In the middle of the Summer of 1867 I was as though possessed
by the thought that she and I ought to be united.
The simplest objection of all, namely, that I, who was scarcely able to
support myself, could not possibly support a wife, seemed to me
altogether subordinate. My motives were purely chivalric; I could not
leave her in the lurch, as the miserable hero of Andersen's _Only a
Player_ did Noomi. And a vision of her compelling loveliness hovered
before my eyes.
The whole of the month of July and part of the month of August I was on
the rack, now passionately desiring a successful issue of my plans, now
hoping just as ardently that they would be stranded through the
opposition of the foreign family; for I was compelled to admit to myself
that the beautiful Spaniard would be very unsuited to Copenhagen, would
freeze there, mentally as well as literally. And I said to myself every
day that supposing the war expected in Denmark were to break out again,
and the young men were summoned to arms, the most insignificant little
Danish girl would make me a better Valkyrie; all my feelings would be
foreign to her, and possibly she would not even be able to learn Danish.
Any other woman would understand more of my mind than she. And yet! Yet
she was the only one for me.
Thus I was swayed by opposing wishes the whole of the long time during
which the matter was pending and uncertain.
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