Meanwhile I had moved on, until now I halted again. I looked around. I was in front of Veronika’s house. I crossed the street, picked my way through the people who were seated upon the stoop, mounted the staircase, and rang Veronika’s bell, wondering constantly what the cause and what the upshot of this adventure might be, and powerless to assert the least influence over my physical acts. “Veronika’s voice sounded from behind the door, ‘Is that you, uncle?’ “‘No, it is I, my tongue replied of its own volition. “The door opened. I saw Veronika with the knob in her hand. She looked surprised. My impulse was to take her in my arms and explain to her the strange accident that had befallen me. I could not. I had no more control over my body than I had over hers. “Veronika closed the door. She glanced up at my face. Her eyes filled with fear. “‘Why, Ernest,’ she cried, ‘what is it? What is the matter? Why do you look like this?’ “I paused to collect my utmost strength, then tried to speak. Total failure. Tried to reassure her with my eyes. Total failure: eyes as uncontrollable as the rest of my person. But impelled by that other will which had usurped the place of mine, I approached her and asked, ‘What is your name?’ It was my voice, but it was not I, that asked the question. “‘Oh, for the love of God,’ Veronika besought, ‘don’t act like this. Oh, my Ernest, what terrible joke are you playing? Don t make me think that you have gone mad.’ “‘What is your name?’ my voice repeated, stonily. “‘My name? What can you mean? Oh God, what has come over my beloved?’ “Her face was pale, her eyes were full of anguish. And I—I was impotent to comfort her. My heart went out to her with a great bound of love; but I was in irons, chained down, compelled to witness, forbidden to interfere with the action of this awful drama. For a third time my tongue repeated, ‘Your name—tell me your name.’ “‘My name?’ she gasped. ‘You know my name—Veronika. See, don’t you recognize me, Ernest? I am Veronika, whom you are going to marry. Oh, my loved one, you are ill. What can I do to make you well?’ “‘Tell me your surname,’ I said. “‘My surname—why, Pathzuol. Oh, Ernest, say you know me.’ “‘And your father’s name?’ “‘My father—his name was Nicholas—but he is dead—died when I was a little girl. Oh, God, what does this mean?’ “‘Enough; come with me,’ said the devil whose victim I had become. “I grasped her wrist and led her down the hallway. If Veronika was terrified, her terror could not have equaled mine. What deed was I now bent upon committing? She followed me passively. The expression of her eyes made my soul ache within me. How I longed to speak to her and soothe her. How I longed to step between her and myself, to protect her from this maniac in whose power she was. To be obliged to stand by and see this thing enacted—imagine the agony I suffered.