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.
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