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If only you knew what goes on within me, and how low I have sunk that I can write this confession! There are thoughts that a woman can never reveal to the man she loves even if her own life and his were at stake.... It is night. The stars are bright overhead. Joergen Malthe, why have I written all this to you?... What do I really want of you?... No, no!... never in this world....
I carefully strip the bark from each log before throwing it on the flames. The smell of burning birch-bark goes to my head like strong wine. Dreams come and go. Joergen Malthe, what a mere boy you are! The garden looks like a neglected churchyard, forgotten of the living. The virginia creeper falls in blood-red streamers from the verandah.
Joergen Malthe paid me a flying visit last week. Business brought him into the neighbourhood, and he called unexpectedly and spent an hour with me. I must say he has altered, and not for the better. I hope he will not wear himself out prematurely with all his work. If you should see him, do not say I mentioned his visit. It was rather painful. He was shy, and I, too, was nervous.
We will travel a great deal, Joergen and I. Hitherto I have seen nothing on my many trips abroad. Joergen must show me the world. We will visit all the places he once went to alone. Now I understand the doubting apostle Thomas. Until my eyes behold I dare not believe. Joergen has such a big powerful head! I sometimes feel as though I were clasping it with both my hands.
I do not understand the male sex, and this must be my excuse for the way in which I have so often treated men. For me there was, and is, only one man in the world: Joergen Malthe. At first I never gave a thought to the difference in our ages. We were both young then. But you were poor. No one, least of all myself, guessed that you carried a field-marshal's baton in your knapsack.
The fog seems to have affected our wits. I have lit every lamp and candle, and they flicker fitfully, like Jeanne's eyes. The fog is getting more and more dense. Jeanne is sitting on the sofa, her hand pressed to her heart, and I seem to hear it beating, even from here. I feel as though some one were dying near me here in the room. Joergen, is it you? Answer me, is it you? Ah!
Joergen Malthe, I would gladly confide in you, but it is impossible. Call it madness, or what you will, but I cannot allow any human being to penetrate my inner life.
I am like a criminal who has had recourse to every deceit to avoid confession, but whose strength gives way at last under the pressure of threats and torture, and who finds unspeakable relief in declaring his guilt. Joergen Malthe, I have loved you for the last ten years; as long, in fact, as you have loved me. I lied to you when I denied it; but my heart has been faithful all through.
But you were too honourable even to cherish the thought. Besides, I let you suppose I was attached to my husband.... I knew well enough that the moment you became aware of my feelings for you, you would leave no stone unturned until you could legitimately claim me as your wife.... Such is your nature, Joergen Malthe! So I let happiness go by.
As Joergen Lund taught mathematics, so all the other subjects ought to have been taught. We were obliged to be content with less. Lessons might have been a pleasure. They never were, or rather, only the Danish ones. But in childhood's years, and during the first years of boyhood they were fertilising. As a boy they hung over me like a dread compulsion; yet the compulsion was beneficial.
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