Dear Monsieur Leon,--Upon receiving your letter I felt so foolishly
happy that I wanted to start for Berlin at once. But it is because I
love you sincerely that I listened to the voice which said to me that
the greatest love ought not to be the greatest egoism, and that I had
no right to sacrifice you for myself.
You do not love me, Monsieur Leon. I would give my life were it
otherwise; but you do not love me. Your letter has been written in a
moment of impulse and despair. From the first instant of meeting you
in Berlin I noticed that you were neither well in body nor easy in
your mind, and it troubled me; the best proof of this is that although
you had wished me good-by, I sent every day to the hotel inquiring
whether you had gone, until I was told you were ill. Afterwards,
nursing you in your illness, I became convinced that my second fear
had been also right, and that you had some hidden sorrow, one of those
painful disappointments, after which it is difficult to be reconciled
to life.
Now I have a conviction--and God knows how heavily it weighs upon
my heart--that you want to bind your life to mine in order to drown
certain memories, to forget and put a barrier between you and the
past. In the face of that is it possible that I could agree to what
you ask? In refusing your hand, the worst that can happen to me is
that I shall feel very unhappy, but I shall not have to reproach
myself with having become a burden and a dead weight upon you. I have
loved you from the first time we met, therefore it is nothing new
to me; and I have got used to the sorrow which is the inevitable
consequence of separation and the hopeless certainty that my love will
never be returned. But even if my life be sad, I can weep either with
tears in the usual woman-fashion, or through my music as an artist. I
shall always have that comfort at least, that when you think of me it
will be as a dear friend or sister. With this I can live. But if I
were your wife and came to see that you regretted your impulsiveness,
were not happy, perhaps learned to hate me, I should certainly
die. Besides, I say to myself: "What have you done to deserve such
happiness?" It is almost impossible to imagine perfect happiness. Can
you understand that one may love somebody with all one's heart in a
humble spirit? I can understand it, for I love thus.
What I am going to say seems to me overbold, yet I do not feel it in
my heart to give up hope altogether. Do not be angry with me; God is
merciful, and the human soul is so athirst for happiness that it would
fain leave a door open for it to enter. If you ask me again in half a
year, a year, or any time in life the same question, I shall consider
myself rewarded for all I have suffered, and for the tears I am
shedding even at this moment.
Clara.
There is within me something that is keenly conscious and can
appreciate every word of this noble letter. Not a syllable is lost to
me, and I say to myself: "All the more reason for asking her again;
she is so honest, simple, and loving." But there is also that other
self, very tired, who had all the strength taken out of him, who can
give sympathy but no love; because he has staked his all upon one
feeling, and sees clearly that for him there is no return.