I told you I might say more about the liver that is within me before I have done. Well, then, I will say this: that the world, if it had a liver like mine, would be very different from what it is. The world would be many-colored and mobile and passionate and nervous and high-strung and intensely alive and poetic and romantic and philosophical and egotistic and pathetic, and, oh, racked to the verge of madness with the spirit of unrest--if the world had a liver like mine. It is not all of these now. It is rather stupid. Gods and little fishes! would not the world be wonderful if all in it were like me? And it would be if it had a liver like mine. For it is my liver mostly that makes me what I am--apart from my genius. My liver is fine and perfect, but sensitive, and, well--it’s a dangerous thing to have within you. It is the liver of the MacLanes. It is the foundation of the curious castle of my existence. And after all, fine, brave, stupid world, you may be grateful to the Devil that yours is not like it. I have seventeen little engraved portraits of Napoleon that I keep in one of my bureau-drawers. Often late in the evening, between nine and ten o’clock, when I come in from a walk over the sand and barrenness, I take these pictures from the drawer and gaze at them carefully a long time and think of that man until I am stirred to the depths. And then easily and naturally I fall in love with Napoleon. If only he were living now, I think to myself, I would make my way to him by whatever means and cast myself at his feet. I would entreat him with the most passionate humbleness of spirit to take me into his life for three days. To be the wife of Napoleon for three days--that would be enough for a lifetime! I would be much more than satisfied if I could get three such days out of life. I suppose a man is either a villain or a fool, though some of them seem to be a judicious mingling of both. The type of the distinct villain is preferable to a mixture of the two, and to a plain fool. I like a villain anyway--a villain that can be rather tender at times. And so, then, as I look at the pictures I fall in love with the incomparable Napoleon. The seventeen pictures are all different and all alike. I fall in love with each picture separately. In one he is ugly and unattractive--and strong. I fall in love with him. In another he is cruel and heartless and utterly selfish--and strong. I fall in love with him. In a third he has a fat, pudgy look, and is quite insignificant--and strong. I fall in love with him. In a fourth he is grandly sad and full of despair--and strong. I fall in love with him. In the fifth he is greasy and greedy and common-looking--and strong. I fall in love with him. In the sixth he is masterly and superior and exalted--and strong. I fall in love with him. In the seventh he is romantic and beautiful--and strong. I fall in love with him.