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.