At this hour there will be festivities in the Old Market Place.
Richard's last letter touched me profoundly; something within me went
out toward his honest nature....
What is the use of all these falsehoods? I long for an embrace. Is that
shocking? We women are so wrapped in deceit that we feel ashamed of
confessing such things. Yet it is true, I miss Richard. Not the husband
or companion, but the lover.
What use in trying to soothe my senses by walking for hours through the
silent woods.
Lillie, in the innocence of her heart, sent me a tiny Christmas tree,
decorated by herself and her lanky daughters. Sweets and little presents
are suspended from the branches. She treats me like a child, or a sick
person.
Well, let it be so! Lillie must never have the vexation of learning that
I detested her girls simply because they represented the youthful
generation which sooner or later must supplant me.
I have made good use of my eyes, and I know what I have seen: the same
enmity exists between two generations as between the sexes.
While the young folk in their arrogant cruelty laugh at us who are
growing old, we, in our turn, amuse ourselves by making fun of them. If
women could buy back their lost youth by the blood of those nearest and
dearest to them, what crimes the world would witness!
How I used to hate Richard when I saw him so completely at his ease
among young people, and able to take them so seriously.
* * * * *
Christmas Eve! In honour of Jeanne, I put on one of my very best
frocks--Paquin. Moreover, I have decorated myself with rings and chains
as though I were a silly Christmas Tree myself.
Jeanne has enjoyed herself to-day. She and Torp rose before it was light
to deck the rooms with pine branches. Over the verandah waves the
Swedish flag, which Torp generally suspends above her bed, in
remembrance of Heaven knows who. I gave myself the pleasure of
surprising Jeanne, by bestowing upon her my green _crêpe de Chine_. In
future grey and black will be my only wear.
After the obligatory goose, and the inevitable Christmas dishes, I spent
the evening reading the letters with which "my friends" honour me
punctiliously.
Without seeing the handwriting, or the signature, I could name from the
contents alone the writer of each one of them. They all write about the
honours which have befallen Joergen Malthe: a hospital here; a palace of
archives there. What does it matter to me? I would far rather they
wrote: "To-day a motor-car ran over Joergen Malthe and killed him on the
spot."