You do not love me, Monsieur Leon.  I would give my life were it otherwise; but you do not love me.  Your letter has been written in a moment of impulse and despair.  From the first instant of meeting you in Berlin I noticed that you were neither well in body nor easy in your mind, and it troubled me; the best proof of this is that although you had wished me good-by, I sent every day to the hotel inquiring whether you had gone, until I was told you were ill.  Afterwards, nursing you in your illness, I became convinced that my second fear had been also right, and that you had some hidden sorrow, one of those painful disappointments, after which it is difficult to be reconciled to life.

Now I have a conviction—­and God knows how heavily it weighs upon my heart—­that you want to bind your life to mine in order to drown certain memories, to forget and put a barrier between you and the past.  In the face of that is it possible that I could agree to what you ask?  In refusing your hand, the worst that can happen to me is that I shall feel very unhappy, but I shall not have to reproach myself with having become a burden and a dead weight upon you.  I have loved you from the first time we met, therefore it is nothing new to me; and I have got used to the sorrow which is the inevitable consequence of separation and the hopeless certainty that my love will never be returned.  But even if my life be sad, I can weep either with tears in the usual woman-fashion, or through my music as an artist.  I shall always have that comfort at least, that when you think of me it will be as a dear friend or sister.  With this I can live.  But if I were your wife and came to see that you regretted your impulsiveness, were not happy, perhaps learned to hate me, I should certainly die.  Besides, I say to myself:  “What have you done to deserve such happiness?” It is almost impossible to imagine perfect happiness.  Can you understand that one may love somebody with all one’s heart in a humble spirit?  I can understand it, for I love thus.

What I am going to say seems to me overbold, yet I do not feel it in my heart to give up hope altogether.  Do not be angry with me; God is merciful, and the human soul is so athirst for happiness that it would fain leave a door open for it to enter.  If you ask me again in half a year, a year, or any time in life the same question, I shall consider myself rewarded for all I have suffered, and for the tears I am shedding even at this moment.

Clara.

There is within me something that is keenly conscious and can appreciate every word of this noble letter.  Not a syllable is lost to me, and I say to myself:  “All the more reason for asking her again; she is so honest, simple, and loving.”  But there is also that other self, very tired, who had all the strength taken out of him, who can give sympathy but no love; because he has staked his all upon one feeling, and sees clearly that for him there is no return.