Your dear letter of the 20th reached me last night. You must not be
angry with me if occasionally, as in my letter of the 13th, I lack the
very thing I am always forcing myself to acquire. But I ask you to
consider what can be the thoughts of one who is young, in the fulness of
productiveness, at the hour when life is flowering, if he is snatched
away, and cast upon barren soil where all he has cherished fails him.

Well, after the first wrench he finds that life has not forsaken him,
and sets to work upon the new ungrateful ground. The effort calls for
such a concentration of energy as leaves no time for either hopes or
fears. It is the constant effort at adaptation, and I manage it, except
only in moments of the rebellion (quickly suppressed) of the thoughts
and wishes of the past. But I need my whole strength at times for
keeping down the pangs of memory and accepting what is.

I was thinking of the sad moments that you too endure, and that was why
I encouraged you to an impersonal idea of our union. I know how strong
you are, and how prepared for this idea. Yes, you are right, we must not
meet the pain half-way. But at times it is difficult to distinguish
between the real suffering that affects us, and that which is only
possible or imminent.

Mind you notice that _I have perfect hope_ and that I count on
prevailing grace, but, caring more than anything to be an artist, I am
occupied in drawing all the beauty out, in drawing out the utmost
beauty, as quickly as may be, none of us knowing how much time is meted
to us.