freezes my heart, and I have been on the point of writing to you and
telling you to relieve yourself of the responsibility of me. The
reason is because it seems a perfectly Herculean task to read
"Egmont". I have to look up words in the dictionary until I am
absolutely so weary I care not about anything; and then I think of
you, and what you are able to do, and at one word from you I would
give up all idea of marrying you.

I tell you I am up and down in this mood. Great God, I could work
all day and all night if I could do what you do, but to strain at
iron fetters--a snail! Oh, I cannot tell you--I simply groan under
it. At such times I have no more idea of marrying you than of
journeying to the moon. I repeat to you, to be constantly choked
back, while you are rapidly advancing, will kill me. I don't know
what you will say to this, but it is intolerable, unendurable, to
me. When I think of your ability and mine, I simply laugh about it
--Thyrsis, it is simply ridiculous. I do not ask you to take me with
you, Thyrsis.

Do you wonder at my writing all this? You would not if you
understood. It is so hard for me to keep any joy in my heart, and I
get tired of repeated failures, that is all. I thought I must write
you this, and have it over with. This is the style of letter I have
always torn up, but this time it goes. I think I will practice the
piano now, and try to get some gladness into my soul again.

VI

MY DEAR, DEAR THYRSIS: