a man wishes to talk about
he may write."

I wanted first to demonstrate to you that there exists in the original
and essential nature of man a certain awkward enthusiasm which likes
to utter boldly that which is delicate and holy, and sometimes falls
headlong over its own honest zeal and speaks a word that is divine to
the point of coarseness.

This apology would indeed save me, but perhaps only at the enormous
expense of my manhood itself; for whatever you may think of my manhood
in particular, you have nevertheless a great deal against the sex in
general. Meantime I will by no means make common cause with them, but
will rather excuse and defend my liberty and audacity by means of the
example of the little innocent Wilhelmina, since she too is a lady
whom I love most tenderly. So I will straightway attempt a little
sketch of her character.

SKETCH OF LITTLE WILHELMINA

When one regards the remarkable child, not from the viewpoint of any
one-sided theory, but, as is proper, in a large, impartial way, one
can boldly say--and it is perhaps the best thing one could possibly
say of her--that for her years she is the cleverest person of her
time. And that is indeed saying a great deal; for how seldom do we
find harmonious culture in people two years old? The strongest of the
many strong proofs of her inward perfection is her serene
self-complacency. After she has eaten she always spreads both her
little arms out on the table, and resting her cunning head on them
with amusing seriousness, she makes big eyes and casts cute glances at
the family all around her. Then she straightens up and with the most
vivid expression of irony on her face, smiles at her own cuteness and
our inferiority. She is full of buffoonery and has a nice
appreciation of it. When I imitate her gestures, she immediately
copies my imitation; thus we have created a mimic language of our own
and make each other understand by means of pantomime hieroglyphics.

For poetry, I think, she has far more inclination than for philosophy;
so also she likes to ride better than to walk, which last she does
only in case of necessity. The ugly cacophony of our mother-tongue
here in the north melts on her tongue into the sweet and mellow
euphony of Italian and Hindu speech. She is especially fond of rhymes,
as of everything else that is beautiful; she never grows tired of
saying and singing over and over again to herself, one after the
other, all her favorite littl