I am now sure that, even if the difference in our
ages did not exist, I could never marry Malthe.
I could do foolish, even mean things for the sake of the one man I have
loved with all my heart. I could humble myself to be his mistress; I
could die with him. But set up a home with Joergen Malthe--never!
The terrible part of home life is that every piece of furniture in the
house forms a link in the chain which binds two married people long
after love has died out--if, indeed, it ever existed between them. Two
human beings--who differ as much as two human beings always must do--are
compelled to adopt the same tastes, the same outlook. The home is built
upon this incessant conflict. The struggle often goes on in silence, but
it is not the less bitter, even when concealed.
How often Richard and I gave way to each other with a consideration
masking an annoyance that rankled more than a violent quarrel would have
done.... What a profound contempt I felt for his tastes; and, without
saying it in words, how he disapproved of mine!
No! His home was not mine, although we lived in it like an ideal couple,
at one on all points.
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