I cannot stay at Florence, not even to wait for a letter. Galleries only oppress me. Remembrance of hope I had cherished (Almost more than as hope, when I passed through Florence the first time) Lies like a sword in my soul. I am more a coward than ever, Chicken-hearted, past thought. The _caffes_ and waiters distress me. All is unkind, and, alas, I am ready for any one's kindness. Oh, I knew it of old, and knew it, I thought, to perfection, If there is any one thing in the world to preclude all kindness, It is the need of it,--it is this sad self-defeating dependence. Why is this, Eustace? Myself, were I stronger, I think I could tell you. But it is odd when it comes. So plumb I the deeps of depression, Daily in deeper, and find no support, no will, no purpose. All my old strengths are gone. And yet I shall have to do something. Ah, the key of our life, that passes all wards, opens all locks, Is not _I will_, but _I must_. I must,--I must,--and I do it. XI--CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. At the last moment I have your letter, for which I was waiting. I have taken my place, and see no good in inquiries. Do nothing more, good Eustace, I pray you. It only will vex me. Take no measures. Indeed, should we meet, I could not be certain; All might be changed, you know. Or perhaps there was nothing to be changed. It is a curious history, this; and yet I foresaw it; I could have told it before. The Fates, it is clear, are against us; For it is certain enough that I met with the people you mention; They were at Florence the day I returned there, and spoke to me even; Staid a week, saw me often; departed, and whither I know not. Great is Fate, and is best. I believe in Providence, partly. What is ordained is right, and all that happens is ordered. Ah, no, that isn't it. But yet I retain my conclusion: I will go where I am led, and will not dictate to the chances. Do nothing more, I beg. If you love me, forbear interfering. XII.--CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. Shall we come out of it all, some day, as one does from a tunnel? Will it be all at once, without our doing or asking, We shall behold clear day, the trees and meadows about us, And the faces of friends, and the eyes we loved looking at us? Who knows? Who can say? It will not do to suppose it. XIII.--CLAUDE TO EUSTACE,--_from Rome_.