sprightly than mine. I induced her to lean over and smell the lovely
lilies, and while she was doing so I, by giving her head a very slight
push, buried her nose deep in the flowers and it became covered with
yellow pollen. She was indignant! And the thought that I had acted so
rudely tended to make the walk home a very painful one.

The beautiful evenings of May! Had I not cherished memories of those of
preceding years, or had they in truth been like this one? Like this one
in the cold and lonely garden? Had they ended so miserably as did this
play-day with Jeanne? With a feeling of mortal weariness I said to
myself: "And is this all!" an exclamation which soon afterwards became
one of my most frequent unspoken reflections, a phrase indeed that I
might well have taken for my motto.

When we returned I went to the wooden box to inspect our afternoon's
work, and as I did so I inhaled the balsamic odor that had impregnated
everything belonging to our theatre. For a long time after that, for
a year or two, perhaps longer, the odor of the pine box containing the
properties of the "Donkey's Skin" recalled vividly that May evening so
filled with poignant sorrow, which was one of the most singular feelings
of my childhood. Since I have come to man's estate I no longer suffer
from anguish that has no known cause, doubly hard to endure because
mysterious, I no longer feel as if my feet are treading unfathomable
depths in search of a firm bottom. I no longer suffer without knowing
why. No, such emotions belonged peculiarly to my childhood, and this
book could properly bear the title (a dangerous one I well know): "A
Journal of my extreme and inexplicable sorrows, and some of the boyish
pranks by which I diverted my mind from them."