I was given my instructions. I was to drive to town, rest the horses for half an hour while I attended to my business at the implement shop, and then to bring back what would be handed out to me, according to the inspector's list.
     A groom with my father's horse was waiting at the back-door. He mounted and gave me and the inspector a sign to come along. We set off for the stables.

     These stables formed, with the barns, a huge quadrangle a quarter of a mile behind the house. I felt very important, of course; it was the first time that I was going to drive the hackneys alone.
     They were in a paddock; and my father sat by as a stable-hand caught them to lead them in and to put
     the harness on their backs. A few minutes later they were hooked to the democrat.
     I climbed up on the seat and waited for the order to start.
     "Now listen here, sonny," said my father on his prancing horse. "Don't walk them; but don't let them run, either. You know the road. It should take you two and a half hours each way. Half an hour's rest." And he looked at his watch. "So you should be back at half-past seven."
     "All right, sir," I said and clicked my tongue.
     The horses tossed their heads and were off. I knew that my father was critically looking after me.
     As I said, I felt very important; I was not yet fourteen. The road led southward, past the east line of the estate; and I turned into it through the huge gates which were open. I gave the horses the reins, and they fell into an easy trot. I knew these were pedigreed animals which were never allowed to run themselves into a lather; I meant to show that I could be trusted.
     For nearly two hours I drove with the greatest care, mostly through woods, timing myself by such houses as I passed and whose approximate distance from home was known to me.
     And then, just as the road emerged from the woods, running now between open fields, something disastrous happened. There, in the middle of the road, lay an

unfolded newspaper; and at the very moment when the horses reached it, already made suspicious by the white patch, the breeze lifted the paper and blew it into a perpendicular position. Both horses reared on their hindfeet and ran away. There was no checking them; they gripped the road and tore along in tremendous bounds. Within a few minutes they were flinging the lather to right and left. To this day I do not believe that even a grown person of the tremendous strength of my father could have held them.
     On the other hand, there was no great danger so long as the horses kept on the road; and the road was straight and remained straight right into the city. In the city, I should, of course, be in constant danger of running people down. Besides, the democrat, a light vehicle, was being thrown from side to side by every stone a wheel encountered; shortly I should have to pass through a gate in the ancient fortifications surrounding the city. There, the pavement would be of cobblestones which would multiply the side-thrusts.
     I knew the approach to the city well. To either side of the road there was a lake or pond-remains, I believe, of ancient moats. I had, of course, never been in them; but I said to myself, excited as I was, that, if I saw a chance of driving the horses right into the water, that would effectively stop them. I was still hoping that I should get them under control without so extreme a measure when the gleam of water came in sight far ahead.
     And then I saw my chance. The ditch to my right was shallow; and just as we were on the point of entering upon the dam between the two lakes, I pulled as hard as I could on the right line, standing up and bracing one foot against the dash-board. It worked. The horses

dashed into the water, which splashed over my head, though it was quite shallow. A moment later the animals stood.
     I gave them ten minutes to recover their breath; but their flanks were still heaving when I turned them back to the road. They were docile as lambs; but I knew, of course, that now there was great danger from a chill.
     I went on into the city, found the address, asked a lounger to watch my horses for a moment, and ran into the office of the place. Having told the clerk who I was and handed him the slip with the list of numbered parts that were wanted, I ran out again to walk the horses to and fro, driving them slowly.
     In a few minutes the repair parts were ready for me; and I drove up to the loading platform of the shop to receive them.
     Then, instead of giving the horses the half hour's rest, I drove out of town, the way I had come, and, timing myself, kept them at a walk for an hour. It was shortly after five.
     Slowly they dried. They seemed quite recovered. At last I judged it safe to trot them again; and, watching out for the point whence they had bolted, drove on somewhat faster. But when I saw the paper, which had simply flopped over, I stopped, alighted, and ran to pick it up. There was barely a breath of wind; and I wondered at the wickedness of chance which had made the sheets rise at the precise moment when it could do harm. I may have borrowed the expression, but I have come to call that "the malice of the object". I folded the paper up, as exhibit A, and put it in my pocket.
     Then I went on again. The hair of the horses was now completely dry; but, of course, since the moisture consisted

of sweat, it was patterned in wisps. They needed a good brushing-down which I should have given them, to return to the yard in full glory, but I had neither brush nor currycomb.
     It was slightly after seven when I turned in through the gates of Thurow. In the yard, there was a tremendous commotion. Work for the day had been stopped; for, after all, as I heard later, it had, around five o'clock, been found impossible to go on using the machine without first making repairs.
     Wonder of wonders, the steam-engine was travelling and, pulling the threshing machine. A cavalcade of riders and an army of children accompanied it. I felt sorry for myself at having missed the show.
     A moment later I saw my father detaching himself from the cavalcade, sitting his huge Dane like a centaur, and coming to meet me at a ponderous gallop. I drew my horses in; and he, having come to a stop, a few yards from their heads, eyed them with a baleful flicker. I could see at a glance that he was in one of those black moods which made people tremble before him.
     He asked no question; he did not give me a chance to explain; he simply manoeuvred his horse alongside the democrat, reached over with one powerful hand, gathered my collar into his grip, lifted me bodily from the seat and laid me across his horse's neck, where he began to belabour me with his riding-crop, within sight of two hundred people, grown-ups and children.
     I gave no sound but gritted my teeth.
     Having finished with me, he dropped me to the ground, hissed, "Now go to the house!" and turned away.
     I did not go to the house but hid away in some disused shed to master the tears of rage which had come at last.

     I did not even feel any pain from the flogging I had received. But I was not going to show myself at the house in the state I was in.
     That was the end of my acquaintance with the man my father had been. When, after my mother's death, I was, for a few years, thrown back upon him, he was vastly changed; but of that I must speak later.
     When I did go to the house, late at night, I was fully composed and could act as if nothing had happened. I even admired my mother when, as was her custom, at home and abroad, she showed herself to me before going down for dinner. I kissed her and smiled. She looked unusually fine in a gown of gold-coloured brocade, with a great pearl necklace about her throat; for there were guests for dinner. My father had invited the cavalcade.
     But after dinner I sought her out in the hall where the company was assembled for the demi-tasse and liqueurs. I plucked her wide sleeves.
     "Mother," I whispered, "I've got to see you."
     "All right," she said. "Where?"
     "Upstairs. In the gallery or in your boudoir."
     "I'll be up in fifteen minutes," she said; I could see she knew that this was a crisis.
     I waited for her in the gallery; when she came, the train of her gown as usual over her left arm, she put her hand on my right shoulder, walking to the left of me. Thus we went along the whole length of the gallery to her boudoir. Opening the door, she pushed me ahead of her; and when she had entered, she turned the key.
     It was a strange fact that, whenever we were at home, my mother and I were very much closer to each other than when we were abroad; in spite of the fact that abroad we were alone, apart from servants. I felt that this was

because we were facing a common enemy. Abroad, there were too many distractions.
     Undoubtedly it was this mutual understanding, this common sympathy which inspired me to do what, under the circumstances, was the exactly right thing to do. Perhaps I should say that, during the last few hours, I had vastly matured.
     I told her exactly what had happened, without comment or adornment; though I believe I let it be seen I was proud of the fact that I had proved myself equal to handling a difficult situation - difficult at least for a boy.
     When, in my narration, I had reached the point where, on my way home, I stopped to pick up the paper and remove it from the ground before driving over the spot a second time, I drew the folded sheets out of my pocket. She nodded, muttering to herself. I could readily see that, for the moment, she was more excited than I. No doubt she divined that I should not be telling her all this with the air of detachment which characterized my recital unless something catastrophic were to follow; and no doubt my own rising tension as I approached the climax, clenching my fists in the effort to control my nerves, imparted itself to her; and she inferred that a proud child's innermost feelings, his very spiritual chastity, as it were, had been outraged. Throughout the tale I remained standing, only half facing her and speaking to the air.
     When the climax came, I saw from the tail of my eye how she was stiffening herself to receive the shock. By that time I could not entirely suppress a sob; but I went on without a break, and my words were perfectly matter-of-fact. I did not characterize my father's action by any epithet. I merely let it be understood that he had not asked for a word of explanation.

     I felt that, for the moment, my mother and I were a unity; we revolted against a portion of the outside world in one common impulse of passionate rebellion.
     When I had finished, she sat speechless for a long while, pale and distraught. I knew my own crisis had become hers. I was desperately trying to keep a balance between her and me.
     It was several minutes before she spoke. Meanwhile she was rising out of her arm-chair and stood like a statue, the train of her gown once more over her arm. The tension between us was enormous.
     Then, sounding almost hostile, her words came; the tone, I knew, was due solely to the intense endeavour not to let her emotions run away with her.
     "What do you intend to do?" she asked.
     I shrugged my shoulders. "That's what I wanted to see you about. I cannot remain here."
     "No," she said. Then, bending her head as if in thought, she went to the door and stood there, the fingers of her right hand playing about the key. It was with the effect of a sudden clearing of her mind in an irrevocable resolution that she turned the key and, putting her hand on the knob, faced me. "Remain in your room until I send Annette to call you. It may not be until tomorrow afternoon. I do not want you to meet your father. We shall leave together."
     I was appalled. "But, mother...
     She shook her head. "It had to come to this. It doesn't matter."
     And, opening the door, she left me alone.
     I remained behind for a few minutes and then did as she had told me to do. On the way to my room I was, of course, able to look down into the hail where I saw her

standing in the centre of a group of men, one of whom was talking to her: a neighbour of ours, an old nobleman. She was smiling as she listened to him; nothing betrayed that she had just gone through a crisis which was to determine the brief remainder of her life. I, though not yet fourteen, had become a man.
     Yet I could have wished for nothing better than to meet my father and, in a very cool and distant manner, to settle accounts with him; which perhaps proved that I was still very much a boy . . .
     But we did not leave next day.
     That night I could not sleep. It must have been in the early morning hours, around two or three o'clock, when I felt, since I was not to go out in daytime, that I must take leave of park and woods and beach at night. I only partly dressed, pulling on a pair of trousers over my night-wear; and I descended into the hall. I did not go out at once. As usual, there were night-lights burning everywhere; and the front door, I knew, remained unlocked; since my own birth, with the ensuing thunderstorm and fire, my mother insisted, whenever she was at home, that the main door remain open.
     All about, through the windows, the light of a bright moon shone in. Everything looked weird and unfamiliar as, with bare feet, I walked through the rooms. Throughout the house, there was not a sound.
     Then, in one of the drawing-rooms, I came across a circular silver tray on a low table. On the tray stood two glasses and a bottle. Casually I picked the latter up, drew the cork, and smelt at the contents. It was port wine, which I knew; for a year or two earlier, I had had a small glass twice a day, prescribed as a tonic. The bottle was almost full.

     I touched the glasses and found they had not been used.
     I felt myself very much a man. Yet I was sorely troubled. I knew that what had happened was by this very time drawing wider and wider circles. It had involved the only woman who counted in my life. That that woman was my mother, what did it matter? Metaphorically I had to draw my sword and to defend her. By this time I felt feverish; not for a moment did it occur to me that the fever might be physical.
     I had to steady my nerves. And what did a man do when his nerves needed steadying?
     I poured myself a glass of wine and tossed it off. Since it went to my head instantly, I followed it up by another; in the very way in which I had seen - of all people - my father do it. It made me feel adventurous and bold. In this very room I had seen my father play chess with resplendent women. I loathed my father; but at the same time I imitated him, sitting down in a chair and bending forward from my hip, over the white marble arm and the bare bosom of my imaginary vis-à-vis, throwing her flashing glances. Again I poured a glass; and I raised it and clinked its brim against that of my conquest. No. I was not imitating my father; I was parodying him and his pompous manner when he acted the conqueror; pompous, smooth, and confident at the same time.
     At last, no doubt swaying by this time, I went out on the terrace, for the air inside was not wide and open enough to contain my vast and cynical contempt. I went on to the steps and sat down, drawing my feet up into my dressing-gown, for the stone was cold. But inside I was burning with a strange heat; I could have sung or

shouted. I gesticulated grandiosely. And there I emptied the bottle which I had taken along; at least it was found empty next morning.
     So was I found, lying on the bare flagstones, burning with fever. Before the day was out, scarlatina had declared itself.
     I was isolated, of course; but not all alone. My mother and two nurses brought from the city were with me; and apart from them and Annette nobody was allowed near, Annette serving as liaison-officer between kitchen and tower. The doctor, of course, came daily; but his was the only strange face I saw for weeks. Through him, my mother had conveyed a message to my father, to say that life and death depended on his keeping away; for in my delirium, which was severe, I talked of nothing but the challenge I had sent him; I yelled that he must accept it in the manner of medieval barons.
     Even as I recovered and finally was allowed out of bed, my mother and I remained isolated with doctor and nurses. The fiction was kept up that I was not yet out of danger.
     As a matter of fact, serious trouble developed with my ears - a trouble to which I owe my deafness today. But that very trouble made it desirable that we should move as soon as possible; for the doctor recommended that a specialist be consulted - an authority at Copenhagen, Hamburg, Paris, or London.
     The manner in which our departure was handled may seem cruel or vindictive. Nobody knew of it beforehand. My mother had all her things brought over into the room above mine, Annette and the maid doing the work.
     One morning, after my father had left the house, the baggage was taken down and loaded into a democrat which

had been summoned. The landau had been ordered for the early afternoon, all those employed by Annette being told that secrecy was to be observed with regard to these preparations. My mother never, in my hearing, gave any direct indication that this was to be a flight; but Annette, for one, understood her to that effect.
     Again it was not to be.
     The baggage was on the way to the city; and so were the nurses and the maid; only my mother, myself, and Annette were still behind when my father appeared in the tower and demanded an interview with my mother, who peremptorily denied him access; I was aware of her bracing herself for a supreme effort.
     But my father had the whip-hand; he threatened to countermand the order for the landau. He had seen the democrat leaving for the city and had ridden across the fields to ask for the meaning of this trip. Seeing my mother's maid, he had guessed what it meant and come straight home.
     My mother, who had negotiated with him through the locked door, stood for a moment, tense and white.
     At last she said, "I'll be out. I'll see you in my room." It was within half an hour of luncheon. I, of course, remained behind; and shortly Annette brought me a tray. But I was far too excited to eat.
     An hour went by; two hours. I heard the wheels of the landau rattling over the flagstones of the terrace.
     I also heard the usual company of "volunteers" departing on their various errands.
     By leaning out of my front window, I could see the carriage, with the coachman sitting bolt upright on his seat, and a groom standing in front of the impatient horses, the hackneys, which, every now and then, struck

sparks from the stone of the pavement, pawing. Obviously, my father had missed his meal, which testified to the seriousness of the situation; obviously, too, this was advertising the crisis rather than concealing it. Annette, pale and nervous, was pacing the floor of the room behind me. By order of my mother she had locked the door even when she went for my lunch. She herself had had nothing to eat.
     A third hour went by; and still the horses were standing down there, with the groom at their heads; and the coachman was, now and then, humping over, only to straighten his back again with a jerk.
     It was after four o'clock when doors were opened and shut from the gallery. A moment later there was a knock at my door.
     "All right," said my mother's voice sharply.
     Annette sprang to open.
     My mother was followed by a lackey whom, by a motion of her hand, she directed to pick up the half-dozen pieces of hand-baggage strewing the floor. She was excessively pale.
     "Come, Phil," she said as the lackey had passed through the door.
     At this moment I heard the clatter of a heavy horse's iron-shod hoofs on the pavement of the terrace: such as only one of my father's Danes could produce. He was riding into the woods or the fields. Somewhere the threshing machine was humming once more in the distance.
     Annette was hurriedly getting into her wraps which had been lying on my bed.
     "Aren't you ready, Annette?" my mother asked impatiently.

     "Yes, madam," she said.
     And my mother led the way.
     We emerged on the gallery; and an unexpected scene of striking significance burst upon us. The grand stairway was not central; it led down from the south wing of the gallery; and there, in the hall, the servants were gathering.
     When my mother, in her travelling clothes, with a dark-blue veil floating out from her masculine Fedora hat, descended the steps, a lane formed among the servants. Many of them were tearful; half a dozen, males these, stood with stony faces. My mother nodded to them all, individually; and twice she stopped to hold out her hand, once to the old butler who bowed deeply, once to the ancient white-haired housekeeper who bent to kiss her ungloved hand.
     It was a grand exit; and everybody felt it to be a final exit; my mother was leaving the place for good; what was more, she was definitely leaving her husband. This was understood; and the feeling of finality sent a lump into my throat.
     A footman was holding the door as she stopped to draw on her glove.
     Then we proceeded to the waiting carriage and took our seats, my mother and I side by side on the back seat; Annette facing us.
     I left behind me one of my three lives, a life consisting of episodic snatches, repeated at first every year, then at lengthening intervals, but nevertheless beloved.
     As I said, I had seen the last of the man my father had been, the proud, imperious and magnificent, if brutal man. When I was to see him again, he was broken in body and spirit, living, no longer in the present, but the past.

     I had seen the last of the man; but I was shortly to have one more experience of his sardonic humour.
     We missed our train and had to stay in the town overnight.
     But next day we proceeded and in due time reached Hamburg where, this time, it was I who went to the hospital to undergo an operation. It was probably due to a still undeveloped technique that the operation cost me every trace of hearing in the left ear and seriously impaired the hearing in the other, though, up to my middle fifties, I remained able to carry on classes in teaching; and even after that the world did not, for another decade, become entirely silent to me.
     The early months of the following year we spent at Paris. Of what we did when we were abroad I shall speak in the next chapter; here I must wind up the present phase in my relation to my father in which, I cannot deny, he had the last word.
     But in order to explain, I must reach back once more. One day, during the early part of our last stay at home, and before the catastrophic events recorded, we had been in the city, all three of us. What the occasion was I have long since forgotten. The stay lasted two or three days; and we had taken up quarters in the hotel which served the land-owners of the vicinity.
     One afternoon, my mother had gone out in the carriage, to make calls; my father was conferring with some lawyer or factor, on business. I was free to do as I pleased; not even Annette was there to interfere with me.
     Now I had recently become very anxious to grow a moustache. Considering that I was only thirteen, this was perhaps a premature ambition; but I have always been precocious.

     So, in the early afternoon, I sought out, as I had done before, the best barber-shop and had myself shaved. The barber who attended to me knew me; and he also knew the size of my tips; so it was only natural that he should have treated the occasion as quite a matter of course.
     Unfortunately, my father, having finished his business, or perhaps not having begun it, felt in need of a hair-cut: like myself he was blessed with a superabundant growth of hair which remained ungreyed until he was seventy-six. At the time he was only seventy-two or three and looked forty-five.
     He saw me the moment he entered; but he gave no sign of recognition. This was all right; when gentlemen meet in a compromising place, they act as if they did not see each other.
     But as he sat down, he drew his bushy eyebrows up into an arch and looked at my reflection in the mirror. I frowned; I did not consider that good form. In my opinion, he might, with perfect propriety, have spoken to me, accepting the situation without comment. What he had done on entering was equally correct, of course. But his half-wink was decidedly out of place.
     If he wanted to wink at me, then his very silence made the situation embarrassing for he was known in the establishment as the squire of Thurow; and I was known as his son. My barber had skilfully elicited this information from me on the occasion of our first encounter.
     As a consequence of that half-wink of my father's, there were now glances exchanged between the men of the shop; and, I fear, between the head-barber and my father.

     When my barber had finished with me, he gave me the equivalent of an, "All right, sir."
     Since my father had not formally recognized me, I did not choose to recognize him; though, when I rose, I fear I blushed.
     However, I paid for the service I had received, added my tip, more than usually generous, and departed with a "Good afternoon," addressed to everybody or nobody in particular.
     That was the preliminary for the joke he played on me when, at Paris, my birthday came around in mid-February.
     We were staying at a hotel this time; and when, on the morning of my birthday, I went down into the dining-room to have my breakfast and to order my mother's, I found, by the side of my plate, a small parcel addressed to me in my father's bold script. What struck me right then and there was the fact that it had been mailed in Paris; it was the first time since the catastrophe that my father and my mother were in the same neighbourhood; but I hasten to add that there was no encounter and that I even concealed the fact from my mother. No doubt my father was there on one of his cryptic errands of pleasure; and I was too much of a gentleman to tell on him.
     On opening the parcel, I found a slip of paper with some writing on it.
     "A gentleman," it said, "does not go to a shop to be shaved; unless he has a valet who does it for him, he shaves himself. He also polishes his own shoes when he is not at home."
     I was still wondering about the relevance of the last sentence as I opened the box contained in the parcel.

     It held a very complete and very good shaving outfit, knife, block-strop, brush, soap, and lotion.
     I laughed; but I blushed.
     My mother and I had agreed that we were going to go shopping together that afternoon, when I was to pick my own birthday present from her. When she rose, I showed her my father's present; and she, too, laughed. Apparently she knew about the incident at the barbershop.
     In the afternoon, we went to the Rue de Rivoli. I chose a simple comb and a pair of equally simple but very expensive military hairbrushes.
     It might interest American readers that I use the comb and the block-strop today, fifty-six years after that birthday; and that the brushes were discarded, by myself, after fifty-one years of use, to be handed on to my son. The razor, straight blade, of course, for I have never used anything else, stood up for forty years, when it was worn thin and narrow by constant stropping.
     That was the last birthday or Christmas present I was to receive from my father. A year or so later, while in Egypt, we heard of a terrible accident that had happened to him. The cable of the elevator in which he found himself had snapped; and the cage had fallen through five or six stories. This had resulted in multiple fractures of spine and arms incomprehensibly his legs were unhurt. He had to spend many months in a London hospital; when he came out, he resembled his inspector except inasmuch as he was bent, above the hips, to the right.
     My mother shuddered but did not go home. She, too, was undergoing a profound and terrible change: cancer of the womb had been the diagnosis, and already there was a serious doubt whether the knife could remove it.

     I have briefly dealt with the life at home as far as it affected and matured me. But I have left one factor out of account, and that the one which fitted it into the wider world of the age and of Europe. The years I have dealt with were those from 1872 to 1886. Most of the countries which came into the limelight during that period I knew; but I knew little of their relations to each other.
     My father was no admirer of Prussia or Germany; he was profoundly English in his sympathies, though he had a good-natured foible for the pleasure-loving side of France. At the same time, he was living in Sweden; and Sweden was then, as later, overshadowed by Germany. Bismarck was a popular hero there, at least in the upper strata of society. His policies were watched, analysed, discussed, applauded. The new Germany which was arising was admired, if with a tincture of fear. The industrial growth of the country, its commercial expansion were the marvel of foreign visitors; and most of those who sat down to the table at Thurow went to Berlin when they went abroad, not to Paris or London, as did my father. Yet he, too, took sides; and during the "Kulturkampf" and, later, during the anti-socialist legislation of Bismarck, he approved of the statesman who dominated Europe by sheer force of personality. What I heard of these discussions, over the table, at luncheon, opened my eyes to international problems.
     My mother, strange to say, took a dynastic view. While she made fun of the old Emperor whom Bismarck dragged along in his wake, she had a profound attachment, which amounted to veneration, for the old emperor's son Frederick, the later emperor of the hundred days, son-in-law of Queen Victoria. She was to live beyond his death, which she viewed in the nature of an international

tragedy. When the news of that death came, being very ill herself, she wept for hours, and she prophesied nothing but evil from the reign of William II. She never, of course, liked the Germans of the middle classes, though some German aristocrats and many officers of rank in the army were counted among her friends. But she was essentially supernational; all her attachments and enthusiasms were personal; whereas those of the males around the table at Thurow were political. My father always felt uncomfortable in that Germanophile atmosphere.
     I, of course, had no opinions of my own, and, as I have said, at the table, where I was admitted only for luncheon, I was a silent listener to the last.
     It goes without saying, too, that my everyday life, when we were at home, was very largely an outdoor life; much more so than when we were abroad. I had my pony; there were dogs aplenty; there were all the various animals of the farm; and there were few of the over a hundred people employed on the place who were not my friends. I rode, I walked, I drove, I swam. I am an outdoor man to this day, a good rider, an excellent swimmer.
     The influence of one man of whom I shall have to speak, pursued me even home, though he never appeared there. This man I called "uncle" though he was a relative neither of my father nor my mother. He was a Dane living at Hamburg, his name Jacobsen; and, though in other respects he was very different from my father, he had this in common with him that he was an accomplished athlete. Perhaps it was precisely for the reason that, on the whole, I was a weakly child, subject to all the infantile diseases, that he made it his task, whenever he could, to look after my physical development; and he did so with a unique

devotion which made it appear as if nothing else counted in life but physical proficiency.
     But "Uncle Jacobsen" belonged to my mother's world; not to that of my father.