He went slowly up the stairs feeling for his key. He arrived at the door without having found it. The door was ajar. At first this seemed natural to him, and he continued the search for the key. Then he suddenly dropped that occupation, pushed the door open and went into his studio. The moonlight came heavily through the windows. In a part of the room where it did not strike he became aware of an apparition of solid white. It was solid white flowed round by Naples yellow. It crossed into the moonlight and faced him, its hands placedlike a modest statue’s. The hair reached below the waist, and flowed to the right from the head. This tall nudity began laughing with a harsh sound like stone laughing.
“Close the door!” it shouted, “there’s a draught. You took a long time to consider my words. I’ve been waiting. Forgive me, Tarr. My words were acidulated whores, but my heart”—she put her hand on the skin roughly above that organ—“my heart was completely full of sugar! The acidulateddemi-mondainewas a trick. It occupied your mind. You didn’t notice me take your key!”
His vanity was soothed. The key in her possession, which could only have been taken in the café, seemed to justify the harsh dialogue.
She stood before him now with her arms up, hands joined behind her head. This impulse to take her clothes off had the cultural hygienic touch so familiar to him. The Naples yellow of the hair was the same colour as Bertha’s, only it was coarser and thicker, Bertha’s being fine. Anastasya’s dark face, therefore, had the appearance almost of a mask.
“Will you engage me as your model? Je fais de la réclame pour les Grecs.”
“You are very Ionian—hardly Greek. But I don’t require a model. I never use nude models.”
“Well, I must dress again, I suppose.” She turned towards a chair where her clothes were piled. But Tarr had learnt the laws of cultural emancipation.
He shouted, “I accept, I accept!” He lifted her up in his arms, kissing her in the mass, as it were, and carried her through the door at the back of the studio leading to his bedroom.
“Tarr, be my love. I don’t want to give you up.”
This was said next morning, the sunlight having taken the place of the moonlight, but striking on the opposite side of the house.
“You won’t hear marriage talked about by me. I want to rescue you from your Bertha habits. Allow yourself to be rescued! We’re very well together,aren’t we? I’m not doing Bertha a bad turn, either, really. I admit my motive is quite selfish. What do you say?”
“I am your slave!”
Anastasya rolled up against him with the movement of a seal.
“Thank you, Tarr. That’s better thanhaving a slave, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I think everything is in order.”
“Then you’re my efficient chimpanzee?”
“No, I’m the new animal; we haven’t found a name for it yet. It will succeed the Superman. Back to the Earth!”
“Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Kiss me!”
Tarr crawled towards Bertha that day on the back of a Place St. Michel bus. He did not like his job.
The secret of his visits to Bertha and interminable liaison was that he really never had meant to leave her at all, he reflected. He had not meant to leave her altogether. He was just playing. Or rather, a long debt of disgraceful behaviour was accumulating, that he knew would have to be met. It was deliberately increased by him, because he knew he would not repudiate it. But it would have been absurd not to try to escape.
To-day he must break the fact to Bertha that he could no longer regard himself as responsible. He was faced with the necessity, for the first time, of seriously bargaining. The debt was not to be repudiated, but he must tell her that he only had himself to pay with, and that he had been seized by somebody else.
He passed through her iron gateway with a final stealth, although making his boots sound loudly on the gravel. It was like entering a vault, the trees looked like weeds; the meaning or taste of everything,of course, had died. The concierge looked like a new one.
He had bought a flower for his buttonhole. He kept smelling it as he approached the house.
During the last week or so he had got into the habit of writing his letters at Bertha’s, to fill up the time. Occasionally he would do a drawing of her (a thing he had never done formerly) to vary the monotony. This time there would be no letter-writing. This visit would be more like the old ones.
“Come in, Sorbert,” she said, on opening the door. It was emphasizing the fact of the formality of the terms on which they at present met. Any prerogative of past and more familiar times was proudly rejected.
There was the same depressed atmosphere as the day before, and the days preceding that. She appeared stale, somehow deteriorated and shabby, her worth decreased, and extremely pitiable. Her “reserve” (a natural result of the new equivocal circumstances) removed her to a distance, as it seemed; it also shut her up in herself, in an unhealthy, dreary, and faded atmosphere.
She was shut up with a mass of reserves and secrets, new and old. She seemed sitting on them in rather dismal hen-like fashion, waiting to be asked to come out of herself and reveal something. It was a corpse among other things that she was sitting on, as Kreisler was one of her secrets. Mournfully reproachful, she kept guard over her secrets, a store of bric-à-brac that had gone out of fashion and were getting musty in a neglected shop.
Their meetings sometimes were made painful by activity on Bertha’s part. An attempt at penetration to an intimacy once possessed can be more indecent than the same action on the part of a stranger.
This time he was greeted with long mournful glances. He felt she had thought of what she should say. This interview meant a great deal to her. His friendship meant more to her now than ever. Theabject little room seemed to be thrust forward to awaken his memories and ask for pity. An intense atmosphere of Teutonic suicide permeated everything. He could not move an eyelid or a muscle without wounding or slighting something. It was like being in a dark kitchen at night, where you know at every step you will put your foot on a beetle. It had a still closer analogy to this in the disgust he felt for these too naked and familiar things he was treading on. He scowled at Beethoven, who scowled back at him like a reflection in a mirror. It was the fate of both of them to haunt this room. TheMona Lisawas there, and the Breton sabots and jars. She might have a change of scenery sometimes! He felt unreasonably that she must have left things in the same place to reproduce a former mood in him. His photograph was prominent on her writing-table; she seemed to say (with a sort of sickly idiocy), “You see,heis faithful to me!”
She preceded him to her sitting-room. As he looked at her back he thought of her as taking a set number of paces, then turning round abruptly, confronting him. From a typical and similar enervation of the will to that which was at the bottom of his troubles, he could hardly stop himself from putting his arm round her waist while they stood for a moment close to each other. He did not wish to do this as a response to any resuscitating desire. It was only because it was the one thing he must not do. To throw himself into the abyss of perplexity he had just escaped from tempted him. The dykes and simulations of conduct were perpetually threatened by his neurasthenia in this way. He kept his hands in his pockets, however.
When they had reached the room, she turned round, as he had half imagined, and caught hold of his hands.
“Sorbert, Sorbert!”
The words were said separately, each emphatic in significance. The second was a repetition only of the first. She seemed calling him by his name toconjure back his self again. Her face was a strained and anxious mask.
“What is it, Bertha?”
“I don’t know!”
She dropped his hands, drooped her head to the right and turned away.
She sat down; he sat down opposite her.
“Anything new?” he asked.
“Anything new? Yes!” She gazed at him with an insistent meaning.
He concluded this was just over-emphasis, with nothing behind it; or, rather, everything.
“Well, I have something new as well!”
“Have you, Sorbert?”
“First of all, how have my visits struck you lately? What explanation have you found for them?”
“Oh, none. Why find an explanation? Why do you ask?”
“I thought I would explain.”
“Well?”
“My explanation to myself was that I did not want to leave you brusquely, and I thought a blurred interlude of this sort would do no harm to either of us. Our loves could die in each other’s arms.”
She stared with incredulous fixity at the floor, her spirit seeming to be arched like a swan and to be gazing down hypnotically.
“The real reason was simply that, being very fond of you, I could not make up my mind to give you up. I claim that my visits were not frivolous.”
“Well?”
“I would have married you, if you had considered that advisable.”
“Yes? And⸺?”
“I find it very difficult to say the rest.”
“What is difficult?”
“Well, I still like you very much. Yesterday I met a woman. I love her too. I can’t help that. What must I do?”
Bertha turned a slightly stormier white.
“Who is she?”
“You know her. She is Anastasya Vasek.”
The news struck through something else, and, inside, her ego shrank to an almost wizened being. It seemed glad of the protection the cocoon, the something, afforded her.
“You did not—find out what my news was.”
“I didn’t. Have you anything⸺?”
“Yes. I am enceinte.”
He thought about this in a clumsy, incredulous way. Itwasa Roland for his Oliver! She was going to have a baby! With what regularity he was countered! This event rose up in opposition to the night he had just spent, his new promises and hopes of swagger sex in the future. He was beaten.
“Whose child is it?”
“Kreisler’s.”
“There you are!” he thought.
He got up and stepped over to her with a bright relieved look in his face.
“Poor little girl! That’s a bad business. But don’t worry about it. We can get married and it can always pass as mine—if we do it quickly enough.”
She looked up at him obliquely and sharply, with suspicion grown a habit. When she saw the pleasant, assured expression, she saw that at last things had turned. Sorbert was denying reality! He was ending with miracles, against himself. Her instinct had always told her that generosity would not be wasted!
She did not tell him of the actual circumstances under which the child had come. That would have weakened her happiness and her case.
When he got outside Bertha’s house, Bertha waving to him from the window with tears in her eyes, he came in for the counter-attack.
One after the other the protesting masses of good sense rolled up.
He picked his way out of the avenue with a reasoning gesticulation of the body; a chicken-like motion of sensible fastidious defence in front of buffonic violence. At the gate he exploded in harsh laughter, looking bravely and railingly out into the world through his glasses. Then he walked slowly away in his short jacket, his buttocks moving methodically just beneath its rim.
“Ha ha! Ha ha! Kreisleriana!” he shouted without his voice.
The indignant plebs of his glorious organism rioted around his mind.
“Ha ha! Ha ha!Sacré farceur, where are you leading us?” They were vociferous. “You have kept us fooling in this neighbourhood so long, and now you are pledging us to your idiotic fancy for ever. Ha ha! Ha ha!”
“Be reasonable! What are you doing, master of our destiny? We shall all be lost!”
A faction clamoured, “Anastasya!” Certain sense-sections attacked him in vulnerable spots with Anastasya’s voluptuous banner unfurled and fragrant.
He buffeted his way along, as though spray were dashing in his face, watchful behind his glasses. He met his thoughts with a contemptuous stiff veteran smile. This capricious and dangerous master had an offensive stylistic coolness, similar to Wellington breakfasting at Salamanca while Marmont hurried exultingly into traps; although he resembled his great countryman in no other way.
Those thoughts that bellowed, “Anastasya!” however, worried him. He answered them.
“Anastasya! Anastasya!! I know all about that! What do you take me for? You will still have your Anastasya. I am not selling myself or you. A man such as I does not dispose of himself in a case like this. I am going to marry Bertha Lunken. Well? Shall I be any the less my own master for that reason? If I want to sleep withAnastasya, I shall do so. Why marry Bertha Lunken, and shoulder all that semi-contagious muck? Because it is only the points or movements in life that matter, and one of those points indicates that course, namely, to keep faith with another person: and secretly to show my contempt for the world by choosing thepremier venuto be my body-servant and body-companion; my contempt for my body too.”
He sought to overcome his reasons by appeals to their corporate vanity.
He had experienced rather a wrench as regards Anastasya. The swanky sex with which he had ornamented his future could not be dismissed so easily. He was astonished that it could be dismissed at all, and asked himself the reason. He sacrificed Anastasya with a comparatively light heart. It was chiefly his vanity that gave trouble.
He came back to his earlier conclusions. Such successful people as Anastasya and himself were by themselves. It was as impossible to combine orwedthem as to compound the genius of two great artists. If you mixed together into one whole Gainsborough and Goya you would getnothing, for they would be mutually destructive. Beyond a certain point of perfection individual instinct was its own law. A subtle lyrical wail would gain nothing from living with a rough and powerful talent, or vice versa. Success is always personal. Co-operation, group-genius was, he was convinced, a slavish pretence and absurdity. Only when the group was so big that it became a person again, as with a nation, did you get mob-talent or popular art. This big, diffuse, vehement giant was the next best thing to the great artist; Patchin Tcherana coming just below.
He saw this quite clearly. He and Anastasya were a superfluity, and destructive conflict. It was like a mother being given a child to bear the same size already as herself. Anastasya was in every way too big; she was too big physically. But did not sex change the whole question, when it was awoman? He did not agree to this. Woman and the sexualsphere seemed to him to be an average from whicheverythingcame: from it everything rose, or attempted to rise. There was no mysterious opposition extending up into Heaven, and dividing Heavenly Beings into Gods and Goddesses. There was only one God, and he was a man. A woman was a lower form of life. Everything was female to begin with. A jellyish diffuseness spread itself and gaped on the beds and in thebas-fondsof everything. Above a certain level of life sex disappeared, just as in highly organized sensualism sex vanishes. And, on the other hand,everythingbeneath that line was female. Bard, Simpson, Mackenzie, Townsend, Annandale—he enumerated acquaintances evidently below the absolute line, and who displayed a lack of energy, permanently mesmeric state, and almost purely emotional reactions. He knew that everything on the superior side of that line was not purged of jellyish attributes; also that Anastasya’s flaccid and fundamental charms were formidable, although the line had been crossed by her. One thing was impressive, however. The loss of Anastasya did not worry him, except magnified through the legal acquisition of Bertha. What did hewant? Well, he did not want Anastasyaas much as he should. He was incorrigible, he concluded. He regarded the Anastasya evening as a sort of personal defeat even. The call of duty was nevertheless very strong. Heoughtto love Anastasya; and his present intentions as regards his despicable fiancée were a disgraceful betrayal, etc. etc. The mutterings of reason continued.
That evening he met Anastasya. The moment he saw her he realized the abysses of indignity and poorness he was flinging himself into with Bertha Lunken. A sudden humbleness entered him and put him out of conceit with his judgment, formed away from bright objects like Anastasya. The selfishness that caused his sentimentality when alone with Bertha was dissipated or not used in presence of more or less successful objects and people. None of his egowas required by his new woman. She possessed plenty of her own. This, he realized later, was the cause of his lack of attachment. He needed an empty vessel to flood with his vitality, and not an equal and foreign vitality to exist side by side with coldly. He had taken into sex theprocédésand selfish arrangements of life in general. He had humanized sex too much. He frequently admitted this, but with his defence lost sight of the flagrancy of the permanent fact.
He felt in Anastasya for the first time now an element of protection and safety. She was a touchwood and harbour from his perplexed interior life. She had a sort of ovation from him. All his obstinacy in favour of his fiancée had vanished. With Anastasya’s appearance an entirely different world was revealed that demanded completely new arguments.
They went to the same restaurant as the night before. He talked quietly, until they had drunk too much, and Bertha was not mentioned.
“And what of Bertha?” she asked finally.
“Never mind about Bertha.”
“Is she extinct?”
“No. She threatens an entirely new sort of eruption.”
“Oh. In what way new⸺?”
“It doesn’t matter. It won’t come our way.”
“Are you going there to-morrow?”
“I suppose I must. But I shall not make many more visits of⸺”
“What’s that?”
“I shall give up going, I say.” He shifted restlessly in his chair.
After breakfast next morning they parted, Tarr going back to work. Butcher, whom he had not seen for some days, came in. He agreed to go down into town and have lunch with him. Tarr put on a clean shirt. Talking to Butcher while he was changing, he stood behind his bedroom door. Men of ambitious physique, like himself, he had always noticed, wereinclined to puff themselves out or let their arms hang in a position favourable to their muscles while changing before another man. To avoid this embarrassment or absurdity, he made a point of never exhibiting himself unclothed.
His conversation with Butcher did not fall on matters in hand. As with Anastasya, he was unusually reticent. He had turned over a new leaf. He became rather alarmed at this himself when he realized it. After lunch he left Butcher and went to the Mairie of the Quartier du Paradis and made inquiries about civil marriages. He did it like a sleep-walker.
He was particularly amiable with Bertha that day, and told her of his activities at the Mairie and made an appointment with her there for the next day.
Daily, then, he proceeded with his marriage arrangements in the afternoons, saw Bertha regularly, but without modifying the changed “correctness” of his attitude. The evenings he spent with Anastasya.
By the time the marriage preliminaries had been gone through, and Bertha and he could finally be united, his relations with Anastasya had become as close as formerly his friendship with Bertha had been. With the exception of the time from three in the afternoon to seven in the evening that he took off every day to see his fiancée, he was with her.
On September 29. three weeks after Bertha had told him that she was pregnant, he married her—in the time between three in the afternoon and seven in the evening set aside for her. Anastasya knew nothing about these things. Neither Bertha nor she were seeing their German women friends for the moment.
After the marriage at the Mairie Bertha and Tarr walked back to the Luxembourg Gardens and sat down. She had not during the three intervening weeks mentioned Anastasya. It was no time forgenerosity; she had done too much of that. Fräulein Vasek was the last person for whom she felt inclined to revive chivalry. She let Tarr marry her out of pity, and never referred to his confidence about his other love.
They sat for some time without speaking, as though they had quarrelled. She said, then:
“I am afraid, Sorbert, I have been selfish⸺”
“You—selfish? How’s that? Don’t talk nonsense.” He had turned at once to her with a hurried fondness genuinely assumed.
She looked at him with her wistful, democratic face, full of effort and sentiment.
“You are very unhappy, Sorbert⸺”
He laughed convincingly.
“No, I’m all right. Don’t worry about me. I’m a little meditative. That is only natural on such a solemn occasion. I was thinking, Bertha, we must set up house somewhere, and announce our marriage. We must do this for appearance’ sake. You will soon be incapacitated⸺”
“Oh, I shan’t be just yet.”
“In any case, we have gone through this form because⸺We must make this move efficacious. What are your ideas as to an establishment? Let us take a flat together somewhere round here. The Rue Servandoni is a nice street. Do you know it?”
“No.” She put her head on one side and puckered up her forehead.
“Near the Luxembourg Museum.”
They discussed a possible domicile.
He got up.
“It’s rather chilly. Let’s get back.”
They walked for some time without speaking. So much unsaid had to be got rid of, without necessarily being said. Bertha did not know at all where she was. Their “establishment,” as discussed by Tarr, appeared very unreal, and also, what there was of it, disagreeable. She wondered what he was going to do with her.
“You remember what I said to you some weeks ago—about Anastasya Vasek. I am afraid there has been no change in that. You do not mind that?”
“No, Sorbert. You are perfectly free.”
“I am afraid I shall seem unkind. This is not a nice marriage for you. Perhaps I was wrong to suggest it?”
“How, wrong? I have not been complaining.”
They arrived at the iron gate.
“Well, I’d better not come up now. I will come along to-morrow—at the usual time.”
“Good-bye, Sorbert.A demain!”
“A demain!”
Anastasya and he were dining that night in Montmartre as usual. His piece of news hovered over their conversation like a bird hesitating as to the right spot at which to establish its nest.
“I saw Bertha to-day,” he said, forcing the opening at last.
“You still see her then.”
“Yes. I married her this afternoon.”
“Youwhat? What do you mean?”
“What I say, my dear. I married her.”
“You mean you⸺?” She put an imaginary ring on her finger.
“Yes. I married her at the Mairie.”
Anastasya looked blankly into him, as though he contained cheerless stretches where no living thing could grow.
“You mean to say you’ve done that!”
“Yes; I have.”
“Why?”
Tarr stopped a moment.
“Well, the alleged reason was that she is enceinte.”
“But—whose is the child?”
“Kreisler’s, she says.”
The statement, she saw, was genuine. He was telling her what he had been doing. They both immediately retired into themselves, she to distance and stow away their former dialogue and consider the meaning of this new fact; he to wait, his hand near his mouth holding a pipe, until she should have collected herself. But he began speaking first:
“Things are exactly the same as before. I was bound to do that. I had allowed her to consider herself engaged a year ago, and had to keep to that. I have merely gone back a year into the past and fulfilled a pledge, and now return to you. All is in perfect order.”
“All isnotin perfect order. It is Kreisler’s child to begin with, you say⸺”
“Yes, but it would be very mean to use that fact to justify one in escaping from an obligation.”
“That is sentimentality.”
“Sentimentality! Sentimentality! Cannotwe, you and I, afford to give Berthathat? Sentimentality! What an absurd word that is with its fierce use in our poor modern hands! What does it mean? Has life become such an affair of economic calculation that men are too timid to allow themselves any complicated pleasures? Where there is abundance you can afford waste. Sentimentality is a cry on a level with the Simple Life! The ideal of perfect success is an ideal belonging to the same sort of individual as the inventor of Equal Rights of Man and Perfectibility. Sentimentality is aprivilege. It is a luxury that the crowd does not feel itself equal to, once it begins to think about it. Besides, it is different in different hands.”
“That may be true as regards sentimentality in general. But in this case you have been guilty of a popular softness⸺”
“No. Listen. I will explain something to you You said a moment ago that it wasKreisler’schild. Well, that is my security! Thatenablesme to commit this folly, without too great danger. It is anearnest of the altruistic origin of the action not being forgotten!”
“Butthat—to return toyourwords—is surely a very mean calculation?”
“Therefore it takes the softness out of the generous action it is allied to⸺”
“No. It takes itsraison d’êtreaway altogether. It leaves it merely a stupid and unnecessary fact. It cancels the generosity, but leaves the fact—your marriage.”
“But thefact itselfis altered by that!”
“In what way? You are now married to Bertha⸺”
“Yes, but what does that mean? I married Bertha this afternoon, and here I am punctually and as usual with you this evening⸺”
“But the fact of your having married Bertha this afternoon will prevent your making any one else your wife in the future. Supposing I had a child byyou—not by Kreisler—it would be impossible to legitimatize him. The thing is of no importance in itself. But you have given Kreisler’s child what you should have kept for your own! What’s the good of giving your sex over into the hands of a swanky expert, as you describe it, if you continue to act on your own initiative? I throw up my job.Garçon, l’addition!”
But a move to the café opposite satisfied her as a demonstration. Tarr was sure of her, and remained passive. She extorted a promise from him: to conduct no more obscure diplomacies in the future.
Bertha and Tarr took a flat in the Boulevard Port Royal, not far from the Jardin des Plantes. They gave a party to which Fräulein Lipmann and a good many other people came. He maintained the rule of four to seven, roughly, for Bertha, with the utmost punctiliousness. Anastasya and Bertha did not meet.
Bertha’s child came, and absorbed her energies for upwards of a year. It bore some resemblance to Tarr. Tarr’s afternoon visits became less frequent.He lived now publicly with his illicit and splendid bride.
Two years after the birth of the child, Bertha divorced Tarr. She then married an eye-doctor, and lived with a brooding severity in his company and that of her only child.
Tarr and Anastasya did not marry. They had no children. Tarr, however, had three children by a lady of the name of Rose Fawcett, who consoled him eventually for the splendours of his “perfect woman.” But yet beyond the dim though solid figure of Rose Fawcett, another rises. This one represents the swing-back of the pendulum once more to the swagger side. The cheerless and stodgy absurdity of Rose Fawcett required the painted, fine and inquiring face of Prism Dirkes.
THE END
The artists of this country make the following plain and pressing appeal to their fellow-citizens. I have heard them in the places where they meet.
(1) That in these tragic days when the forces of the nation, of intellect, of character, are being tested, they should grant more freedom to the artists and thinkers to develop their visions and ideas. That they should make an effort of sympathy. That the maudlin and the self-defensive Grin should be dropped.
(2) That the Englishman should become ashamed of his Grin as he is at present ashamed of solemnity. That he should cease to be ashamed of his “feelings”: then he would automatically become less proud of his Grin.
(3) That he should remember that seriousness and unsentimentality are quite compatible. Whereas a Grin usually accompanies loose emotionality.
(4) That in “facing the facts of existence” as he is at present compelled to do, he should allow artists to economize time in not having to circumvent and get round those facts, but to use them simply and directly.
(5) That he should restrain his vanity, and not always imagine that his leg is being pulled. A symbolism is of the nature of all human effort. There is no necessity to be literal to be in earnest. Humour, even, may be a symbol. The recognizing of a few simple facts of that sort would help much.
In these onslaughts on Humour I am not suggesting that anybody should laugh less over his beer orwine or forgo the consolation of the ridiculous. There are circumstances when it is a blessing. But theworship of the ridiculousis the thing that should be forgone. The worship (or craze, we call it) of Charlie Chaplin is a mad substitution of a chaotic tickling for all the other more organically important ticklings of life.
Nor do I mean here that you or I, if we are above suspicion in the matter of those other fundamentals, should not allow ourselves the little scurvy totem of Charlie on the mantlepiece. It is not a grinning face we object to but a face that is mean when it is serious and that takes to its grin as a duck takes to water. We must stop grinning. You will say that I do not practise what I preach. I do: for if you look closely at my grin you will perceive that it is a very logical and deliberate grimace.
P. Wyndham Lewis
1915
PRINTED AT THE COMPLETE PRESS, WEST NORWOOD, LONDON
Transcriber’s NoteObvious typographical errors have been corrected. By comparison with a later version of the book, the following changes to the text were made:Page 33, changed “cold” to “hot” (hot if you are cold)Page 43, “à” added (Vous êtes à mon goût)Page 145, changed “Schensal” to “Scheusal” twice, and again onpage 180.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. By comparison with a later version of the book, the following changes to the text were made:
Page 33, changed “cold” to “hot” (hot if you are cold)
Page 43, “à” added (Vous êtes à mon goût)
Page 145, changed “Schensal” to “Scheusal” twice, and again onpage 180.