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could imagine, when they no longer enjoyed the protection of conjugal ties but instead had to look upon love as their bread and butter. The female sex was destined to form a proletarian class of most despicable creatures, and the last vestige of family life was to be wiped out once for all.

We can imagine what consternation this created in innumerable little homes. Around the family lamp the folks are sitting in an atmosphere which one might almost be justified in calling religious. And then Strindberg's big black hand appears and attempts to snatch the lamp from the table, to disturb that admirable family concord, and drive the different members of the circle into the street.

Strindberg's Married was doomed even before it appeared. People wondered how the publisher, Albert Bonnier, could be bare-faced enough to publish it. And it was expected that the book would be confiscated before it had time to leave the press.

I had heard so much about it myself that, a week ahead of time, I called on the only bookseller in town asking him to send me a copy, well wrapped up, as soon as he had received the first consignment of Married.

One day I returned from my walk and was on the point of settling down among my books to continue my studies.

Suddenly my aunt came rushing in, pale and out of breath, just as if she had been present at some bloody massacre in the immediate neighborhood. She was in such a state of agitation that she spoke with difficulty.

“What have you done, Gustaf? How can you do any-