else will ever
read my words; and yet I am not quite sincere, even with myself.

Life has passed me by; my hands are empty; now it is too late.

Once happiness knocked at my door, and I, poor fool, did not rise to
welcome it.

I envy every country wench or servant girl who goes off with a lover.
But I sit here waiting for old age.

Astrid Bagge.... As I write her name, I feel as though she were standing
weeping behind my back; I feel her tears dropping on my neck. I cannot
weep--but how I long for tears!

* * * * *

Autumn! Torp has made a huge fire of logs in the open grate. The burning
wood gives out an intoxicating perfume and fills the house with cosey
warmth. For want of something better to do I am looking after the fire
myself. 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. The
snails drag themselves along in the rain; their slow movements remind me
of women _enceinte_. The hedge is covered with spiders' webs, and the
wet clay sticks to one's shoes as one walks on the paths.

Yet there are people who think autumn a beautiful time of year!

* * * * *

My will is paralysed from self-disgust. I find myself involuntarily
listening and watching for the postman, who brings nothing for me. There
are moments when my fingers seem to be feeling the smoothness of the
cream-laid "At Home" cards which used to be showered upon us, especially
at this season. Towards evening I grow restless. Formerly my day was a
_crescendo_ of activity until the social hours were reached. Now the
hours fall one by one in ashes before my eyes.

I am myself, yet not myself. There are moments when I envy every living
creature that has the right to pair--either from hate or from habit. I
am alone and shut out. What consolation is it to be able to say: "It was
my own choice!"

* * * * *

A letter from Malthe.

No, I will not open it. I do not wish to know what he writes.... It is
a long letter.

* * * * *

My nerves are quiet. But I often lie awake, and my sleep is broken.