too little of him. I can only say that he himself fully and firmly believes that a union with me, and only with me, will act ennoblingly (I really am ashamed to write it, but it is his own expression) on his character and art. In the past I myself sometimes thought the same, at least not exactly like that, only that marriage and family life may do an artist good, bind him more closely to humanity and infuse warmth into his art. I express myself badly, but hope you will understand, but in those days (as we have openly discussed, when he lived here and I hoped that he would marry me)—in those days he always stuck to his idea that an artist must be free, without such ties; he had so much to struggle with in relation to his ideal of art. Now he has come to my view, he has learnt, he says, that he cannot be without me; he hardens, gets narrow, has nothing to live for, he stretches out his hand for me, the very hand which has pulled me up out of a moral dullness and the swamp of nothingness. And now is it possible for me to refuse him?—No, no!—You see, it is my duty and my destiny yes, my destiny!
"May God make it so that we may meet and be together, many years hence, when time has taken away the passion. The friendship it cannot touch; I know that neither of us can forget the other. But I suppose you will have to live abroad; it would be too much happiness to have you near by as friend.
"Farewell, my beloved friend, farewell!
I read the letter through several times. Its loving tone calmed my pain—yes, there was even a moment when it called forth in me a certain renunciation. But the reaction soon followed.
