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 T last, as the reader may have noticed, a little excitement has found its way into this account of mine and of Marie's love. The story is fast approaching its end, and from an artistic point of view parentheses are scarcely any longer advisable.

But I am forced to stop on the road once more, for I see a great many sneering and mocking faces, which I must clear out of the way.

They are the up-to-date saints, poetry's philosophical puppies, and downy-chinned ascetics, who with indescribable scorn regard the fellow-artist who in this old-fashioned way writes about women and love. They understand far better how to fulfil the mission of modern poetry. On high-sounding adjectives they climb the stars to chat with the Almighty and dish up their celestial interview with all that obscure profundity which fills their confused head.

True poetry is that which tells every one that poetry is something much finer than ordinary human words, and these only are poets, poets with truly noble ideas, who stoop to nothing so common as to sing of two who love each other.

These young poets have made the remarkable discovery that they are moulded of too fine a clay for love. Passion is degrading for them, it distracts their minds from their high calling, and soils the virgin soul of which they seem to think heaven has such desperate need.

Let them stay among the stars, poor devils.