history; your life is as open as a book, and all will cast mud upon it. . . .”
Lucy wrung her hands: “I swear to you: I am not, I am not! Mire . . . yes, I have walked through the mire, but I want to live a new life, another, a pure life. . . .” Tears gushed from her eyes.
“The bourgeois will not permit that; they will crush you,” he said sadly. “The new life!” he repeated. “What is that for? That people should look differently at you? That they should consider you their equal?” He shook his head: “In vain,—never! The bourgeois will not permit anything, they will not forget. Oh, I should like to live to the moment when this rotten world of theirs, with all its lying wisdom, deception, untruth, stupidity, and malice, will go to ruin!”
He shook with internal anger, and looked into space, while the green reflection of the leaves swayed like needles in his pupils. Then, as if seeing the absurdity of his anger, he spoke more softly:
