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Updated: May 31, 2025
The nun renounces all will and responsibility, while I cannot give up one or the other. I have reached this point, however; only that which is bounded by my garden hedge seems to me really worthy of consideration. The house in the Old Market Place may be burnt down for all I care. Richard may marry again. Malthe may....
The stars above reckon by ages, not by years, and sometimes I smile to think that as soon as Richard returns home, the rooms in our house in the Old Market will be lit up, and the usual set will assemble there without me. The one thing I should like to know is whether Malthe is still in Denmark. I would like to know where my thoughts should seek him at home or abroad.
That the ancients could, however, do very villainous things, may be seen on a visit paid to the church of S. Jean de Malthe. It has a square east end, is an edifice of the thirteenth century, with a tower of the fourteenth and fifteenth.
She wishes me every happiness, and assures me she will take Malthe under her motherly wing. "He is quiet and taciturn, but fortunately much engrossed with his plans for the new hospital which will keep him in Denmark for some years to come." His work absorbs him; he is young enough to forget.
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....
Richard went as white as a sheet when I asked him whether my society no longer sufficed for him.... I cannot understand how any grown-up man can take a girl of seventeen seriously. They irritate me beyond measure. Malthe has come back from Vienna, they tell me. I did not know he had been to Vienna. I thought all this time he had been at Copenhagen. It is strange how this news has upset me.
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.
We passed through a considerable number of ships and vessels lying at anchor, and landing at the water-gate, repaired to an inn called La Croix de Malthe in the neighbourhood of the harbour. Here we met with such good entertainment as prepossessed us in favour of the interior parts of Italy, and contributed with other motives to detain us some days in this city.
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.
La Montagne d'Or is a lovely hill above the town, and I am told that many English families reside upon it, but we have no time to make minute enquiries. L'Hotel de la Croix de Malthe affords excellent accommodations within, and a delightful prospect without. The Baths too have attracted my notice much, and will, I hope, repair my strength, so as to make me no troublesome fellow-traveller.
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