Thinking about my work this morning, and how hard it was, and how much strength it would take, my thoughts turned to you, and I discovered, as never before, just how I like to think of you. It seemed to me that you were part of the raw material that I had to use; that I had mastered you, and was going to make you what you had to be. And there woke in my heart at those words a fierceness of purpose that I had never felt in my life before--I was quite mad with it; and you cried out to escape me, but I would not let you go, but held you right tightly in my arms. And so--I do not mean to let you go! I shall bear you away with me, and make you what I wish. And the promise of marriage that I make you is just this: not that I love you--I do not love you; but what I wish the woman to be whom I am to love--that I will make you! And do not ever dare to ask me for any other promise, for you will not get it. You will come with this. XIX MY THYRSIS: I had an _iron grip_ at my heart just now, as I was trying to study. I had a foreboding of something--and then I came home and found your letter telling me I was yours, and I _must._ At last I may go to you the way I wish! My love, my love, I do not care what you are, or what you do to me, as long as I may go with you. How I laugh at myself as I say it! You have mastered me to worship your _life_--not you. I shall not work for your love, I shall work to live. Our love will be one of the incidents of our life. Meanwhile, I may go with you, that is all that I say--I sing it. I may go with you, not to happiness, but to necessity! And now that cursed German! It hangs over my head like a sword of Damocles I have heard of--though I don’t know why it was held over his head! You think our love was settling into the cooing state! Dear me, Thyrsis, I hope I will not always have to yell to you over a foggy ocean! XX DEAR THYRSIS: Can you imagine what it must be to be shut up in a little room on a rainy night, with the children and people screaming under your window? That is my position now. I find myself hard to manage at times. I want to become discouraged or melancholy or disgusted, but I drive myself better than I used to. I even was happy a little for a few moments to-night. I was playing one of my piano-pieces, and I found myself imagining all sorts of things. But this happens very seldom, and only lasts for a moment. I often wonder at myself. Two months ago I did not love you one particle; I love you now, so that--so that it is impossible for me to do anything else. In fact I did not realize how much I loved you until that terrible moment when I read you did not love me. I saw how impossible it will be to cease to love you, no matter what you do to me. I do not know _why_ it is; I simply know it is, and perhaps some day I may teach _you_ how to love. I do not imagine you know how very well, at present--no, Thyrsis, I don’t.