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.
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