of my heart I hear these words from my conscience--"You are a fool."
I love power, I love life, and seek them and strive for them, and
care for nothing else and never have; and nothing else can satisfy
me. And I cannot give any other love than this, any other promise.

IX

My dear Corydon:

I have been taking a walk this morning, thinking about us, and that
I had treated you fearfully. The whole truth of it all is this--that
I am so raw and so young and so helpless (and you are as much, if
not more so) that I cannot, to save my life, be sure if my love for
you is what it ought to be, or even if I could love any one as I
ought. And I am so wretchedly dissatisfied! Do you know that for two
weeks I have been trying to write a passage of my book--and before
God, I _cannot!_ I have not the power, I have not the life!

Dear Corydon, it comes to me that you are _miserable_ to be in love
with me--that I had no right to put this burden on your shoulders. I
would say better things if I could, but I think that our marriage
will be a setting out across a wild ocean in the dark! It is for you
to be the heroine, to dare the voyage if you choose. These sound
like wild words, but they are the truth of my life, and I dare not
say any others. Can a girl who has been brought up in gentleness and
sweetness, in innocence of life and of pain--can she say things,
feel things like these?

X