There was a gaily colored flood of monstrous, tempting, terrible, enigmatical goings-on, things such as the slaughter house and prison,
drunken men and scolding women, cows in birth-throes, plunging horses, tales of burglaries, murders, suicides.
All these beautiful and dreadful, wild and cruel things were round about, in the next street, in the next house.
Policemen and tramps passed to and fro, drunken men beat their wives, crowds of young girls flowed out of factories in the evening,
old women were able to bewitch you and make you ill, robbers dwelt in the wood, incendiaries were rounded up by mounted policemen—
everywhere seethed and reeked this second, passionate world, everywhere, except in our rooms, where mother and father were.
And that was a good thing. It was wonderful that here in our house there were peace, order and repose, duty and a good conscience, pardon and love—
and wonderful that there were also all the other things, all that was loud and shrill, sinister and violent,
yet from which one could escape with one bound to mother.
And the oddest thing was, how closely the two worlds bordered each other, how near they both were!
For instance, our servant Lina, as she sat by the sitting-room door at evening prayers, and sang the hymn with her bright voice,
her freshly washed hands laid on her smoothed-out apron, belonged absolutely to father and mother, to us, to what was bright and proper.
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