may go over this document.”

I followed the doctor into his office, where he handed me this wretched man’s diary, saying:  “Read it and tell me what you think of it.”  I read as follows: 

“Until the age of thirty-two I lived peacefully, without knowing love.  Life appeared very simple, very pleasant and very easy.  I was rich.  I enjoyed so many things that I had no passion for anything in particular.  It was good to be alive!  I awoke happy every morning and did those things that pleased me during the day and went to bed at night contented, in the expectation of a peaceful tomorrow and a future without anxiety.

“I had had a few flirtations without my heart being touched by any true passion or wounded by any of the sensations of true love.  It is good to live like that.  It is better to love, but it is terrible.  And yet those who love in the ordinary way must experience ardent happiness, though less than mine possibly, for love came to me in a remarkable manner.

“As I was wealthy, I bought all kinds of old furniture and old curiosities, and I often thought of the unknown hands that had touched these objects, of the eyes that had admired them, of the hearts that had loved them; for one does love things!  I sometimes remained hours and hours looking at a little watch of the last century.  It was so tiny, so pretty with its enamel and gold chasing.  And it kept time as on the day when a woman first bought it, enraptured at owning this dainty trinket.  It had not ceased to vibrate, to live its mechanical life, and it had kept up its regular tick-tock since the last century.  Who had first worn it on her bosom amid the warmth of her clothing, the heart of the watch beating beside the heart of the woman?  What hand had held it in its warm fingers, had turned it over and then wiped the enamelled shepherds on the case to remove the slight moisture from her fingers?  What eyes had watched the hands on its ornamental face for the expected, the beloved, the sacred hour?

“How I wished I had known her, seen her, the woman who had selected this exquisite and rare object!  She is dead!  I am possessed with a longing for women of former days.  I love, from afar, all those who have loved.  The story of those dead and gone loves fills my heart with regrets.  Oh, the beauty, the smiles, the youthful caresses, the hopes!  Should not all that be eternal?