As I say this, I see the tears of despair in your eyes. I can only tell you what I am—God 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 God 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 passionate, 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!
XXXIV. 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.