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flowers, red and white—that, after those years, I lost something of myself, something romantic that was in me then, something living that was in me then, and that, since then, I have never lived, never lived a single moment, as if all sorts of vain and worldly things had blinded me . . . Oh, what thoughts are these and why do I have them? I won't think them; and yet . . . and yet, after those wonderful, fairy years, it was all over . . . all over . . . What do I remember of the years after? Dances, balls, society, vanity and artificiality . . . Yes, it was all over by then . . . And now surely that childish spark hasn't revived, surely my soul isn't trying, isn't wanting to live again? No, no, it can't do that: the years are lying all around it, the silent, dead years of vanity, of blundering, of longing, of death in life . . . And besides, if my soul did want to live again, it would be too late now, for everything; and it doesn't want to either . . . It's only because of those strange coincidences, it's only because he spoke like that . . . and because his voice it attractive . . . and because I am sitting here alone . . . and because the storm is blowing so terribly, as though it wanted to open the windows and come inside . . . No, hush, hush . . . I won't give way to those thoughts again, never again . . . and, even if that sort of thing does really exist, it is only for those who are young and who see life with the glamour of youth . . . and not for me, not for me.