Now, I don’t know what you will think about
this letter—and I don’t care.
It is here—and you must take it. It
does not come to you for criticism, any more than
it would come for criticism to the world. It
will rule the world. If I marry you I must live
all my soul before you, and you must share it; if
you think you can do this without first having suffered,
having first torn loose your own crushed self, you
are mistaken. But remember this—I shall
demand from you just as much fire as I give; you may
say you cannot, you may weep and say you cannot—I
will gnash my teeth at you and say you must.
Perhaps I’m a fool to think I can do this.
At any rate, I don’t want to do anything else;
I am a fool to think of doing anything else, and you
to let me.
I cannot be false to my art without having
a reaction of disgust, and you cannot marry me, unless
you understand that. When I sat down to this
letter I called myself mad for trying to tie my life
to yours. Now I am interested in you again.
You may wish to make this cast still; and oh, of course
I shall drop back as usual, and you’ll be happy,
and I’ll be your “Romeo”!
Ugh—how I hated that letter! "Romeo"
indeed! Wouldn’t we have a fine sentimental
time—you with your prettiest dress on, and
I holding you in my arms and telling you how much
I loved you!
MY DEAR THYRSIS:
I shall be your wife. This thought takes hold
of me firmly and calmly, and I have no tears, nor
fright, nor uncertainty. I suffered, of course,
while I read your letter, and my self-control toppled,
but no “tears of despair” came into my
eyes. I am not despairing—I shall
be your wife, and I shall feel that for many years
one of my greatest efforts will be to prevent you from
becoming my “Romeo.” I am very weak
and human, and you become that easily—do
you know it?
Rejoice, I have gained my self-control, and well,
I am going to be your wife. Or else (it comes
to me quite as a matter of course, without any feeling
of it being unnatural or unusual) I shall not care
to live. But after all, I do not fear that I shall
die—I shall be your wife. You may
even gainsay it, you may even tell me I shall
ruin your life, you may even tell me that you
refuse to take me—but sooner or later I
shall be your wife. I say it with perfect certainty,
and almost composure.
It is unfortunate that at such a time as this I cannot
see you—it is quite cruelly wicked.
There is so much to say, not all in your favor
either. Some day I shall learn to bring out and
keep before me that higher self of yours, which now
I do not fear. I also have a higher self, though
it does not show itself very often. It is a self
which can meet that self of yours without flinching,
but which loves it, and stretches out its arms to
it—which knows that without that self of
yours it cannot, will not live. It is hard
to realize such a thing, but I beseech you no longer,
I am going with you. You see now, I have no fear
of your not taking me—I simply have no fear
of this.
