it, and to make it the grace and comeliness of my entire life from the Beginning to the End!
Perhaps a woman—a real woman—could do this.
But I?—No. I am not real—I do not seem real to myself. In such things as these my life is a blank.
There was Charlotte Corday—a heroine whom I admire above all the heroines. And more than she was a heroine she was a woman. And she had her agony. It was for love of her fair country.
To suffer and do and die for love of something! It is glorious! What must be the exalted ecstasy of Charlotte Corday's soul now!
And I—with all my manifold passions—I am a coward.
I have had moments when, vaguely and from far off, it seemed as if there might be bravery and exaltation for me,—when I could rise far over myself. I have felt unspeakable possibilities.
