I shall never forget the one visit I paid to the Russian baths and the sight of Hilda Bang.  Clothed, she presents rather a fine appearance, with a good figure; but seen amid the warm steam, in nature’s garb, she seemed horrible.

I would rather walk through an avenue of naked men than appear before another woman without clothes.  This feeling does not spring from modesty—­what is it?

* * * * *

How quiet it is here!  Only on Wednesdays and Saturdays the steamer for England goes by.  I know its coming by the sound of the screw, but I take care never to see it pass.  What if I were seized with an impulse to embark on her....

If one fine morning when Jeanne brought the tea she found the bird flown?

The time is gone by.  Life is over.

I am getting used to sitting here and stitching at my seam.  My work does not amount to much, but the mechanical movement brings a kind of restfulness.

I find I am getting rather capricious.  Between meals I ring two or three times a day for tea—­like a convalescent trying a fattening cure.  Jeanne attends to my hair with indefatigable care.  Without her, should I ever trouble to do it at all?

What can any human being want more than this peace and silence?

* * * * *

If I could only lose this sense of being empty-handed, all would be well.  Yesterday I went down to the seashore and gathered little pebbles.  I carried them away and amused myself by taking them up in handfuls.  During the night I felt impelled to get up and fetch them, and this morning I awoke with a round stone in each hand.

Hysteria takes strange forms.  But who knows what is the real ground of hysteria?  I used to think it was the special malady of the unmated woman; but, in later years, I have known many who had had a full share of the passional life, legitimate and otherwise, and yet still suffered from hysteria.

* * * * *

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.