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He asserted that with A Fool's Confession he had said his last word as a story-writer—how many last words has he not said since? He had arrived at that meridian in life when a man has a very good reason to sit down in the easy chair and rest while thinking over what life has been and what the future may have in store.

His quill of belles lettres he had thrown away; but one thing still retained his interest in life: late years had seen the birth of a movement of great scientific activity accompanied by a great many new results. Into these he wished to penetrate in order to ascertain whether he could find what he sought. With a proud gesture he pointed at two large piles of unbound scientific works which he had piled up against the wall. He had bought them with the first money he had received on German soil. But he had made up his mind that he could not afford a bookshelf.

Consequently his studio in Friedrichshagen was not very inviting. Besides the scientific books there was an old easel which looked like a dirt-brown skeleton. Over by the window to be sure there was a table, but it looked as though it was not in use. There lay upon it a couple of uncut books, also pen and ink, but no paper piled up in stacks of manuscripts, nor notes with which Strindberg usually busied himself so persistently.

In the back-ground of the room he had arranged his little “salon” with a drawing-room table, a few antique arm-chairs and a lounge. In one of the arm-chairs Ola Hansson sat in silence the whole evening while Strindberg and I engaged in conversation.