Married by Strindberg, August, 1849-1912

How beautiful she was when she busied herself about the house again! And how intelligent in all matters concerning the baby!

As for him, he felt a man. Instead of talking of the Baron's horses and the Count's cricket matches, he now talked, too much almost, of his son.

And when occasionally he was obliged to be out of an evening, he always longed for his own fireside; not because his wife sat there waiting for him, like an evil conscience, but because he knew that she was not alone. And when he came home, both mother and child were asleep. He was almost jealous of the baby, for there had been a certain charm in the thought that while he was out, somebody was sitting alone at home, eagerly awaiting his return.

Now he was allowed his afternoon nap. And as soon as he had gone back to town, the piano was opened and the favourite song of the _Rose in the Wood_ was sung, for it was quite new to Harold, and had regained all its freshness for poor little Laura who hadn't heard it for so many days.

She had no time now for crochet work, but there were plenty of antimacassars in the house. He, on his part, could not spare the time for his dissertation.

"Harold shall write it," said the father, for he knew now that his life would not be over when he came to die.

Many an evening they sat together, as before, and gossiped, but now both took a share in the conversation, for now she understood what they were talking about.

She confessed that she was a silly girl who knew nothing about religion and the drama; but she said that she had always told him so, and that he had refused to believe it.

But now he believed it less than ever.

They sang the old favourite song, and Harold crowed, they danced to the tune and rocked the baby's cradle to it, and the song always retained its freshness and charm.

FRICTIONS

His eyes had been opened. He realised the perversity of the world, but he lacked the power to penetrate the darkness and discover the cause of this perversity; therefore he gave himself up to despair, a disillusioned man. Then he fell in love with a girl who married somebody else. He complained of her conduct to his friends, male and female, but they only laughed at him. For a little while longer he trod his solitary path alone and misunderstood. He belonged to "society," and joined in its pursuits, because it distracted him; but at the bottom of his heart he had nothing but contempt for its amusements, which he took no pains to conceal.

One evening he was present at a ball. He danced with a young woman of unusual beauty and animation. When the band ceased playing, he remained standing by her side. He knew he ought to talk to her but he did not know what to say. After a while the girl broke the silence.

"You are fond of dancing, Baron?" she said with a cold, smile.

"Oh no! not at all," he answered. "Are you?"

"I can't imagine anything more foolish," she replied.

He had met his man, or rather his woman.

"Why do you dance, then?" he asked.

"For the same reason that you do."