real ground of
hysteria? I used to think it was the special malady of the unmated
woman; but, in later years, I have known many who had had a full share
of the passional life, legitimate and otherwise, and yet still suffered
from hysteria.

* * * * *

I begin to realise the fascination of the cloister; the calm, uniform,
benumbing existence. But my comparison does not apply. 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....

Yes, I think I could receive the news in silence like the monk to whom
the prior announces, "One of the brethren is dead, pray for his soul."
No one present knows, nor will ever know, whether his own brother or
father has passed away.

What hopeless cowardice prevents my opening his letter!

EVENING.

Somebody should found a vast and cheerful sisterhood for women between
forty and fifty; a kind of refuge for the victims of the years of
transition. For during that time women would be happier in voluntary
exile, or at any rate entirely separated from the other sex.

Since all are suffering from the same trouble, they might help each
other to make life, not only endurable, but harmonious. We are all more
or less mad then, although we struggle to make others think us sane.

I say "we," though I am not of their number--in age, perhaps, but not in
temperament. Nevertheless I hear the stealthy footsteps of the
approaching years. By good fortune, or calculation, I have preserved my
youthful appearance, but it has cost me dear to economise my emotions.

Old age, in truth, is only a goal to be foreseen. A mountain to be
climbed; a peak from which to see life from every side--provided we
have not been blinded by snowfalls on the way. I do not fear old age;
only the hard ascent to it has terrors for me. The day, the hour, when
we realise that something has gone from our lives; when the cry of our
heart provokes laughter in others!

To all of us women comes a time in life when we believe we can conquer
or deceive time. But soon we learn how unequal is the struggle. We all
come to it in the end.

Then we grow anxious. Anxious at the coming of day; still more anx