against a cosmic attack. I had seen too many men for it to matter to me whether they were European, Asiatic, or African. Yet I talked even then of all I had seen as being only the old world; there was a new world still unexplored. I did not think of it as having any fundamental importance; yet I must glance at it, in order to be confirmed in my attitude: there were America, South Africa, Australia. When I spoke of them, it was only natural that my utterance should be coloured by what was expected of me; I spoke of them with contempt. We spoke of ourselves as "good Europeans", without distinction as to Anglo-Saxon, Scandinavian, Slav, or Latin. The centre of the terrestrial universe, as we saw it, lay somewhere near the southern tip of Sicily.
     I made up my mind to go to Rome next year.
     Before I leave Paris, I must, however, briefly outline the course of my days.
     By that time I was more or less intimate with such people as Henri de Régnier, Jules Renard, Heredia, Mallarmé and others. I was at least in touch with Verlaine and Rimbaud; and there was one group - I can no longer link it with definite names - over which, every now and then, fell the shadow of a figure already irradiated by the sterner possibilities of tragedy - that of Oscar Wilde. These contacts, casual as many of them were, proved decisive for my future life. Already I was writing, chiefly poetry, and in French. Even at Hamburg I had written and tried to break into print; without success, I am glad to say.
     Besides, I had the entrée into the homes of a number of people belonging to the old aristocracy - royalists mostly; and after having spent my mornings in desultory study or work, I used to take my mid-day meal in some haunt of

the literary or artistic world. My afternoons I spent in some sculptor's or painter's studio; or perhaps in a gallery; or with some writer of more or less standing or promise. Unless I visited a theatre, the opera house, or one of the international "Variétés", I went at night into society where I met beautiful women and important men; men, at least, who seemed important to themselves if not to others. Often I stayed into the early hours of the next day; and, having the wonderful, power of recuperation of youth, I invariably rounded off the night by dropping in at some cabaret or cafe, sometimes even at some criminal dive frequented by the lower Boheme which has always amused me. Already I saw that eccentricity or extravagance in the conduct of life invariably accompanied only the lesser talent; the greater talent soon cut itself loose: work meant more to it than dissipation; I, too, was, of course, going to cut myself loose pretty soon.
     With these antecedents still very recent in my mind, I landed, late in summer, at Rome.
     Traditionally Rome is the Eldorado of dreamers. It swarms with incompetent painters, sculptors and would-be writers of all nationalities among whom I, too, might have become submerged. Instead, in a change of mood, I secured lodgings on the Capitol and plunged into hard work. There was, above all, right in my neighbourhood - if I remember correctly, in the Palazzo Caffarelli - the Imperial German Institute of Archeology where I spent six or seven hours daily in study, attending lectures, seminaries, and demonstrations. Besides, I was, of course, duly matriculated in the university. It is true, I made many excursions; but all of them had a professional tinge; I went to Baiae, Naples, Pesto, Palermo, Girgenti - wherever remains of Greek antiquity de-

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manded study. For several months it was rare that I went out, even on week-ends, for no other purpose than that of enjoyment, but I saw, of course, the surrounding campagna, the Albani mountains, even the Abruzzi.
     Suddenly, in midwinter, loaded with huge bundles of notes which needed digestion, I went off at a tangent. A friend from Paris was going to Madagascar; and in a trice, when I received his letter, I made up my mind to go along, meeting him at Naples. We travelled on a German boat; and my studies receded into the background. Had I gone alone, I might have carried out my plan of co-ordinating and systematizing what I had seen and learned; but never in the delightful company of my friend.
     There is little to say about this extended trip except that it took up time; it had no influence on my life or thought, no bearing on the problems that were shortly to face me. When I left my friend, in the harbour of Tamatave, I went on to Capetown. I was alone now; but meanwhile I had taken, for this trip at least, the habits of the tourist. From Capetown I struck east, taking passage to Australia on a freighter. From Australia, I made the excursion to New Zealand; and finally I returned to Capetown whence I took passage, on a German liner, to Europe via the west coast. It was in the late summer that I landed once more at Cherbourg.
     By this time I was much dissatisfied with myself. I was nineteen years old; and I felt that it was time for me to know what I wanted to do. I had a bad conscience. Not that, even now, I meant to choose a career. My father still held to his old plan for me; the fact that I had seen something of three of the five extra-European continents delighted him; he did not reproach me; but he

urged me to get my matriculation at Rome certified, which I succeeded in doing, in spite of my long absence.
     But somehow I felt that I could not go to Thurow for the rest of the holidays. Perhaps the fact was that I had become a citizen of the world. I did not look upon Thurow as my home any longer; my home was Europe; to my own surprise, I began to have a taste and a flair for international relations; perhaps my father was right after all in his plans for my future. But I did not want to expose myself to his direct influence just yet. Above all, I dreaded to confess to him that I had completely abandoned the law.
     Rome, with its three superimposed civilizations, had changed my outlook, in spite of myself. I felt divided. Apart from my underlying ambition to be a writer, I owed the world as it was a debt. As I knew it, Europe was chaos; I began to feel that it might explode any moment. Surely, it was my task, as a "good European" to have my say in its future. Could I stand apart as a mere archeologist? I had things to say; but I lacked the material in which to say them. Europe was engaged in a process of development which led away from the fundamentals. I wanted to help in leading it back. France and Germany must unite.
     In this I was confirmed by my, at first, quite casual contact with the work of Nietzsche whom I first read in French. Perhaps it would be more correct to say, with the early work of Nietzsche, the Unzeitgemaesse Betrachtungen, Morgenroete, Die Froeliche Wissenschaft, books which even today I consider as of the greatest importance For from the beginning I saw that there were two Nietzsches: the Nietzsche before and the Nietzsche after Zarathustra. I felt that the earlier Nietzsche was a Euro-

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pean event; the later Nietzsche, the violent one, became more and more specifically German, precisely because of his anti-germanic violence. Not that he concerned Germany so much, but that he could not concern any other country, not even France.
     It was Nietzsche who determined my next move: for the rest of the holidays I made up my mind to go to Berlin; for Germany stood at the heart of the problem of Europe.
     But at Berlin I was almost immediately checked in all I went for. I had two chance encounters which clashed in the most violent way.
     First of all, the moment I reached my hotel Unter den Linden, I saw, while registering, Kirsten, the daughter of our neighbour at Thurow. Though I still see her distinctly with my mind's eye, I have forgotten her family name. And at night, in the street, I ran into Mrs. Broegler whose first name has vanished from my memory.
     Kirsten was with her mother, just beginning a grand tour of Europe. Mrs. Broegler was keeping house for her father. The former was a young girl of eighteen, just opening like a bud; the latter was a divorcée with an illegitimate child. Kirsten struck me like a revelation of dewy freshness and promise; Mrs. Broegler looked slightly faded - pretty enough, as far as that goes, but with a few sharp lines about her mouth, and a few grey hairs at her temples. The former, at first sight of me, had blushed and stiffened. The latter had looked almost frightened, though she promptly recovered herself and, within a few minutes, gave me to understand, taking my arm meanwhile, that she desired nothing better than to resume our old footing.
     I was, emotionally and mentally, antipodally far from

Mrs. Broegler; but I owed her a debt of gratitude; and I promptly invited her to have dinner with me the next night. Memory plays strange tricks: I cannot remember Mrs. Broegler's first name; but I remember with perfect distinctness the name of the tavern at which we met: Ewest's; it was the year 1891 and, therefore, fifty years ago at this time of writing. Before we had got very far through the dinner to which I treated her - she having rejuvenated herself by a no doubt long and painstaking session at her dressing-table - she proposed to rent a pied-à-terre where we could meet. I agreed, of course; but my lack of enthusiasm cannot have failed to strike her. I am amazed, today, at the callousness of youth. As a matter of fact, Kirsten's image in my mind prevented Mrs. Broegler's sight from striking through to the emotional kernel of my being. Kirsten was the future; Mrs. Broegler was the past; and, if it must be said, she was by this time one of several who had played their part. However, I promised to do what I could; I took her address; as soon as I had found a suitable place, I should let her know.
     The next day, I dined with Kirsten and her mother at our hotel. The atmosphere was very peculiar. Kirsten was reserved; her mother, almost icy. I wondered; I could not explain it. Kirsten and I had been playing tennis together a few years ago; and later we had had many a ride through the woods and along the beaches. In a still juvenile way we had been very intimate. I knew she had liked me; her blush at first sight, two, three days ago, had betrayed that, in the interval, she had thought of me, more, probably, than I had thought of her. Did she feel that? Did she begrudge the fact that, in this interval, I had roamed the world?

     Then came a blow. At our first meeting, being alone with me for a moment, Kirsten had told me that they planned to spend several weeks at Berlin before going on to Dresden. Now her mother announced their immediate departure.
     But I was not to be shaken off. Next day I accompanied them to the station, loaded with a huge bouquet of roses, and saw them into their train. I dropped a casual hint that I had planned myself to go on to Dresden.
     When the train was gone, I seemed to be suspended in a void. Mechanically, because I had promised, I began to search for that pied-à-terre. I saw many which might have done; but every time I found a pretext for not taking the one I was inspecting.
     In less than a week I left Berlin, sending Mrs. Broegler a telegram in which I alleged the usual, unforeseen circumstances which necessitated a change of plans.
     At Dresden, I was careful not to arrive at the same hotel where Kirsten stayed. Instead, I made a formal call next day. Again Kirsten blushed as she saw me. Her mother was even icier than she had been at Berlin. I tried to take Kirsten about, to show her the sights; the Sistine Madonna, the "Saechsische Schweiz". I did so; but her mother never left her side.
     In less than a week they were gone; they had left without telling me of their departure. But once more I was not to be shaken off; I felt certain that Kirsten had nothing to do with this attempt to evade me. In recognition of a lavish tip I found out, from the porter of their hotel, that they had taken a night train for Munich.
     I followed them; and this time I did not even call. I had to canvass half a dozen hotels before I found where they were staying; and then I watched the street. It was

not long before I saw her; but she was never alone; her mother was always with her. I knew that she had seen me; her blush had told me. She was a very proud girl, tall, graceful, exceedingly fair; and I divined that she resented her blushes. But by this time I was too far in the meshes to spare her.
     One morning, hidden in the entrance to a fashionable store opposite the hotel, I caught her glance; and it seemed to convey a message. A moment later I saw her throwing a small ball of paper into the gutter, casually, as if discarding a sales-slip or something. I waited until they were out of sight and then crossed the street to pick it up. It contained nothing but the words, "Pinakothek, Saal one, three o'clock."
     I was in the famous picture gallery long before she entered. When she did, she came straight up to me, looking very pale.
     "Phil," she said at once, without greeting, "don't you see you must not follow us any longer?"
     "Why not?" I asked stubbornly. "What has happened?"
     "Don't you know the rumours about your father?"
     "I know of no rumours. What are they?"
     "Everybody says he is bankrupt. He is going to lose Thurow. You know, of course, that he is living at Hamburg?"
     "I don't," I said. "I haven't heard of him for some time. So it's a question of money!" I put all the scorn I was capable of into these last words.
     "You know," she said, "it isn't; not with me. But, by following us, you make things worse for me."
     I looked at her and was all contrition. "I am sorry," I said. "Of course, I shall disappear."

     "Phil . . ." she said and stopped. Her tone held an avowal.
     There was a long silence. We were not alone. All about us visitors to the gallery moved about; some of them glanced at us. The museum guards stood near the doors.
     I pulled myself together. "Would a professor of archeology be an acceptable son-in-law?" I asked. "Or the secretary to a legation?"
     "I think so," she said, blushing more deeply than ever.
     "In a few years..." I stammered.
     She smiled at me. "I must go," she said in a very low voice. "I came with friends and left them under a pretext. But they may come any moment."
     "I shall go back to Berlin at once."
     She gave me her hand; and, according to the south-German custom, I bent to kiss it.
     And then she was gone. A few minutes later I saw her for the last time in my life, with her friends.
     I kept my word and took the night train back to Berlin. Thence I sent a wire to my father, addressing it to Thurow. I wanted to see him now. It was two or three days before I received an answer; the wire had been relayed after him; Kirsten had been right; he was at Hamburg. I promptly went and looked him up.
     He was seventy-six and still looked fifty! There was no grey in his hair.
     I told him what I had heard. He laughed. He said he had moved to Hamburg because his eyes needed constant treatment.
     At last I asked him point-blank whether I could count on his financial support for another three years. I had at last been awakened to the practical aspect of the situation; too late, of course.

     He shrugged his shoulders. "If I live," he said.
     This sounded cryptic. I pressed my question. "How about Thurow?"
     "Well," he said, "Thurow will likely be lost at my death. It is mortgaged."
     "Heavily?"
     "Rather."
     "To the limit of its value?"
     He laughed again. "Beyond that value, I should say."
     "But," I insisted, "why don't they foreclose?"
     "Because," he answered, "while I live, the interest is paid. The moment that ceases, there are others, besides myself, who will be bankrupt; and some of them are banks."
     I did not understand but acted as though I did.
     "At any rate," I said, "you think I have three years?"
     "I think so," he replied. "Apart from my eyes, I am hale and hearty."
     And then, unexpectedly, still apparently under the delusion that I was preparing myself for a diplomatic career, he added the advice that I should go to America for an extended trip.
     But by that time the fall of the year was at hand. I had made up my mind to spend at least the winter term at Munich, in solid work. Furtwaengler was sooner or later expected to teach there, a European celebrity in my field, especially, if I remember right, in numismatics. After all, in spite of my crazy trips, I had been matriculated for one year at Paris; for another, at Rome. I had great stock of academic knowledge; I was soaking it up at all times. I felt sure that, by dint of a little hard

work, I could make my Ph.D. in another year or two; if I had three, there would be one to spare; it I should spend as an unpaid "Dozent" or lecturer; and my work, I persuaded myself, would be such as to secure me the appointment, at an unheard-of age, as an assistant professor somewhere. I was going to show them what stuff I was made of. Incidentally, I tried to persuade myself that my father probably presented things in a darker light than was warranted; if he could advise me to go to America for a trip . . . I should go, of course, spend three or four months there, and then return, preferably to Bonn or Berlin. Bonn boasted Usener and Loeschke; Berlin, Wilamowitz-Moellefldorf - all three celebrities, though two of them were not exactly archeologists.
     The two semesters which I put in at Munich were fruitful in more than one way; I did a vast amount of work, in several fields; I met many people to be noted, in numerous branches of human endeavour. While I concentrated my chief efforts on archeology, I took up Sanskrit under Traube, for instance, as a means of preparing myself for a study of comparative philology which began to attract me. In what was left of my mornings I attended lectures in the history of art during the Italian Renaissance. All of which helped me in widening my horizons and in consolidating such foundations as I had laid by my study in Italy.
     Almost automatically I drifted, for my purely social life, into literary circles resembling those in which I had moved in Paris. At Munich there were groups of young writers and poets - especially poets - who fascinated me, not least by reason of the fact that, politically, they were one and all opposed to the trends which were sponsored

by the emperor. In these groups there were one or two young men whose chief distinction consisted in the fact that they had served terms of imprisonment for Ièsemajesté. No doubt my sympathy with them derived at least in part from the view my mother had taken of William II. Here, too, the atmosphere was not specifically German; it was European. The feeling was that France and Germany were natural allies.
     I saw many plays, of course, and I heard a great deal of music; but, above all, I worked like a slave.
     When the spring term closed, I felt, for the first time since my mother's death, that I had nothing to reproach myself with, not even from the point of view of my father. It was true, I had made no progress towards a diplomatic career; but I felt that, after another year like the last, I should be ready to enter a "practical" course - some sort of apprenticeship other than commercial which would lead me to economic independence.
     I had earned a holiday; and I wished for nothing better than to take it in compliance with my father's wishes. I would go to America.
     When I arrived at Hamburg, I was forcibly struck by the change in my father's appearance; he had aged to an almost unbelievable extent. Hair and beard were snow-white. But he still looked handsome, sitting down. I remained with him for less than a week. He seemed anxious for me to be off; and the very day after my arrival he made reservations for me on the next boat of the Hamburg-American Line to leave for New York.
     When I embarked, I did so in the most casual way. I had sailed the seven seas of the globe; I had been across Asia; had seen something of South Africa and Australia.

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     What should there be in a mere crossing of the Atlantic to make a fuss about? The crack liner for which my reservation had been made would take me to New York in a week.
     Yet I had one shock before I sailed. It was the last night before my embarkation when my father, in handing me some cash and a draft on a New York bank, told me that the draft represented the proceeds of the sale of my little yacht which had been laid up at Hamburg. He explained that he was momentarily embarrassed - oh, nothing to worry about; not in the least. Since I intended to return to Munich - which I didn't - the yacht would have been of no use to me for another year. He had talked it over with Uncle Jacobsen who had said that, unless the boat was being used, it would deteriorate. In fact, it was Uncle Jacobsen - whom he, however, called Herr Jacobsen - who had negotiated the sale. By the time, my father added, when the funds with which I started were exhausted, he would have made some other provision.
     For two or three months after that I was a mere tourist in America; since there seemed to be nothing else to do, I went to see the sights. From New York I went to Pittsburg [sic]; and thence to Cincinnati where the last of my sisters lived, a widow of forty, with two children. Having spent a week or two with her, I went on to Yellowstone Park; and thence, via the Grand Canyon, to California where I saw the Yosemite. Turning north, roughly along the line which is now the Pacific Highway, I visited Crater Lake and thence reached Vancouver. My intention was, after returning east, through the Rockies, to go to Toronto and thence, via Niagara, back to New York. So far, North America meant to me just that: Niagara, the Yellowstone Park, the Grand Canyon, and the

Yosemite Valley. The rest was negligible; mere connecting tissue.
      I reached Toronto, wishing to go on to the Saguenay Valley. My funds being at a low ebb, I made up my mind to wait till they were replenished. To that effect I sent a night-letter cablegram to my father and composed myself to stay for the answer. I even thought of utilizing my enforced leisure by writing a few articles on what I had seen. Above all, I wanted to write. I did not exactly look upon my frantic work at Munich as wasted; but distance seemed to put that sort of thing in its proper place. I had done much, after all, which, fundamentally, was not of the slightest importance. On the other hand, of course, it was true that, if my father was ruined - if I was never to own Thurow - I should need a career which would enable me to earn my daily bread. Outwardly, a professorship would furnish such a career. But my real work would remain, to be done in the course of the years, with my pen. Meanwhile I painted my future for myself, to be spent with Kirsten who would be my wife. It was not a vision to fill me with despair. But, of course, I was too young to despair in any case. All life lay ahead; I was only twenty. The blood coursed through my veins and filled me with that exuberance which we all have known.
      It took several days for the answer to my cablegram to arrive. When it came, it was not from my father but from Uncle Jacobsen. It was a long document; but it noted the sudden death of my father very briefly. Apart from that notice, it expatiated upon the advice to decline my inheritance; unless I did, I should find myself in debt to the amount of close to a million Kroner, over and above the value of Thurow and other assets. One or two

     veiled expressions made me suspect that about half that indebtedness was to him, Uncle Jacobsen.
      Within two weeks I was earning my living, not as a professor of archeology or comparative philology, but as a waiter in a cheap eating house on Yonge Street, Toronto.