But, Jeanne, our paths have diverged, and they can never again unite. You are not in the least fit to be in my company. You don’t want me, but life, and joyousness. May you find it, no matter whether, like me, you sell yourself, and are shut up in a golden cage, whether you live your own fairy-tale, and realise the mirage of your dreams, or whether you develop into an artist. Only with me you would have no peace.
I noticed how you beat your wings when we were together, how you pined and tortured yourself to adopt the pose that pleased me. How for my sake you acted a part.
Instead of writing sheets, I send you these lines, and entreat you to answer by telegram so that you may tell me in the fewest possible words what has happened to you.
I am, God knows, so curious that I should like to send you a wire a yard long. But I must rule my spirit so as to take this modern city of New York.
Your
Elsie.
Jeanne, Jeanne, Jeanne!
Only that! Thank God, only that. How infinitely comforting a telegram with its few concise words can be.
Don’t let this matter worry you further. Of course, I’ll take the child to my heart; or still better, I will adopt the child.