“That will do, Cordt.”
“Then there is the man who tells his fair friends that he has only loved one woman in his life and that is his mother. Have you ever observed the part which the mother plays in these worn-out men’s imaginations? In their books ... in their love ... she is the emblem for their morning head-aches, their impotent compunctions. Her business it is to soothe their worm-eaten thoughts ... they whisper her name while they kiss their lady-loves. I don’t know which is the greater insult: that offered to the mother or to the mistress.”
Fru Adelheid tried to rise, but just then he passed so close to her that she could not move. So she remained sitting, weary and racked, and he went round the room and stopped here and there while he spoke:
“These are the men to whom our wives belong,” he said. “And they do not take them away, so that we can bemoan their loss and get new wives in their stead. They are content to nibble the crest of the tree of love, which we have planted in our garden, and to leave it to stand and thrive as best it can.”
Fru Adelheid stood up before him with moist eyes and quivering lips:
“Cordt!”
But Cordt’s face was white with anger and she could not find a word to say.
“Do I amuse you, Adelheid?” he asked.
She went to her place by the chimney and sat down again: