I think of you, and at times when my soul is afire, I imagine I can do anything. I see that you are helpless, but I think that I can change your whole being, and _make_ you what I wish. But then that feeling dies out, and I think of you as you _are_, and with despair. I do not allude to any of your "deficiencies"--music, learning, and other stuff. I mean your life-force, or your lack of it. I see that you have learned nothing of the unspeakable, unattainable thing for which I am panting. And it has come to me that I dare not marry you, that I should be binding my life to ruin. My head is surging with plans, and a whole infinity of future, and I simply cannot carry any woman with me on this journey.

As I say this, I see the tears of despair in your eyes. I can only tell you what I am--G.o.d made me for an _artist,_ not a _lover!_ I have not deep feelings--I do not care for human suffering; I can _work,_ that is all. Art is no respecter of persons, and neither am I--I labor for something which is not of self, and requires denial of self. And as I think about you, the feeling comes to me that it is not this you want, that I should make you utterly wretched if I married you. You love _love;_ you do not wish to fling yourself into a struggle such as my life must be. I see that in all your letters--your terror of this highest self of mine. If you married me, you would have to fight a battle that would almost kill you. You would have to wear your heart out, night and day--you would have to lose yourself and your feelings--fling away everything, and live in self-contempt and effort.

You would have to know it--I can't help it--that I love life, and that to human hearts I owe no allegiance; that to me they are simply impatience and vexation.

Do you want such a life? If you can learn to love it for what it is--a wild, unnatural, but royal life--very well. If you are coming to me with pleading eyes, secretly wishing for affection, and in terror of me when you don't get it, then G.o.d help you, that is all!

You are a child, and you can not dream what I mean. But every day I learn something more of a great savage force of mine, that will stand out against the rest of this world, that is burning me up, that is driving me mad. One of two things it will do to you--it will make you the same kind of creature, or it will tear the soul out of you. Do you understand that? And nothing will stop it--it cares for nothing in the world but the utterance of itself! And if you wish to marry me, it will be with no promise of mine save to wreak it upon you! To take you, and make you just such a creature, kill or cure--nothing else! Not one instant's patience--but just one insistent, frantic demand that you succeed--and fiery, writhing disgust with you when you do not succeed--disgust that will make you scream--and make you live! Do you understand this--and do you get any idea of the temper behind this? And how it seems to you, I don't know--it is the only kind of truth I am capable of; I shall simply fling naked the force of my pa.s.sionate, raging will, and punish you with it each instant of your life--until you understand it, and love it, and worship it, as I do.

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!

x.x.xIV

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.

If I had, I could not write you this way. But you have been the means of showing me I _can_ awaken, and that I was not meant to live the life of the people around me. Chance tried hard to put me to sleep forever, but you have roused me. Dear me, how I smile to myself at my confidence!

But I am so sure--this feeling would not be in my heart if it had no meaning! I was not meant for this life I am leading. I am not afraid because I have no proof that I am a genius, and no prospect of being one at present. I do not know whether what you have must come as an inspiration direct from G.o.d, I do not know whether I am _capable_ of winning any of this life that you are seeking; but I do know this--I'm going to have the chance to try, and you are going to give it to me. Do you suppose I could tell you that I am willing to stay at home and let you leave me?

I have not even any fear now of your wishing to leave me. Why, I wouldn't hold my life at a pennyworth if you were out of it!

"You are my only means of breathing, you fool," I thought. I sometimes wonder how you could think of leaving me, when I feel as I do at present. I ask myself why it is that you know nothing of it, and why it does not make you put out your hand in gladness to me--how you could write me that all my letters showed you I did not want to struggle to lead your life!

My words are failing me now--this is probably the reason you know nothing about me.

Besides, when I have written you before this, I have been worrying and doubting and afraid. I am none of these now; and I do not believe I am deluding myself--in fact I _know_ I am not. _I shall be your wife._ It is indeed a pity I cannot talk to you now--yes, a very great pity. It is also rather incomprehensible, that you can imagine leaving me _now._ And all my letters have told you that I wish to be petted and cuddled, did they? If you were here, I do not know that it would do any good to give my feelings vent, it would profit me nothing to strike you, and what could I do? I cannot hate you--it is not natural that one should hate one's husband.

Some day, oh, _some_ day, I tell myself--you will no lonnger play and trifle with me and my soul!

Did you really think you are going to put me to sleep again? Surely my life is something; and you have given me some reason for its existence.

I can hardly tell you what I wish to say; people run in and out, and I am bothered--I suppose this is one of my tasks. But do you not see that you have taken the responsibility of a soul into your hands? I cannot live without you. What is it--do creatures go around the world struggling and saying they must live, and are they only pitiful fools for trying?

And are you one of G.o.d's chosen ones? Will you tell me, "Corydon, you simply cannot live my life--you are not fit?" Dear Thyrsis, I actually believe that if you should tell me that now, I should laugh with joy, for I would see that I had gained one victory, that of proving to you your own weakness and stupidity. And I should not let you discourage me.

I should throw my arms around your neck, and cling to you until you had promised to take me. After all, it is a small boon to ask the privilege of trying to live, it cannot but be a glory to you to help me; and if I do not make you waste your time or money, how can I hinder you?

Ask yourself how you have treated me--have I not suffered a little?

Though I may have been miserably weak, have I not now a little courage?

Why do the moments blind you so, that you can speak to me as though I were a sawdust doll?

There is only one thing that I will let myself do. I know that you are strong and brave, and that I can be if I go with you; and I am going with you--there simply is no other alternative--for I love you! Yes, dear, I saw it very plainly as I read your letter to-day. I seem to feel very differently about it all now. I know we _cannot_ sit still and love each other--this costs me no pang. You need not love me one bit; I may simply belong to you, we may simply belong to each other.

I see how I fall into blindness of the high things at home. How almost impossible it is for me to do anything, while I have the earthly ties of love! I study--but how? How is it possible to live the physical life of other people--to be sympathetic and agreeable and conciliatory, and gain anything for your own soul? How is such a creature as myself to get what it wants, unless it goes away where there are no contrary and disturbing influences--where it has no ties, no obligations? The souls that have won, how did they do it--did they go alone, or did they stay in the parlor and serve tea?

Such thoughts as these would make me grovel at your feet, if need be, in an agony of prayer. The means, I cry--and you are the means! What is there for me, then, but to beseech you to have faith in me? I suppose, as yet, you have little or no cause--though once or twice I have risen to you, even though perhaps you did not know it. I am almost happy now--for I feel that this _useless_ strife is at an end, this craving and wondering if you wish to leave me. And for all that, I despise you, too--for your blind and wanton cruelty in wishing to crush what you have created! How do you expect G.o.d to value your soul, when you so lightly value mine?

But after all, will it help me to beseech you? The thing I honor in you is your desire to be right--and I know that you will act toward me as your sense of right prompts you. You will act toward me as you feel you _must_ do, to be true. Yes, be true to yourself, please; I am happy to trust in yourself so. If you believe that I will mar your life, I do not wish to go I with you. I do not know why, but I feel that something has come to me to prevent my despair from returning; I shall take care of my soul--there _must_ be something for me in this life. I have a feeling that perhaps you will think I am writing this last mute acceptance of your will, without knowing what I am doing. But I _know_ that I shall struggle without you, I shall not die.

And I wish that you would do one thing--see me as soon as you can; let it be early in the morning, and it shall be decided _on_ _that_ _day_ whether I am to marry you or not. I shall leave you, not to see you again--or knowing that I am to be your wife. I am sick unto death of fuming and sighing, tears and fears.

What will you do, Thyrsis? I cannot write any more.

I unfold the letter again. _What, in the name of G.o.d, are you going to do?_

BOOK IV

THE VICTIM APPROACHES

_A silence had fallen upon them. She sat watching where the light of the sun flickered among the birches; and he had the book in his hand, and was turning the pages idly. He read--

"I know these slopes; who knows them if not I?"

And she smiled, and quoted in return--

"Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful time, Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime!

And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields."_

Section 1. It was early one November afternoon, in his cabin in the forest, that Thyrsis wrote the last of his minstrel's songs. He had not been able to tell when it would come to him, so he had made no preparations; but when the last word was on the paper, he sprang to his feet, and strode through the snow-clad forest to the nearest farm-house.

The farmer came with a wagon, and Thyrsis bundled all his belongings into his trunk, and took the night-train for the city.

He came like a young G.o.d, radiant and clothed in glory. All the creatures of his dreams were awake within him, all his demons and his muses; he had but to call them and they answered. There was a sound of trumpets and harps in his soul all day; he was like a man half walking, half running, in the midst of a great storm of wind.

He had fought the good fight, and he had conquered. The world was at his feet, and he had no longer any fear of it. The jangling of the street-cars was music to him, the roar and rush of the city stirred his pulses--this was the life he had come to shape to his will!

And so he came to Corydon, glorious and irresistible. His mind was quite made up--he would take her; he was master now, he had no longer any doubts or fears. He was thrilled all through him with the thought of her; how wonderful it was at such an hour to have some one to communicate with--some one in whose features he could see a reflection of his own exaltation! He recollected the words of the old German poet--

"Der ist selig zu begrussen Der ein treues Herze weiss!"

He went to Corydon's home. In the parlor he came upon her unannounced; and she started and stared at him as at a ghost. She did not make a sound, but he saw the pallor sweep over her face, he saw her tremble and sway. She was like a reed shaken by the wind--so fragile and so sensitive! He got a sudden sense of the storm of emotion that was shaking her; and it frightened him, while at the same time it thrilled him strangely.