Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - I. The Hand of the Invisible
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light. I ask a gendarme where I am. He
answers, “At St. Martin’s gate.”
A couple of steps bring me to the great Boulevard,
which I go down. The theatre clock points
to a quarter-past seven. Business hours are
over, and my friends are waiting for me as usual
in the Café Neapel. I go on hurriedly, forgetting
the hospital, trouble, and poverty. As I
pass the Café du Cardinal, I brush by a table
where someone is sitting. I only know him by
name, but he knows me, and at the same moment
his eyes interrogate me: “You here? You are
not in hospital then? Then it was all gossip?”
I feel that this man is one of my unknown
benefactors, for he reminds me that I am a
beggar, and have nothing to do in the café.
Beggar! that is the right word, which echoes in
my ears, and colours my cheek with a burning
blush of shame, humiliation, and rage. Six
weeks ago I sat here at this table. My theatre
manager sat opposite me, and called me “Dear
Sir”; journalists pestered me with their
interviews; photographers asked for the honour of
selling portraits of me—and, to-day—what am
I to-day? A beggar, a marked man, an outcast
from society!
Lashed, tormented, driven, like a night-tramp,
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