ork of any sort. It's the split in the love that drains you. You see, while she doesn't really love you, and is not satisfied; you show to frightful disadvantage. But it would be a pity not to let your mind flower—it might, under decent circumstances, produce beautiful delicate things， in perception and appreciation. And she has a right to provide the conditions. But not if you don't trust yourself nor her nor anybody, but go on slopping, and pandering to her smaller side.
…
If you want things to come right—if you are ill and exhausted, then take her money to the last penny, and let her do her own housework. Then she'll know you love her. You can't blame her if she's not satisfied with you. If I haven't had enough dinner, you can't blame me. But, you fool, you squander yourself, not for her, but to provide her with petty luxuries she doesn't really want. You insult her. A woman unsatisfied must have luxuries. But a woman who loves a man would sleep on a board.
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Look. We pay 60 lire a month for this house: 25 lire for the servant; and food is very cheap. You could live on 185 lire a month in plenty—and be greeted as “Signoria” when you went out together—it is the same as “Guten Tag, Herrschaften;” that would be luxury enough for Katherine.
Get up, lad, and be a man for yourself. It's the man who dares to take, who is independent, not he who gives.
I think Oxford did you harm.
It is beautiful, wonderful, here.
A ten?pound note is 253 lire. We could get you, I believe, a jolly nice apartment in a big garden, in a house alone, for 80 lire a month. Don't waste yourself—don't be silly and floppy. You know what you could do—you could write—then prepare yourself: and first make Katherine at rest in her love for you. Say “This I will certainly do” —it would be a relief for her to hear you. Don't be a child—don't keep that rather childish charm. Throw everything away, and say, “Now I act for my own good, at last.”
We are getting gradually nearer again, Frieda and I. It is very beautiful here…