XXX 
  
THE ROPE 
  
TO EDOUARD MANET 
  
  
ILLUSIONS, my friend was saying, are per-
haps as innumerable as the relations of men 
between themselves or those of men with 
things; and when illusion disappears, that is to 
say, when we see the being or the fact as it 
exists outside ourselves, we experience a curi-
ous sentiment; complex, half of regret for the 
vanished phantom, half of pleased surprise at 
the novelty before the actual fact. If there be 
one evident, trivial phenomenon invariably like 
itself, and about whose nature it is impossible 
to make a mistake, it is maternal love. It is as 
difficult to suppose a mother without maternal 
love as light without heat; is it not then per-
fectly legitimate to attribute to maternal love 
all those words and actions which a mother 
says or does in the matter of her child? And 
yet, listen to this little story; where I was 
strangely mystified by the most natural illusion 
possible.