“Forgive me if for the first time in my life I disobey you in refusing to leave this place or to renounce my project.  Your advice and your entreaty are what were to be expected from a kind, good father.  My obstinacy is natural in an insensate son; but something strange is taking place within me; obstinacy and honor have become so blended and confounded in my mind that the bare idea of desisting from my purpose makes me ashamed.  I have changed greatly.  The fits of rage that agitate me now were formerly unknown to me.  I regarded the violent acts, the exaggerated expressions of hot-tempered and impetuous men with the same scorn as the brutal actions of the wicked.  Nothing of this kind surprises me any longer, for in myself I find at all times a certain terrible capacity for wickedness.  I can speak to you as I would speak to God and to my conscience; I can tell you that I am a wretch, for he is a wretch who is wanting in that powerful moral force which enables him to chastise his passions and submit his life to the stern rule of conscience.  I have been wanting in the Christian fortitude which exalts the spirit of the man who is offended above the offences which he receives and the enemies from whom he receives them.  I have had the weakness to abandon myself to a mad fury, putting myself on a level with my detractors, returning them blow for blow, and endeavoring to confound them by methods learned in their own base school.  How deeply I regret that you were not at my side to turn me from this path!  It is now too late.  The passions will not brook delay.  They are impatient, and demand their prey with cries and with the convulsive eagerness of a fierce moral thirst.  I have succumbed.  I cannot forget what you so often said to me, that anger may be called the worst of the passions, since, suddenly transforming the character, it engenders all the others, and lends to each its own infernal fire.

“But it is not anger alone that has brought me to the state of mind which I have described.  A more expansive and noble sentiment—­the profound and ardent love which I have for my cousin, has also contributed to it, and this is the one thing that absolves me in my own estimation.  But if love had not done so, pity would have impelled me to brave the fury and the intrigues of your terrible sister; for poor Rosario, placed between an irresistible affection and her mother, is at the present moment one of the most unhappy beings on the face of the earth.  The love which she has for me, and which responds to mine—­does it not give me the right to open, in whatever way I can, the doors of her house and take her out of it; employing the law, as far as the law reaches, and using force at the point where the law ceases to support me?  I think that your rigid moral scrupulosity will not give an affirmative answer to this question; but I have ceased to be the upright and methodical character whose conscience was in exact conformity with the dictates of the moral law.  I am no longer the man whom an almost perfect education enabled to keep his emotions under strict control.  To-day I am a man like other men; at a single step I have crossed the line which separates the just and the good from the unjust and the wicked.  Prepare yourself to hear of some dreadful act committed by me.  I will take care to notify you of all my misdeeds.