and out, and I am bothered—I suppose this is one of my tasks. But do you not see that you have taken the responsibility of a soul into your hands? I cannot live without you. What is it—do creatures go around the world struggling and saying they must live, and are they only pitiful fools for trying?
And are you one of God’s chosen ones? Will you tell me, “Corydon, you simply cannot live my life—you are not fit?” Dear Thyrsis, I actually believe that if you should tell me that now, I should laugh with joy, for I would see that I had gained one victory, that of proving to you your own weakness and stupidity. And I should not let you discourage me. I should throw my arms around your neck, and cling to you until you had promised to take me. After all, it is a small boon to ask the privilege of trying to live, it cannot but be a glory to you to help me; and if I do not make you waste your time or money, how can I hinder you?
Ask yourself how you have treated me—have I not suffered a little? Though I may have been miserably weak, have I not now a little courage? Why do the moments blind you so, that you can speak to me as though I were a sawdust doll?
There is only one thing that I will let myself do. I know that you are strong and brave, and that I can be if I go with you; and I am going with you—there simply is no other alternative—for I love you! Yes, dear, I saw it very plainly as I read your letter to-day. I seem to feel very differently about it all now. I know we cannot sit still and love each other—this costs me no pang. You need not love me one bit; I may simply belong to you, we may simply belong to each other.
I see how I fall into blindness of the high things at home. How almost impossible it is for me to do anything, while I have the earthly ties of love! I study—but how? How is it possible to live the physical life of other people—to be sympathetic and agreeable and conciliatory, and gain anything for your own soul? How is such a creature as myself to get what it wants, unless it goes away where there are no contrary and disturbing influences—where it has no ties, no obligations? The souls that have won, how did they do it—did they go alone, or did they stay in the parlor and serve tea?
Such thoughts as these would make me grovel at your feet, if need be, in an agony of prayer. The means, I cry—and you are the means! What is there for me, then, but to beseech you to have faith in me? I suppose, as yet, you have little or no cause—though once or twice I have risen to you, even though perhaps you did not know it. I am almost happy now—for I feel that this useless strife is at an end, this craving and wondering if you wish to leave me. And for all that, I despise you, too—for your blind and wanton cruelty in wishing to crush what you have created! How do you expect God to value your soul, when you so lightly value mine?
But after all, will it help me to beseech you? The thing I honor in you is your desire to be right—and I know that you will act toward me as your sense of right prompts you. You will act toward me as you feel you must do, to be true. Yes, be true to yourself, please; I am happy to trust in yourself so. If you believe that I will mar your life, I do not wish to go I with you. I do not know why, but I feel that something has come to me to prevent my despair from returning; I shall take care of my soul—there must be something for me in this life. I have a feeling that perhaps you will think I am writing this last mute acceptance of your will, without knowing what I am doing. But I know that I shall struggle without you, I shall not die.
And I wish that you would do one thing—see me as soon as you can; let it be early in the morning, and it shall be decided on that day whether I am to marry you or not. I shall leave you, not to see you again—or knowing that I am to be your wife. I am sick unto death of fuming and sighing, tears and fears.
What will you do, Thyrsis? I cannot write any more.
I unfold the letter again. What, in the name of God, are you going to do?
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