“When? It must be after I get married to a rich philanthropist.”
We laughed.
We rolled down the hill in the purple fragrance of evening. The evening was sweet like a legend.
5th—I wrote a letter to the artist:
“My sweet Oscar:
“You will love no more your Morning Glory, I am certain, when you are informed how she looks nowadays.
“She inclines against a willow trunk by her cottage. Were you ever acquainted with the great repose of a poetess? Her eyes flash in divine sarcasm. She will shoot them down to the mortal domain (she lives on the mountain), while she murmurs in tragical accents: ‘I pity you, ant-mortals!’
“Isn’t she shocking?
“Oscar, I have withdrawn to the Heights, and am prying into the Incomprehensible of Nature with Mr. Heine.
“He is unique.