I almost wish I could enclose the sky and clouds within a wall and make them mine. In Richard's house in the Old Market I never felt at home. Yet when I left it I felt as though all my nerves were being torn from my body. Joergen Malthe is the man I love; but apart from that he is a stranger to me. We do not think or feel alike. He has his world and I have mine.
How can I ask to have them back without seeming rude? Joergen was used to them; he will miss them at once. I have had out all my dresses, but I cannot make up my mind what to wear. I cannot appear in the morning in a dinner dress, and a white frock at my age!... After all, why not?... The white embroidered one ... it fits beautifully.
The silence is so intense that I can hear when a fish rises or a bird stirs in its nest. The scent of the red roses that blossomed yesterday ascends to my window here.... Joergen Malthe.... When I write his name it is as though I gave him one of those caressing touches for which my fingers yearn and quiver.... Yes, a dip in the sea will calm me.
At the end of a year's happiness he left her; and society, far from pitying her, laughed at her plight. This drove me to make my supreme resolve to abandon, and flee from, the one love of my life. Joergen, I owe you the best hours I have known: those hours in which you showed me the plans for the "White Villa."
The woman of ardent temperament knows how to appear reserved with a lover who is not too emotional; while a cold woman can assume a passionate air when necessary. I, Joergen, I, who for years cared for no one but myself, have left Richard firmly convinced to this day that I was greedy of his caresses. You are an honest man, and what I have been telling you will come as a shock.
This young student, later Pastor Joergen Lund, had a remarkable gift for mathematics, and gave his instruction with a lucidity, a fire, and a swing that carried his hearers with him. I, who had never before been able to understand a word of the subject, became keenly interested in it, and before many lessons were over was very well up in it.
But all my powers of resistance are shattered by this one truth: I love. For the first and only time in my life. Therefore I implore you to come to me; but now, at once. Do not wait a week or a month. My lime trees are fragrant with blossom. I want you, Joergen, now, while the limes are flowering. Then, what you ask of me shall be done.
What does it matter to me? I would far rather they wrote: "To-day a motor-car ran over Joergen Malthe and killed him on the spot." I have arrived at that stage. But to-night I will not think about him; I would rather try to write to Magna Wellmann. I may be of some use to her. In any case I will tell her things that it will do her good to hear. She is one of those who take life hard.
I was a different woman with you. A real, living creature lived and breathed behind the mask. You taught me to live. You looked into my eyes, and heard my real laughter. How many hours we spent together, Joergen, you and I! But we did not talk much; we never came to the exchange of ideas. I hardly remember anything you ever said; although I often try to recall your words.
After the obligatory goose, and the inevitable Christmas dishes, I spent the evening reading the letters with which "my friends" honour me punctiliously. Without seeing the handwriting, or the signature, I could name from the contents alone the writer of each one of them. They all write about the honours which have befallen Joergen Malthe: a hospital here; a palace of archives there.