Do you wonder at my writing all this? You would
not if you understood. It is so hard for me to
keep any joy in my heart, and I get tired of repeated
failures, that is all. I thought I must write
you this, and have it over with. This is the style
of letter I have always torn up, but this time it
goes. I think I will practice the piano now,
and try to get some gladness into my soul again.
MY DEAR, DEAR THYRSIS:
There is a dreadful sort of letter which I wrote you
last night which I haven’t sent you yet.
I have been studying, or trying to most of the day,
and my mind has wandered most painfully. There
were two days in which I seemed to have hold of myself,
but with an effort that was a fearful strain.
I must try so, that it almost kills me, if I wish
to accomplish even a little of what I ought.
The heat here is almost insupportable, it is stifling,
and I spent an hour or so in the water this afternoon.
And the thought is always torture to me—that
you are accomplishing so much more than I! I
was thinking of your letters to-night, and I recalled
some words that seemed to speak more of your love for
me. Oh, Thyrsis, if your letters are fiery and
passionate, is it for love of me that they
are? I’m almost afraid at times, when I
read your letters—when you tell me of the
kind of woman you want to love.
I at present am certainly not she. And do you
know that when we are married we shall be united forever?
I don’t know why I write you these things, they
are not at all inspiring thoughts to me.
And yet I was able to go in swimming this afternoon,
and forget everything and frolic around as happily
as any water-baby!
MY DEAR CORYDON:
I came off to write my poem, but I have been thinking
about you, and I must write a long letter. It
is one of the kind that you do not like.
In the first place, you complain of the contradictions
in my letters. I am sorry. I live so, struggling
always with what is not best in me, and continually
falling down. Also, in this matter I am an utter
stranger, groping my way; and there is an element of
passion in it, a dangerous element, which leads me
continually astray.
I can only say that in my ideal of love, which is
utter love and spiritual love, I think of living my
life with you in entire nakedness of soul. Therefore,
I shall always be before you exactly as I should be
by myself. And I shall write you now exactly what
I have been thinking, what is hard and unkind in it,
as well as the rest. You will learn to know me
as a man far from perfect, often going astray himself,
often feeling wrong things, often leading you astray
and making you wretched. But behind all this there
is the thing often lost sight of, but always present—the
iron duty that I have, and the force in me which drives
me to it.
