here never
were, and that there never would be such women. In this respect, he had
no special peculiarities, just as Adam did not have them, just as you,
my reader, do not have them. Beginning with Grandmother Eve and ending
with the woman upon whom your eyes were directed--before you read these
lines--the same inscription is to be clearly and distinctly read on the
face of every woman at a certain time. The difference is only in the
quality of the ink.

A very nasty day set in--it was Monday or Tuesday--when Max noticed with
a feeling of great terror that the inscription upon the dear face was
fading. Max rubbed his eyes, looked first from a distance, then from all
sides; but the fact was undeniable--the inscription was fading. Soon
the last letter also disappeared--the face was white like the recently
whitewashed wall of a new house. But he was convinced that the
inscription had disappeared not of itself, but that some one had wiped
it off. Who?

Max went to his friend, John N. He knew and he felt sure that such a
true, disinterested, and honest friend there never was and never
would be. And in this respect, too, as you see, Max had no special
peculiarities. He went to his friend for the purpose of taking his
advice concerning the mysterious disappearance of the inscription,
and found John N. exactly at the moment when he was wiping away that
inscription by his kisses. It was then that the records of the local
occurrences were enriched by another unfortunate incident, entitled "An
Attempt at Suicide."

. . . . . . . .

It is said that death always comes in due time. Evidently, that time had
not yet arrived for Max, for he remained alive--that is, he ate, drank,
walked, borrowed money and did not return it, and altogether he showed
by a series of psycho-physiological acts that he was a living being,
possessing a stomach, a will, and a mind--but his soul was dead, or, to
be more exact, it was absorbed in lethargic sleep. The sound of human
speech reached his ears, his eyes saw tears and laughter, but all that
did not stir a single echo, a single emotion in his soul. I do not know
what space of time had elapsed. It may have been one year, and it
may have been ten years, for the length of such intermissions in life
depends on how quickly the actor succeeds in changing his costume.

One beautiful day--it was Wednesday or Thursday--Max awakened
completely. A careful and guarded liquidation of his spiritu