to speak entertainingly.—Oh, that witchery of woman’s eyes!
(My reader, pray, listen! The psychologist will regard my weak attempt at depicting the characters of my dramatis personæ in general as a kind of somersault,—so I will announce in advance: I do not believe in what people call character. My view differs from that of the best philosophers,—I see in character a little matter, a little mysticism and mystery, yet it is fit for my discourse. Our “ego” is nothing but a slave of the stomach, the weather, and the nerves, and it generally submits to another “ego” of our neighbor, if that be stronger, or more inviting, or the opposite of our own “ego.” In fact, we are nothing but chameleons, though I do confess that we preserve a weak layer of our elementary color which generally shines through the mass of borrowed hues. Or, to speak in the language of the scientists,—man is the result of external forces, and the soul is a photographic plate.
