Subtly, silently, and in secret, hate gnawed at your nature, as the lichen bites at the root of some sallow plant, till you grew to see nothing but the most meagre interests and the most petty aims.

That faculty in you which love would have fostered, hate poisoned and paralysed.
The idea of your being the object of a terrible quarrel between your father and a man of my position seemed to delight you.
You scented the chance of a public scandal and flew to it.

The prospect of a battle in which you would be safe delighted you.
You know what my art was to me, the great primal note by which I had revealed, first myself to myself, and then myself to the world, the great passion of my life, the love to which all other loves were as marsh water to red wine, or the glow worm of the marsh to the magic mirror of the moon....

Don't you understand now that your lack of imagination was the one really fatal defect of your character?
What you had to do was quite simple, and quite clear before you; but hate had blinded you, and you could see nothing.
Life is quite lovely to you.

And yet, if you are wise, and wish to find life much lovelier still, and in a different manner you will let the reading of this terrible letter--for such I know it is--prove to you as important a crisis and turning point of your life as the writing of it is to me.