“Please be seated, my dear guest,” I said politely to the stranger, who stood as dazed before me, still keeping the veil on her face.

She sat down.

“Although I respect all secrecy,” I continued jestingly, “I would nevertheless ask you to remove this gloomy cover which disfigures you.  Does the human face need a mask?”

The strange visitor declined, in a state of agitation.

“Very well, I’ll take it off, but not now—­later.  First I want to see you well.”

The pleasant voice of the stranger did not call forth any recollections in me.  Deeply interested and even flattered, I submitted to my strange visitor all the treasures of my mind, experience and talent.  With enthusiasm I related to her the edifying story of my life, constantly illuminating every detail with a ray of the Great Purpose. (In this I availed myself partly of the material on which I had just been working, preparing my lectures.) The passionate attention with which the strange lady listened to my words, the frequent, deep sighs, the nervous quiver of her thin fingers in her black gloves, her agitated exclamations—­inspired me.

Carried away by my own narrative, I confess, I did not pay proper attention to the queer behaviour of my strange visitor.  Having lost all restraint, she now clasped my hands, now pushed them away, she cried and availing herself of each pause in my speech, she implored: 

“Don’t, don’t, don’t!  Stop speaking!  I can’t listen to it!”

And at the moment when I least expected it she tore the veil from her face, and before my eyes—­before my eyes appeared her face, the face of my love, of my dream, of my boundless and bitter sorrow.  Perhaps because I lived all my life dreaming of her alone, with her alone I was young, with her I had developed and grown old, with her I was advancing to the grave—­her face seemed to me neither old nor faded—­it was exactly as I had pictured it in my dreams—­it seemed endlessly dear to me.

What has happened to me?  For the first time in tens of years I forgot that I had a face—­for the first time in tens of years I looked helplessly, like a youngster, like a criminal caught red-handed, waiting for some deadly blow.

“You see!  You see!  It is I. It is I!  My God, why are you silent?  Don’t you recognise me?”

Did I recognise her?  It were better not to have known that face at all!  It were better for me to have grown blind rather than to see her again!

“Why are you silent ?  How terrible you are!  You have forgotten me!”

“Madam—­”

Of course, I should have continued in this manner; I saw how she staggered.  I saw how with trembling fingers, almost falling, she was looking for her veil; I saw that another word of courageous truth, and the terrible vision would vanish never to appear again.  But some stranger within me—­not I—­not I—­uttered the following absurd, ridiculous phrase, in which, despite its chilliness, rang so much jealousy and hopeless sorrow: