as difficult, for to become an Overman he must of course
'keep holy his highest thought,' without being disturbed by the struggle
for existence, and that, like Zarathustra, he must have an eagle and a
serpent to minister to his wants. And I suggested that I might be his
eagle, for Zarathustra says that woman is still either a cat or a bird
or at best a cow. I prefer to believe that I am a bird, and as such
could minister to my sweet Overman. But Terry wouldn't have it so, and
replied that of course I was a bird, in a way, but he would rather have
me as a pussy, or as a combination of cat, bird, and cow. I thought that
too cruel, so now I am determined to be none of them, but to become an
Overwoman, and so be a fitting relaxation for my warrior, my Overman.
'Tis but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous, and I think, in this
letter, I have made that step."

Marie's moods are many, and in her next letter she wrote in quite a
different vein:

"I almost wept when reading your letter about the baby. Perhaps it was
because of the line, 'A little daughter was born to me.' It recalled to
me this Christmas time many years ago when I was a little child and I
heard the story of the little Jesus. 'And unto us a child was born.' How
those words ring in my ears! So vividly come back to me the pity I felt
when I heard the story of the poor little infant born to be crucified.
It always made me cry--out of pity, the pity of it all! And I wonder if
we are not all, all of us, born to be crucified.

"But I suppose I must congratulate you on assuming the responsibility of
fatherhood for the third time. You might long ago have studied pre-natal
influences and the rights of the unborn. I hope you have not neglected
these sacred duties. It surprised me that you wished for a girl, for not
long ago you expressed the opinion that women were soulless creatures
without memory! Suppose your daughter should not be an exception, how
would you feel then?... You have been very active. As for me, I fear my
only activity will be that of a dreamer. I differ from the dreaming
class only in one respect and that is, in making confidences, which
dreamers never do. They shrivel up into themselves. They usually create
their own sorrows, which have no remedy except the joys they also
invent. They are natural only when alone, and talk well only to
themselves."

In the same letter she plunges into the gossip of the Salon:

"I don't blame Scott for his care