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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/15941-8.txt b/15941-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3396563 --- /dev/null +++ b/15941-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5787 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of An Englishwoman's Love-Letters, by Anonymous + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: An Englishwoman's Love-Letters + +Author: Anonymous + +Release Date: May 30, 2005 [EBook #15941] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN ENGLISHWOMAN'S LOVE-LETTERS *** + + + + +Produced by Bill Tozier, Barbara Tozier, Cally Soukup and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net. + + + + + +AN +ENGLISHWOMAN'S +LOVE-LETTERS + + + + +NEW YORK +THE MERSHON COMPANY +PUBLISHERS + + + + +AN ENGLISHWOMAN'S LOVE-LETTERS. + +EXPLANATION. + + +It need hardly be said that the woman by whom these letter were written +had no thought that they would be read by anyone but the person to whom +they were addressed. But a request, conveyed under circumstances which +the writer herself would have regarded as all-commanding, urges that +they should now be given to the world; and, so far as is possible with a +due regard to the claims of privacy, what is here printed presents the +letters as they were first written in their complete form and sequence. + +Very little has been omitted which in any way bears upon the devotion of +which they are a record. A few names of persons and localities have been +changed; and several short notes (not above twenty in all), together +with some passages bearing too intimately upon events which might be +recognized, have been left out without indication of their omission. + +It was a necessary condition to the present publication that the +authorship of these letters should remain unstated. Those who know will +keep silence; those who do not, will not find here any data likely to +guide them to the truth. + +The story which darkens these pages cannot be more fully indicated while +the feelings of some who are still living have to be consulted; nor will +the reader find the root of the tragedy explained in the letters +themselves. But one thing at least may be said as regards the principal +actors--that to the memory of neither of them does any blame belong. +They were equally the victims of circumstances, which came whole out of +the hands of fate and remained, so far as one of the two was concerned, +a mystery to the day of her death. + + + + +LETTER I. + + +Beloved: This is your first letter from me: yet it is not the first I have +written to you. There are letters to you lying at love's dead-letter +office in this same writing--so many, my memory has lost count of them! + +This is my confession: I told you I had one to make, and you laughed:--you +did not know how serious it was--for to be in love with you long before +you were in love with me--nothing can be more serious than that! + +You deny that I was: yet I know when you first really loved me. All at +once, one day something about me came upon you as a surprise: and how, +except on the road to love, can there be surprises? And in the surprise +came love. You did not _know_ me before. Before then, it was only the +other nine entanglements which take hold of the male heart and occupy it +till the tenth is ready to make one knot of them all. + +In the letter written that day, I said, "You love me." I could never +have said it before; though I had written twelve letters to my love for +you, I had not once been able to write of your love for me. Was not +_that_ serious? + +Now I have confessed! I thought to discover myself all blushes, but my +face is cool: you have kissed all my blushes away! Can I ever be ashamed +in your eyes now, or grow rosy because of anything _you_ or _I_ think? +So!--you have robbed me of one of my charms: I am brazen. Can you love +me still? + +You love me, you love me; you are wonderful! we are both wonderful, you +and I. + +Well, it is good for you to know I have waited and wished, long before +the thing came true. But to see _you_ waiting and wishing, when the +thing _was_ true all the time:--oh! that was the trial! How not suddenly +to throw my arms round you and cry, "Look, see! O blind mouth, why are +you famished?" + +And you never knew? Dearest, I love you for it, you never knew! I believe +a man, when he finds he has won, thinks he has taken the city by assault: +he does not guess how to the insiders it has been a weary siege, with +flags of surrender fluttering themselves to rags from every wall and +window! No: in love it is the women who are the strategists: and they have +at last to fall into the ambush they know of with a good grace. + +You must let me praise myself a little for the past, since I can never +praise myself again. You must do that for me now! There is not a battle +left for me to win. You and peace hold me so much a prisoner, have so +caught me from my own way of living, that I seem to hear a pin drop +twenty years ahead of me: it seems an event! Dearest, a thousand times, +I would not have it be otherwise: I am only too willing to drop out of +existence altogether and find myself in your arms instead. Giving you my +love, I can so easily give you my life. Ah, my dear, I am yours so +utterly, so gladly! Will you ever find it out, you who took so long to +discover anything? + + + + +LETTER II. + + +Dearest: Your name woke me this morning: I found my lips piping their song +before I was well back into my body out of dreams. I wonder if the rogues +babble when my spirit is nesting? Last night you were a high tree and I +was in it, the wind blowing us both; but I forget the rest,--whatever, it +was enough to make me wake happy. + +There are dreams that go out like candle-light directly one opens the +shutters: they illumine the walls no longer; the daylight is too strong +for them. So, now, I can hardly remember anything of my dreams: +daylight, with you in it, floods them out. + +Oh, how are you? Awake? Up? Have you breakfasted? I ask you a thousand +things. You are thinking of me, I know: but what are you thinking? I am +devoured by curiosity about myself--none at all about you, whom I have all +by heart! If I might only know how happy I make you, and just _which_ +thing I said yesterday is making you laugh to-day--I could cry with joy +over being the person I am. + +It is you who make me think so much about myself, trying to find myself +out. I used to be most self-possessed, and regarded it as the crowning +virtue: and now--your possession of me sweeps it away, and I stand crying +to be let into a secret that is no longer mine. Shall I ever know _why_ +you love me? It is my religious difficulty; but it never rises into a +doubt. You _do_ love me, I know. _Why_, I don't think I ever can know. + +You ask me the same question about yourself, and it becomes absurd, +because I altogether belong to you. If I hold my breath for a moment +wickedly (for I can't do it breathing), and try to look at the world +with you out of it, I seem to have fallen over a precipice; or rather, +the solid earth has slipped from under my feet, and I am off into +vacuum. Then, as I take breath again for fear, my star swims up and +clasps me, and shows me your face. O happy star this that I was born +under, that moved with me and winked quiet prophecies at me all through +my childhood, I not knowing what it meant:--the dear radiant thing +naming to me my lover! + +As a child, now and then, and for no reason, I used to be sublimely +happy: real wings took hold of me. Sometimes a field became fairyland +as I walked through it; or a tree poured out a scent that its blossoms +never had before or after. I think now that those must have been moments +when you too were in like contact with earth,--had your feet in grass +which felt a faint ripple of wind, or stood under a lilac in a drench of +fragrance that had grown double after rain. + +When I asked you about the places of your youth, I had some fear of +finding that we might once have met, and that I had not remembered it as +the summing up of my happiness in being young. Far off I see something +undiscovered waiting us, something I could not have guessed at +before--the happiness of being old. Will it not be something like the +evening before last when we were sitting together, your hand in mine, +and one by one, as the twilight drew about us, the stars came and took +up their stations overhead? They seemed to me then to be following out +some quiet train of thought in the universal mind: the heavens were +remembering the stars back into their places:--the Ancient of Days +drawing upon the infinite treasures of memory in his great lifetime. +Will not Love's old age be the same to us both--a starry place of +memories? + +Your dear letter is with me while I write: how shortly you are able to +say everything! To-morrow you will come. What more do I want--except +to-morrow itself, with more promises of the same thing? + +You are at my heart, dearest: nothing in the world can be nearer to me +than you! + + + + +LETTER III. + + +Dearest and rightly Beloved: You cannot tell how your gift has pleased me; +or rather you _can_, for it shows you have a long memory back to our first +meeting: though at the time I was the one who thought most of it. + +It is quite true; you have the most beautifully shaped memory in +Christendom: these are the very books in the very edition I have long +wanted, and have been too humble to afford myself. And now I cannot stop +to read one, for joy of looking at them all in a row. I will kiss you +for them all, and for more besides: indeed it is the "besides" which +brings you my kisses at all. + +Now that you have chosen so perfectly to my mind, I may proffer a +request which, before, I was shy of making. It seems now beneficently +anticipated. It is that you will not ever let your gifts take the form +of jewelry, not after the ring which you are bringing me: _that_, you +know, I both welcome and wish for. But, as to the rest, the world has +supplied me with a feeling against jewelry as a love-symbol. Look +abroad and you will see: it is too possessive, too much like "chains of +office"--the fair one is to wear her radiant harness before the world, +that other women may be envious and the desire of her master's eye be +satisfied! Ah, no! + +I am yours, dear, utterly; and nothing you give me would have that sense: +I know you too well to think it. But in the face of the present fashion +(and to flout it), which expects the lover to give in this sort, and the +beloved to show herself a dazzling captive, let me cherish my ritual of +opposition which would have no meaning if we were in a world of our own, +and no place in my thoughts, dearest;--as it has not now, so far as you +are concerned. But I am conscious I shall be looked at as your chosen; and +I would choose my own way of how to look back most proudly. + +And so for the books more thanks and more,--that they are what I would +most wish, and not anything else: which, had they been, they would still +have given me pleasure, since from you they could come only with a good +meaning: and--diamonds even--I could have put up with them! + +To-morrow you come for your ring, and bring me my own? Yours is here +waiting. I have it on my finger, very loose, with another standing +sentry over it to keep it from running away. + +A mouse came out of my wainscot last night, and plunged me in horrible +dilemma: for I am equally idiotic over the idea of the creature trapped +or free, and I saw sleepless nights ahead of me till I had secured a +change of locality for him. + +To startle him back into hiding would have only deferred my getting +truly rid of him, so I was most tiptoe and diplomatic in my doings. +Finally, a paper bag, put into a likely nook with some sentimentally +preserved wedding-cake crumbled into it, crackled to me of his arrival. +In a brave moment I noosed the little beast, bag and all, and lowered +him from the window by string, till the shrubs took from me the burden +of responsibility. + +I visited the bag this morning: he had eaten his way out, crumbs and +all: and has, I suppose, become a fieldmouse, for the hay smells +invitingly, and it is only a short run over the lawn and a jump over the +ha-ha to be in it. Poor morsels, I prefer them so much undomesticated! + +Now this mouse is no allegory, and the paper bag is _not_ a diamond +necklace, in spite of the wedding-cake sprinkled over it! So don't say +that this letter is too hard for your understanding, or you will +frighten me from telling you anything foolish again. Brains are like +jewels in this, difference of surface has nothing to do with the size +and value of them. Yours is a beautiful smooth round, like a pearl, and +mine all facets and flashes like cut glass. And yours so much the +bigger, and I love it so much the best! The trap which caught me was +baited with one great pearl. So the mouse comes in with a meaning tied +to its tail after all! + + + + +LETTER IV. + + +In all the world, dearest, what is more unequal than love between a man +and a woman? I have been spending an amorous morning and want to share it +with you: but lo, the task of bringing that bit of my life into your +vision is altogether beyond me. + +What have I been doing? Dear man, I have been dressmaking! and dress, +when one is in the toils, is but a love-letter writ large. You will see +and admire the finished thing, but you will take no interest in the +composition. Therefore I say your love is unequal to mine. + +For think how ravished I would be if you brought me a coat and told me +it was all your own making! One day you had thrown down a mere +tailor-made thing in the hall, and yet I kissed it as I went by. And +that was at a time when we were only at the handshaking stage, the +palsied beginnings of love:--_you_, I mean! + +But oh, to get you interested in the dress I was making to you +to-day!--the beautiful flowing opening,--not too flowing: the elaborate +central composition where the heart of me has to come, and the wind-up +of the skirt, a long reluctant tailing-off, full of commas and colons of +ribbon to make it seem longer, and insertions everywhere. I dreamed +myself in it, retiring through the door after having bidden you +good-night, and you watching the long disappearing eloquence of that +tail, still saying to you as it vanished, "Good-by, good-by. I love you +so! see me, how slowly I am going!" + +Well, that is a bit of my dress-making, a very corporate part of my +affection for you; and you are not a bit interested, for I have shown +you none of the seamy side; it is that which interests you male +creatures, Zolaites, every one of you. + +And what have you to show similar, of the thought of me entering into +all your masculine pursuits? Do you go out rabbit-shooting for the love +of me? If so, I trust you make a miss of it every time! That you are a +sportsman is one of the very hardest things in life that I have to bear. + +Last night Peterkins came up with me to keep guard against any further +intrusion of mice. I put her to sleep on the couch: but she discarded +the red shawl I had prepared for her at the bottom, and lay at the top +most uncomfortably in a parcel of millinery into which from one end I +had already made excavations, so that it formed a large bag. Into the +further end of this bag Turks crept and snuggled down: but every time +she turned in the night (and it seemed very often) the brown paper +crackled and woke me up. So at last I took it up and shook out its +contents; and Pippins slept soundly on red flannel till Nan-nan brought +the tea. + +You will notice that in this small narrative Peterkins gets three names: +it is a fashion that runs through the household, beginning with the +Mother-Aunt, who on some days speaks of Nan-nan as "the old lady," and +sometimes as "that girl," all according to the two tempers she has about +Nan-nan's privileged position in regard to me. + +You were only here yesterday, and already I want you again so much, so +much! + + Your never satisfied but always loving. + + + + +LETTER V. + + +Most Beloved: I have been thinking, staring at this blank piece of paper, +and wondering how _there_ am I ever to say what I have in me here--not +wishing to say anything at all, but just to be! I feel that I am living +now only because you love me: and that my life will have run out, like +this penful of ink, when that use in me is past. Not yet, Beloved, oh, not +yet! Nothing is finished that we have to do and be:--hardly begun! I will +not call even this "midsummer," however much it seems so: it is still only +spring. + +Every day your love binds me more deeply than I knew the day before: so +that no day is the same now, but each one a little happier than the last. +My own, you are my very own! And yet, true as that is, it is not so true +as that I am _your_ own. It is less absolute, I mean; and must be so, +because I cannot very well _take_ possession of anything when I am given +over heart and soul out of my own possession: there isn't enough identity +left in me, I am yours so much, so much! All this is useless to say, yet +what can I say else, if I have to begin saying anything? + +Could I truly be your "star and goddess," as you call me, Beloved, I +would do you the service of Thetis at least (who did it for a greater +than herself)-- + + "Bid Heaven and Earth combine their charms, + And round you early, round you late, + Briareus fold his hundred arms + To guard you from your single fate." + +But I haven't got power over an eight-armed octopus even: so am merely a +very helpless loving nonentity which merges itself most happily in you, +and begs to be lifted to no pedestal at all, at all. + +If you love me in a manner that is at all possible, you will see that +"goddess" does not suit me. "Star" I would I were now, with a wide eye +to carry my looks to you over this horizon which keeps you invisible. +Choose one, if you will, dearest, and call it mine: and to me it shall +be yours: so that when we are apart and the stars come out, our eyes may +meet up at the same point in the heavens, and be "keeping company" for +us among the celestial bodies--with their permission: for I have too +lively a sense of their beauty not to be a little superstitious about +them. Have you not felt for yourself a sort of physiognomy in the +constellations,--most of them seeming benevolent and full of kind +regards:--but not all? I am always glad when the Great Bear goes away +from my window, fine beast though he is: he seems to growl at me! No +doubt it is largely a question of names; and what's in a name? In yours, +Beloved, when I speak it, more than I can compass! + + + + +LETTER VI. + + +Beloved: I have been trusting to fate, while keeping silence, that +something from you was to come to-day and make me specially happy. And it +has: bless you abundantly! You have undone and got round all I said about +"jewelry," though this is nothing of the sort, but a shrine: so my word +remains. I have it with me now, safe hidden, only now and then it comes +out to have a look at me,--smiles and goes back again. Dearest, you must +_feel_ how I thank you, for I cannot say it: body and soul I grow too much +blessed with all that you have given me, both visibly and invisibly, and +always perfectly. + +And as for the day: I have been thinking you the most uncurious of men, +because you had not asked: and supposed it was too early days yet for +you to remember that I had ever been born. To-day is my birthday! you +said nothing, so I said nothing; and yet this has come: I trusted my +star to show its sweet influences in its own way. Or, after all, did you +know, and had you asked anyone but me? Yet had you known, you would +have wished me the "happy returns" which among all your dear words to me +you do not. So I take it that the motion comes straight to you from +heaven; and, in the event, you will pardon me for having been still +secretive and shy in not telling what you did not inquire after. +_Yours_, I knew, dear, quite long ago, so had no need to ask you for it. +And it is six months before you will be in the same year with me again, +and give to twenty-two all the companionable sweetness that twenty-one +has been having. + +Many happy returns of _my_ birthday to you, dearest! That is all that my +birthdays are for. Have you been happy to-day, I wonder? and am +wondering also whether this evening we shall see you walking quietly in +and making everything into perfection that has been trembling just on +the verge of it all day long. + +One drawback of my feast is that I have to write short to you; for there +are other correspondents who on this occasion look for quick answers, +and not all of them to be answered in an offhand way. Except you, it is +the coziest whom I keep waiting; but elders have a way with them--even +kind ones: and when they condescend to write upon an anniversary, we +have to skip to attention or be in their bad books at once. + +So with the sun still a long way out of bed, I have to tuck up these +sheets for you, as if the good of the day had already been sufficient +unto itself and its full tale had been told. Good-night. It is so hard +to take my hands off writing to you, and worry on at the same exercise +in another direction. I kiss you more times than I can count: it is +almost really you that I kiss now! My very dearest, my own sweetheart, +whom I so worship. Good-night! "Good-afternoon" sounds too funny: is +outside our vocabulary altogether. While I live, I must love you more +than I know! + + + + +LETTER VII. + + +My Friend: Do you think this a cold way of beginning? I do not: is it not +the true send-off of love? I do not know how men fall in love: but I could +not have had that come-down in your direction without being your friend +first. Oh, my dear, and after, after; it is but a limitless friendship I +have grown into! + +I have heard men run down the friendships of women as having little true +substance. Those who speak so, I think, have never come across a real +case of woman's friendship. I praise my own sex, dearest, for I know +some of their loneliness, which you do not: and until a certain date +their friendship was the deepest thing in life I had met with. + +For must it not be true that a woman becomes more absorbed in friendship +than a man, since friendship may have to mean so much more to her, and +cover so far more of her life, than it does to the average man? However +big a man's capacity for friendship, the beauty of it does not fill his +whole horizon for the future: he still looks ahead of it for the mate +who will complete his life, giving his body and soul the complement +they require. Friendship alone does not satisfy him: he makes a bigger +claim on life, regarding certain possessions as his right. + +But a woman:--oh, it is a fashion to say the best women are sure to find +husbands, and have, if they care for it, the certainty before them of a +full life. I know it is not so. There are women, wonderful ones, who +come to know quite early in life that no men will ever wish to make +wives of them: for them, then, love in friendship is all that remains, +and the strongest wish of all that can pass through their souls with +hope for its fulfillment is to be a friend to somebody. + +It is man's arrogant certainty of his future which makes him impatient +of the word "friendship": it cools life to his lips, he so confident +that the headier nectar is his due! + +I came upon a little phrase the other day that touched me so deeply: it +said so well what I have wanted to say since we have known each other. +Some peasant rhymer, an Irishman, is singing his love's praises, and +sinks his voice from the height of his passionate superlatives to call +her his "share of the world." Peasant and Irishman, he knew that his +fortune did not embrace the universe: but for him his love was just +that--his share of the world. + +Surely when in anyone's friendship we seem to have gained our share of +the world, that is all that can be said. It means all that we can take +in, the whole armful the heart and senses are capable of, or that fate +can bestow. And for how many that must be friendship--especially for how +many women! + +My dear, you are my share of the world, also my share of Heaven: but +there I begin to speak of what I do not know, as is the way with happy +humanity. All that my eyes could dream of waking or sleeping, all that +my ears could be most glad to hear, all that my heart could beat faster +to get hold of--your friendship gave me suddenly as a bolt from the +blue. + +My friend, my friend, my friend! If you could change or go out of my +life now, the sun would drop out of my heavens: I should see the world +with a great piece gashed out of its side,--my share of it gone. No, I +should not see it, I don't think I should see anything ever again,--not +truly. + +Is it not strange how often to test our happiness we harp on sorrow? I +do: don't let it weary you. I know I have read somewhere that great love +always entails pain. I have not found it yet: but, for me, it does mean +fear,--the sort of fear I had as a child going into big buildings. I +loved them: but I feared, because of their bigness, they were likely to +tumble on me. + +But when I begin to think you may be too big for me, I remember you as +my "friend," and the fear goes for a time, or becomes that sort of fear +I would not part with if I might. + +I have no news for you: only the old things to tell you, the wonder of +which ever remains new. How holy your face has become to me: as I saw it +last, with something more than the usual proofs of love for me upon +it--a look as if your love troubled you! I know the trouble: I feel it, +dearest, in my own woman's way. Have patience.--When I see you so, I +feel that prayer is the only way given me for saying what my love for +you wishes to be. And yet I hardly ever pray in words. + +Dearest, be happy when you get this: and, when you can, come and give my +happiness its rest. Till then it is a watchman on the lookout. + +"Night-night!" Your true sleepy one. + + + + +LETTER VIII. + + +Now _why_, I want to know, Beloved, was I so specially "good" to you in my +last? I have been quite as good to you fifty times before,--if such a +thing can be from me to you. Or do you mean good _for_ you? Then, dear, I +must be sorry that the thing stands out so much as an exception! + +Oh, dearest Beloved, for a little I think I must not love you so much, +or must not let you see it. + +When does your mother return, and when am I to see her? I long to so +much. Has she still not written to you about our news? + +I woke last night to the sound of a great flock of sheep going past. I +suppose they were going by forced marches to the fair over at Hylesbury: +It was in the small hours: and a few of them lifted up their voices and +complained of this robbery of night and sleep in the night. They were so +tired, so tired, they said: and so did the muffawully patter of their +poor feet. The lambs said most; and the sheep agreed with a husky +croak. + +I said a prayer for them, and went to sleep again as the sound of the +lambs died away; but somehow they stick in my heart, those sad sheep +driven along through the night. It was in its degree like the woman +hurrying along, who said, "My God, my God!" that summer Sunday morning. +These notes from lives that appear and disappear remain endlessly; and I +do not think our hearts can have been made so sensitive to suffering we +can do nothing to relieve, without some good reason. So I tell you this, +as I would any sorrow of my own, because it has become a part of me, and +is underlying all that I think to-day. + +I am to expect you the day after to-morrow, but "not for certain"? Thus +you give and you take away, equally blessed in either case. All the +same, I shall _certainly_ expect you, and be disappointed if on Thursday +at about this hour your way be not my way. + +"How shall I my true love know" if he does not come often enough to see +me? Sunshine be on you all possible hours till we meet again. + + + + +LETTER IX. + + +Beloved: Is the morning looking at you as it is looking at me? A little to +the right of the sun there lies a small cloud, filmy and faint, but enough +to cast a shadow somewhere. From this window, high up over the view, I +cannot see where the shadow of it falls,--further than my eye can reach: +perhaps just now over you, since you lie further west. But I cannot be +sure. We cannot be sure about the near things in this world; only about +what is far off and fixed. + +You and I looking up see the same sun, if there are no clouds over us: +but we may not be looking at the same clouds even when both our hearts +are in shadow. That is so, even when hearts are as close together as +yours and mine: they respond to the same light: but each one has its own +roof of shadow, wearing its rue with a world of difference. + +Why is it? why can no two of us have sorrows quite in common? What can +be nearer together than our wills to be one? In joy we are; and yet, +though I reach and reach, and sadden if you are sad, I cannot make your +sorrow my own. + +I suppose sorrow is of the earth earthy: and all that is of earth makes +division. Every joy that belongs to the body casts shadows somewhere. I +wonder if there can enter into us a joy that has no shadow anywhere? The +joy of having you has behind it the shadow of parting; is there any way +of loving that would make parting no sorrow at all? To me, now, the idea +seems treason! I cling to my sorrow that you are not here: I send up my +cloud, as it were, to catch the sun's brightness: it is a kite that I +pull with my heart-strings. + +To the sun of love the clouds that cover absence must look like white +flowers in the green fields of earth, or like doves hovering: and he +reaches down and strokes them with his warm beams, making all their +feathers like gold. + +Some clouds let the gold come through; _mine_, now.--That cloud I saw +away to the right is coming this way toward me. I can see the shadow of +it now, moving along a far-off strip of road: and I wonder if it is +_your_ cloud, with you under it coming to see me again! + +When you come, why am I any happier than when I know you are coming? It +is the same thing in love. I have you now all in my mind's eye; I have +you by heart; have I my arms a bit more round you then than now? + +How it puzzles me that, when love is perfect, there should be +disappearances and reappearances: and faces now and then showing a +change!--You, actually, the last time you came, looking a day older than +the day before! What was it? Had old age blown you a kiss, or given you a +wrinkle in the art of dying? Or had you turned over some new leaf, and +found it withered on the other side? + +I could not see how it was: I heard you coming--it was spring! The door +opened:--oh, it was autumnal! One day had fallen away like a leaf out of +my forest, and I had not been there to see it go! + +At what hour of the twenty-four does a day shed itself out of our lives? +Not, I think, on the stroke of the clock, at midnight, or at cock-crow. +Some people, perhaps, would say--with the first sleep; and that the +"beauty-sleep" is the new day putting out its green wings. _I_ think it +must be not till something happens to make the new day a stronger +impression than the last. So it would please me to think that your +yesterday dropped off as you opened the door; and that, had I peeped and +seen you coming up the stairs, I should have seen you looking a day +younger. + +_That_ means that you age at the sight of me! I think you do. I, I feel +a hundred on the road to immortality, directly your face dawns on me. + +There's a foot gone over my grave! The angel of the resurrection with his +mouth pursed fast to his trumpet!--Nothing else than the gallop-a-gallop +of your horse:--it sounds like a kettle boiling over! + +So this goes into hiding: listens to us all the while we talk; and comes +out afterwards with all its blushes stale, to be rouged up again and +sent off the moment your back is turned. No, better!--to be slipped into +your pocket and carried home to yourself _by_ yourself. How, when you +get to your destination and find it, you will curse yourself that you +were not a speedier postman! + + + + +LETTER X. + + +Dearest: Did you find your letter? The quicker I post, the quicker I need +to sit down and write again. The grass under love's feet never stops +growing: I must make hay of it while the sun shines. + +You say my metaphors make you giddy.--My clear, you, without a metaphor +in your composition, do that to me! So it is not for you to complain; +your curses simply fly back to roost. Where do you pigeon-hole them? In +a pie? (I mean to write now until I have made you as giddy as a dancing +dervish!) _Your_ letters are much more like blackbirds: and I have a pie +of them here, twenty-four at least; and when I open it they sing +"Chewee, chewee, chewee!" in the most scared way! + +Your last but three said most solemnly, just as if you meant it, "I hope +you don't keep these miserables! Though I fill up my hollow hours with +them, there is no reason why they should fill up yours." You added that +I was better occupied--and here I am "better occupied" even as you bid +me. + +But one can jump best from a spring-board: and how could I jump as far +as your arms by letter, if I had not yours to jump from? + +So you see they are kept, and my disobedience of you has begun: and I +find disobedience wonderfully sweet. But then, you gave me a law which +you knew I should disobey:--that is the way the world began. It is not +for nothing that I am a daughter of Eve. + +And here is our world in our hands, yours and mine, now in the making. +Which day are the evening and the morning now? I think it must be the +birds'--and already, with the wings, disobedience has been reached! Make +much of it! the day will come when I shall wish to obey. There are +moments when I feel a wish taking hold of me stronger than I can +understand, that you should command me beyond myself--to things I have +not strength or courage for of my own accord. How close, dearest, when +that day comes, my heart will feel itself to yours! It feels close now: +but it is to your feet I am nearest, as yet. Lift me! There, there, +Beloved, I kiss you with all my will. Oh, dear heart, forgive me for +being no more than I am: your freehold to all eternity! + + + + +LETTER XI + + +Oh, Dearest: I have danced and I have danced till I am tired! I +am dropping with sleep, but I must just touch you and say good-night. +This was our great day of publishing, dearest, _ours_: all the world +knows it; and all admire your choice! I was determined they should. I +have been collecting scalps for you to hang at your girdle. All thought +me beautiful: people who never did so before. I wanted to say to them, +"Am I not beautiful? I am, am I not?" And it was not for myself I was +asking this praise. Beloved, I was wearing the magic rose--what you gave +me when we parted: you saying, alas, that you were not to be there. But +you _were_! Its leaves have not dropped nor the scent of it faded. I +kiss you out of the heart of it. Good-night: come to me in my first +dream! + + + + +LETTER XII. + + +Dearest: It has been such a funny day from post-time onwards:-- +congratulations on the great event are beginning to arrive in envelopes +and on wheels. Some are very kind and dear; and some are not so--only the +ordinary seemliness of polite sniffle-snaffle. Just after you had gone +yesterday, Mrs. ---- called and was told the news. Of course she knew _of_ +you: but didn't think she had ever seen you. "Probably he passed you at +the gates," I said. "What?" she went off with a view-hallo; "that +well-dressed sort of young fellow in gray, and a mustache, and knowing how +to ride? Met us in the lane. _Well_, my dear, I _do_ congratulate you!" + +And whether it was by the gray suit, or the mustache, or the knowing how +to ride that her congratulations were so emphatically secured, I know not! + +Others are yet more quaint, and more to my liking. Nan-nan is Nan-nan: I +cannot let you off what she said! No tears or sentiment came from her +to prevent me laughing: she brisked like an old war-horse at the first +word of it, and blessed God that it had come betimes, that she might be +a nurse again in her old age! She is a true "Mrs. Berry," and is ready +to make room for you in my affections for the sake of far-off divine +events, which promise renewed youth to her old bones. + +Roberts, when he brought me my pony this morning, touched his hat quick +twice over to show that the news brimmed in his body: and a very nice +cordial way of showing, I thought it! He was quite ready to talk when I +let him go; and he gave me plenty of good fun. He used to know you when +he was in service at the H----s, and speaks of you as being then "a +gallous young hound," whatever that may mean. I imagine "gallous" to be +a rustic Lewis Carroll compound, made up in equal parts of callousness +and gallantry, which most boys are, at some stage of their existence. + +What tales will you be getting of me out of Nan-nan, some day behind my +back, I wonder? There is one I shall forbid her to reveal: it shall be +part of my marriage-portion to show you early that you have got a wife +with a temper! + +Here is a whole letter that must end now,--and the great Word never +mentioned! It is good for you to be put upon _maigre_ fare, for once. I +ho_l_d my pen back with b_o_th hands: it wants so much to gi_v_e you +the forbidd_e_n treat. Oh, the serpent in the garden! See where it has +underlined its meaning. Frailty, thy pen is a J pen! + +Adieu, adieu, remember me. + + + + +LETTER XIII. + + +The letters? No, Beloved, I could not! Not yet. There you have caught me +where I own I am still shy of you. + +A long time hence, when we are a safely wedded pair, you shall turn them +over. It _may_ be a short time; but I will keep them however long. Indeed +I must ever keep them; they talk to me of the dawn of my existence,--the +early light before our sun rose, when my love of you was growing and had +not yet reached its full. + +If I disappoint you I will try to make up for it with something I wrote +long before I ever saw you. To-day I was turning over old things my mother +had treasured for me of my childhood--of days spent with her: things of +laughter as well as of tears; such a dear selection, so quaint and sweet, +with moods of her as I dimly remember her to have been. And among them was +this absurdity, written, and I suppose placed in the mouth of my stocking, +the Christmas I stayed with her in France. I remember the time as a great +treat, but nothing of this. "Nilgoes" is "Nicholas," you must understand! +How he must have laughed over me asleep while he read this! + + "Cher père Nilgoes. S'il vous plait voulez vous me donné + plus de jeux que des oranges des pommes et des pombons parc + que nous allons faire l'arbre de noel cette anné et les + jeaux ferait mieux pour l'arbre de Noel. Il ne faut pas dire + à petite mere s'il vous plait parce que je ne veut pas + quelle sache sil vous voulez venir ce soir du ceil pour que + vous pouvez me donner ce que je vous demande Dites bon jour + á la St. Viearge est à l'enfant Jeuses et à Ste Joseph. + Adieu cher St. Nilgoes." + +I haven't altered the spelling, I love it too well, prophetic of a fault +I still carry about me. How strange that little bit of invocation to the +dear folk above sounds to me now! My mother must have been teaching me +things after her own persuasion; most naturally, poor dear one--though +that too has gone like water off my mind. It was one of the troubles +between her and my father: the compact that I was to be brought up a +Catholic was dissolved after they separated; and I am sorry, thinking it +unjust to her; yet glad, content with being what I am. + +I must have been less than five when I penned this: I was always a +letter-writer, it seems. + +It is a reproach now from many that I have ceased to be: and to them I +fear it is true. That I have not truly ceased, "witness under my hand +these presents,"--or whatever may be the proper legal terms for an +affidavit. + +What were _you_ like, Beloved, as a very small child? Should I have loved +you from the beginning had we toddled to the rencounter; and would my love +have passed safely through the "gallous young hound" period; and could I +love you more now in any case, had I _all_ your days treasured up in my +heart, instead of less than a year of them? + +How strangely much have seven miles kept our fates apart! It seems +uncharacteristic for this small world,--where meetings come about so far +above the dreams of average--to have played us such a prank. + +This must do for this once, Beloved; for behold me busy to-day: with +_what_, I shall not tell you. I would like to put you to a test, as +ladies did their knights of old, and hardly ever do now--fearing, I +suppose, lest the species should altogether fail them at the pinch. I +would like to see if you could come here and sit with me from beginning +to end, _with your eyes shut_: never once opening them. I am not saying +whether I think curiosity, or affection, would make the attempt too +difficult. But if you were sure you could, you might come here +to-morrow--a day otherwise interdicted. Only know, having come, that if +you open those dear cupboards of vision and set eyes on things not yet +intended to be looked at, there will be confusion of tongues in this +Tower we are building whose top is to reach heaven. Will you come? I +don't _say_ "come"; I only want to know--will you? + +To-day my love flies low over the earth like a swallow before rain, and +touching the tops of the flowers has culled you these. Kiss them until +they open: they are full of my thoughts, as the world, to me, is full of +you. + + + + +LETTER XIV. + + +Own Dearest: Come I did not think that you would, or mean that you should +seriously; for is it not a poor way of love to make the object of it cut +an absurd or partly absurd figure? I wrote only as a woman having a secret +on the tip of her tongue and the tips of her fingers, and full of a +longing to say it and send it. + +Here it is at last: love me for it, I have worked so hard to get it done! +And you do not know why and what for? Beloved, it--_this_--is the +anniversary of the day we first met; and you have forgotten it already or +never remembered it:--and yet have been clamoring for "the letters"! + +On the first anniversary of our marriage, _if you remember it_, you shall +have those same letters: and not otherwise. So there they lie safe till +doomsday! + +The M.-A. has been very gracious and clear after her little outbreak of +yesterday: her repentances, after I have hurt her feelings, are so gentle +and sweet, they always fill me with compunction. Finding that I would go +on with the thing I was doing, she volunteered to come and read to me: a +requiem over the bone of contention which we had gnawed between us. Was +not that pretty and charitable? She read Tennyson's Life for a solid +hour, and continued it to-day. Isn't it funny that she should take up such +a book?--she who "can't abide" Tennyson or Browning or Shakespeare: only +likes Byron, I suppose because it was the right and fashionable liking +when she was young. Yet she is plodding through the Life religiously--only +skipping the verses. I have come across two little specimens of "Death and +the child" in it. His son, Lionel, was carried out in a blanket one night +in the great comet year, and waking up under the stars asked, "Am I dead?" +Number two is of a little girl at Wellington's funeral who saw his charger +carrying his _boots_, and asked, "Shall I be like that after I die?" + +A queer old lady came to lunch yesterday, a great traveler, though lame +on two crutches. We carefully hid all guide-books and maps, and held our +peace about next month, lest she should insist on coming too: though I +think Nineveh was the place she was most anxious to go to, if the M.-A. +would consent to accompany her! + +Good-by, dearest of one-year-old acquaintances! you, too, send your +blessing on the anniversary, now that my better memory has reminded you +of it! All that follow we will bless in company. I trust you are +one-half as happy as I am, my own, my own. + + + + +LETTER XV. + + +You told me, dearest, that I should find your mother formidable. It is +true; I did. She is a person very much in the grand pagan style: I admire +it, but I cannot flow in that sort of company, and I think she meant to +crush me. You were very wise to leave her to come alone. + +I like her: I mean I believe that under that terribleness she has a +heart of gold, which once opened would never shut: but she has not +opened it to me. I believe she could have a great charity, that no +evil-doing would dismay her: "stanch" sums her up. But I have done +nothing wrong enough yet to bring me into her good graces. Loving her +son, even, though, I fear, a great offense, has done me no good turn. + +Perhaps that is her inconsistency: women are sure to be inconsistent +somewhere: it is their birthright. + +I began to study her at once, to find _you_: it did not take long. How I +could love her, if she would let me! + +You know her far far better than I, and want no advice: otherwise I +would say--never praise me to her; quote my follies rather! To give +ground for her distaste to revel in will not deepen me in her bad books +so much as attempts to warp her judgment. + +I need not go through it all: she will have told you all that is to the +purpose about our meeting. She bristled in, a brave old fighting figure, +announcing compulsion in every line, but with all her colors flying. She +waited for the door to close, then said, "My son has bidden me come, I +suppose it is my duty: he is his own master now." + +We only shook hands. Our talk was very little of you. I showed her all the +horses, the dogs, and the poultry; she let the inspection appear to +conclude with myself: asked me my habits, and said I looked healthy. I +owned I felt it. "Looks and feelings are the most deceptive things in the +world," she told me; adding that "poor stock" got more than its share of +these. And when she said it I saw quite plainly that she meant me. + +I wonder where she gets the notion: for we are a long-lived race, both +sides of the family. I guessed that she would like frankness, and was as +frank as I could be, pretending no deference to her objections. "You +think you suit each other?" she asked me. My answer, "He suits me!" +pleased her maternal palate, I think. "Any girl might say that!" she +admitted. (She might indeed!) + +This is the part of our interview she will not have repeated to you. + +I was due at Hillyn when she was preparing to go: Aunt N---- came in, +and I left her to do the honors while I slipped on my habit. I rode by +your mother's carriage as far as the Greenway, where we branched. I +suppose that is what her phrase means that you quote about my "making a +trophy of her," and marching her a prisoner across the borders before +all the world! + +I do like her: she is worth winning.--Can one say warmer of a future +mother-in-law who stands hostile? + +All the same it was an ordeal. I believe I have wept since: for Benjy +scratched my door often yesterday evening, and looked most wistful when +I came out. Merely paltry self-love, dearest:--I am so little accustomed +to not being--liked. + +I think she will be more gracious in her own house. I have her formal +word that I am to come. Soon, not too soon, I will come over; and you +shall meet me and take me to see her. There is something in her +opposition that I can't fathom: I wondered twice was lunacy her notion: +she looked at me so hard. + +My mother's seclusion and living apart from us was not on _that_ +account. I often saw her: she was very dear and sweet to me, and had +quiet eyes the very reverse of a person mentally deranged. My father, I +know, went to visit her when she lay dying; and I remember we all wore +mourning. My uncle has told me they had a deep regard for each other: +but disagreed, and were independent enough to choose living apart. + +I do not remember my father ever speaking of her to us as children: but +I am sure there was no state of health to be concealed. + +Last night I was talking to Aunt N---- about her. "A very dear woman," +she told me, "but your father was never so much alive to her worth as +the rest of us." Of him she said, "A dear, fine fellow: but not at all +easy to get on with." Him, of course, I have a continuous recollection +of, and "a fine fellow" we did think him. My mother comes to me more +rarely, at intervals. + +Don't talk me down your mother's throat: but tell her as much as she cares +to know of this. I am very proud of my "stock" which she thinks "poor"! + +Dear, how much I have written on things which can never concern us +finally, and so should not ruffle us while they last! Hold me in your +heart always, always; and the world may turn adamant to me for aught I +care! Be in my dreams to-night! + + + + +LETTER XVI. + + +But, Dearest: When I think of you I never question whether what I think +would be true or false in the eyes of others. All that concerns you seems +to go on a different plane where evidence has no meaning or existence: +where nobody exists or means anything, but only we two alone, engaged in +bringing about for ourselves the still greater solitude of two into one. +Oh, Beloved, what a company that will be! Take me in your arms, fasten me +to your heart, breathe on me. Deny me either breath or the light of day: I +am yours equally, to live or die at your word. I shut my eyes to feel your +kisses falling on me like rain, or still more like sunshine,--yet most of +all like kisses, my own dearest and best beloved! + +Oh, we two! how wonderful we seem! And to think that there have been +lovers like us since the world began: and the world not able to tell us +one little word of it:--not well, so as to be believed--or only along +with sadness where Fate has broken up the heavens which lay over some +pair of lovers. Oenone's cry, "Ah me, my mountain shepherd," tells us +of the joy when it has vanished, and most of all I get it in that song +of wife and husband which ends:-- + + "Not a word for you, + Not a lock or kiss, + Good-by. + We, one, must part in two; + Verily death is this: + I must die." + +It was a woman wrote that: and we get love there! Is it only when joy is +past that we can give it its full expression? Even now, Beloved, I break +down in trying to say how I love you. I cannot put all my joy into my +words, nor all my love into my lips, nor all my life into your arms, +whatever way I try. Something remains that I cannot express. Believe, +dearest, that the half has not yet been spoken, neither of my love for +you, nor of my trust in you,--nor of a wish that seems sad, but comes in a +very tumult of happiness--the wish to die so that some unknown good may +come to you out of me. + +Not till you die, dearest, shall I die truly! I love you now too much for +your heart not to carry me to its grave, though I should die now, and you +live to be a hundred. I pray you may! I cannot choose a day for you to +die. I am too grateful to life which has given me to you to say--if I +were dying--"Come with me, dearest!" Though, how the words tempt me as I +write them!--Come with me, dearest: yes, come! Ah, but you kiss me more, I +think, when we say good-by than when meeting; so you will kiss me most of +all when I have to die:--a thing in death to look forward to! And, till +then,--life, life, till I am out of my depth in happiness and drown in +your arms! + +Beloved, that I can write so to you,--think what it means; what you have +made me come through in the way of love, that this, which I could not have +dreamed before, comes from me with the thought of you! You told me to be +still--to let you "worship": I was to write back acceptance of all your +dear words. Are you never to be at my feet, you ask. Indeed, dearest, I do +not know how, for I cannot move from where I am! Do you feel where my +thoughts kiss you? You would be vexed with me if I wrote it down, so I do +not. And after all, some day, under a bright star of Providence, I may +have gifts for you after my own mind which will allow me to grow proud. +Only now all the giving comes from you. It is I who am enriched by your +love, beyond knowledge of my former self. Are _you_ changed, dearest, by +anything I have done? + +My heart goes to you like a tree in the wind, and all these thoughts are +loose leaves that fly after you when I have to remain behind. Dear lover, +what short visits yours seem! and the Mother-Aunt tells me they are most +unconscionably long.--You will not pay any attention to _that_, please: +forever let the heavens fall rather than that a hint to such foul effect +should grow operative through me! + +This brings you me so far as it can:--such little words off so great a +body of--"liking" shall I call it? My paper stops me: it is my last sheet: +I should have to go down to the library to get more--else I think I could +not cease writing. + +More love than I can name.--Ever, dearest, your own. + + + + +LETTER XVII. + + +Dearest: Do I not write you long letters? It reveals my weakness. I have +thought (it had been coming on me, and now and then had broken out of me +before I met you) that, left to myself, I should have become a writer of +books--I scarcely can guess what sort--and gone contentedly into +middle-age with that instead of _this_ as my _raison d'être_. + +How gladly I lay down that part of myself, and say--"But for you, I had +been this quite other person, whom I have no wish to be now"! Beloved, +your heart is the shelf where I put all my uncut volumes, wondering a +little what sort of a writer I should have made; and chiefly wondering, +would _you_ have liked me in that character? + +There is one here in the family who considers me a writer of the darkest +dye, and does not approve of it. Benjy comes and sits most mournfully +facing me when I settle down on a sunny morning, such as this, to write: +and inquires, with all the dumbness a dog is capable of--"What has come +between us, that you fill up your time and mine with those cat's-claw +scratchings, when you should be in your woodland dress running [with] me +through damp places?" + +Having written this sentimental meaning into his eyes, and Benjy still +sitting watching me, I was seized with ruth for my neglect of him, and +took him to see his mother's grave. At the bottom of the long walk is our +dog's cemetery:--no tombstones, but mounds; and a dog-rose grows there and +flourishes as nowhere else. It was my fancy as a child to have it planted: +and I declare to you, it has taken wonderfully to the notion, as if it +_knew_ that it had relations of a higher species under its keeping. Benjy, +too, has a profound air of knowing, and never scratches for bones there, +as he does in other places. What horror, were I to find him digging up his +mother's skeleton! Would my esteem for him survive? + +When we got there to-day, he deprecated my choice of locality, asking +what I had brought him _there_ for. I pointed out to him the precise +mound which covered the object of his earliest affections, and gathered +you these buds. Are they not a deep color for wild ones?--if their blush +remains a fixed state till the post brings them to you. + +Through what flower would you best like to be passed back, as regards +your material atoms, into the spiritualized side of nature, when we +have done with ourselves in this life? No single flower quite covers all +my wants and aspirations. You and I would put our heads together +underground and evolve a new flower--"carnation, lily, lily, rose"--and +send it up one fine morning for scientists to dispute over and give +diabolical learned names to. What an end to our cozy floral +collaboration that would be! + +Here endeth the epistle: the elect salutes you. This week, if the +authorities permit, I shall be paying you a flying visit, with wings +full of eyes,--_and_, I hope, healing; for I believe you are seedy, and +that _that_ is what is behind it. You notice I have not complained. +Dearest, how could I! My happiness reaches to the clouds--that is, to +where things are not quite clear at present. I love you no more than I +ought: yet far more than I can name. Good-night and good-morning.--Your +star, since you call me so. + + + + +LETTER XVIII. + + +Dearest: Not having had a letter from you this morning, I have read over +some back ones, and find in one a bidding which I have never fulfilled, to +tell you what I _do_ all day. Was that to avoid the too great length of my +telling you what I _think_? Yet you get more of me this way than that. +What I do is every day so much the same: while what I think is always +different. However, since you want a woman of action rather than of brain, +here I start telling you. + +I wake punctual and hungry at the sound of Nan-nan's drawing of the +blinds: wait till she is gone (the old darling potters and tattles: it +is her most possessive moment of me in the day, except when I sham +headaches, and let her put me to bed); then I have my hand under my +pillow and draw out your last for a reading that has lost count whether +it is the twenty-second or the fifty-second time;--discover new beauties +in it, and run to the glass to discover new beauties in myself,--find +them; Benjy comes up with the post's latest, and behold, my day is +begun! + +Is that the sort of thing you want to know? My days are without an +action worth naming: I only think swelling thoughts, and write some of +them: if ever I do anything worth telling, be sure I run a pen-and-ink +race to tell you. No, it is man who _does_ things; a woman only diddles +(to adapt a word of diminutive sound for the occasion), unless, good, +fortunate, independent thing, she works for her own living: and that is +not me! + +I feel sometimes as if a real bar were between me and a whole conception +of life; because I have carpets and curtains, and Nan-nan, and Benjy, +and last of all you--shutting me out from the realities of existence. + +If you would all leave me just for one full moon, and come back to me +only when I am starving for you all--for my tea to be brought to me in +the morning, and all the paddings and cushionings which bolster me up +from morning till night--with what a sigh of wisdom I would drop back +into your arms, and would let you draw the rose-colored curtains round +me again! + +Now I am afraid lest I have become too happy: I am leaning so far out of +window to welcome the dawn, I seem to be tempting a fall--heaven itself +to fall upon me. + +What do I _know_ truly, who only know so much happiness? + +Dearest, if there is anything else in love which I do not know, teach it +me quickly: I am utterly yours. If there is sorrow to give, give it me! +Only let me have with it the consciousness of your love. + +Oh, my dear, I lose myself if I think of you so much. What would life +have without you in it? The sun would drop from my heavens. I see only +by you! you have kissed me on the eyes. You are more to me than my own +poor brain could ever have devised: had I started to invent Paradise, I +could not have invented _you_. But perhaps you have invented me: I am +something new to myself since I saw you first. God bless you for it! + +Even if you were to shut your eyes at me now--though I might go blind, +you could not unmake me:--"The gods themselves cannot recall their +gifts." Also that I am yours is a gift of the gods, I will trust: and +so, not to be recalled! + +Kiss me, dearest; here where I have written this! I am yours, Beloved. I +kiss you again and again.--Ever your own making. + + + + +LETTER XIX. + + +Dearest, Dearest: How long has this happened? You don't tell me the day or +the hour. Is it ever since you last wrote? Then you have been in pain and +grief for four days: and I not knowing anything about it! And you have no +hand in the house kind enough to let you dictate by it one small word to +poor me? What heartless merrymakings may I not have sent you to worry you, +when soothing was the one thing wanted? Well, I will not worry now, then; +neither at not being told, nor at not being allowed to come: but I will +come thus and thus, O my dear heart, and take you in my arms. And you will +be comforted, will you not be? when I tell you that even if you had no +legs at all, I would love you just the same. Indeed, dearest, so much of +you is a superfluity: just your heart against mine, and the sound of your +voice, would carry me up to more heavens than I could otherwise have +dreamed of. I may say now, now that I know it was not your choice, what a +void these last few days the lack of letters has been to me. I wondered, +truly, if you had found it well to put off such visible signs for a while +in order to appease one who, in other things more essential, sees you +rebellious. But the wonder is over now; and I don't want you to write--not +till a consultation of doctors orders it for the good of your health. I +will be so happy talking to you: also I am sending you books:--those I +wish you to read; and which now you _must_, since you have the leisure! +And I for my part will make time and read yours. Whose do you most want me +to read, that my education in your likings may become complete? What I +send you will not deprive me of anything: for I have the beautiful +complete set--your gift--and shall read side by side with you to realize +in imagination what the happiness of reading them for the first time ought +to be. + +Yesterday, by a most unsympathetic instinct, I went out for a long tramp +on my two feet; and no ache in them came and told me of you! Over +Sillingford I sat on a bank and looked downhill where went a carter. And +I looked uphill where lay something which might be nothing--or not his. +Now, shall I make a fool of myself by pursuing to tell him he may have +dropped something, or shall I go on and see? So I went on and saw a coat +with a fat pocket: and by then he was out of sight, and perhaps it +wasn't his; and it was very hot and the hill steep. So I minded my own +business, making Cain's motto mine; and now feel so had, being quite +sure that it was his. And I wonder how many miles he will have tramped +back looking for it, and whether his dinner was in the pocket. + +These unintentional misdoings are the "sins" one repents of all one's +life long: I have others stored away, the bitterest of small things done +or undone in haste and repented of at so much leisure afterwards. And +always done to people or things I had no grudge against, sometimes even +a love for. They are my skeletons: I will tell you of them some day. + +This, dearest, is our first enforced absence from each other; and I feel +it almost more hard on me than on you. Beloved, let us lay our hearts +together and get comforted. It is not real separation to know that +another part of the world contains the rest of me. Oh, the rest of me, +the rest of me that you are! So, thinking of you, I can never be tired. +I rest yours. + + + + +LETTER XX. + + +Yes, Dearest, "Patience!" but it is a virtue I have little enough of +naturally, and used to be taught to pray for as a child. And I remember +once really hurting clear Mother-Aunt's feelings by trying to repay her +for that teaching by a little iniquitous laughter at her expense. It was +too funny for me to feel very contrite about, as I do sometimes over quite +small things, or I would not be telling it you now (for there are things +in me I would conceal even from you). I dare say you wouldn't guess it, +but the M.-A. is a most long person over her private devotions. Perhaps it +was her own habit, with the cares of a household sometimes conflicting, +which made her recite to me so often her pet legend of a saintly person +who, constantly interrupted over her prayers by mundane matters, became a +pattern in patience out of these snippings of her godly desires. So, one +day, angels in the disguise of cross people with selfish demands on her +time came seeking to know where in her composition or composure +exasperation began: and finding none, they let her return in peace to her +missal, where for a reward all the letters had been turned into gold. "And +that, my dear, comes of patience," my aunt would say, till I grew a little +tired of the saying. I don't know what experience my uncle had gathered of +her patience under like circumstances: but I notice that to this day he +treads delicately, like Agag, when he knows her to be on her knees; and +prefers then to send me on his errands instead of doing them himself. + +So it happened one day that he wanted a particular coat which had been put +away in her clothes-closet--and she was on her knees between him and it, +with the time of her Amen quite indefinite. I was sent, said my errand +briefly, and was permitted to fumble out her keys from her pocket while +she continued to kneel over her morning psalms. + +What I brought to him turned out to be the wrong coat: I went back and +knocked for readmittance. Long-sufferingly she bade me to come in. I +explained, and still she repressed herself, only saying in a tone of +affliction, "Do see this time that you take the right one!" + +After I had made my second selection, and proved it right on my uncle's +person, the parallelism of things struck me, and I skipped back to my +aunt's door and tapped. I got a low wailing "Yes?" for answer--a +monosyllabic substitute for the "How long, O Lord?" of a saint in +difficulties. When I called through the keyhole, "Are your psalms +written in gold?" she became really angry:--I suppose because the +miracle so well earned had not come to pass. + +Well, dearest, if you have been patient with me over so much about +nothing, I pray this letter may appear to you written in gold. Why I +write so is, partly, that, it is bad for us both to be down in the +mouth, or with hearts down at heel: and so, since you cannot, I have to +do the dancing;--and, partly, because I found I had a bad temper on me +which needed curing, and being brought to the sun-go-down point of owing +no man anything. Which, sooner said, has finally been done; and I am +very meek now and loving to you, and everything belonging to you--not to +come nearer the sore point. + +And I hope some day, some day, as a reward to my present submission, +that you will sprain your ankle in my company (just a very little bit +for an excuse) and let me have the nursing of it! It hurts my heart to +have your poor bones crying out for comfort that I am not to bring to +them. I feel robbed of a part of my domestic training, and may never +pick up what I have just lost. And I fear greatly you must have been +truly in pain to have put off Meredith for a day. If I had been at hand +to read to you, I flatter myself you would have liked him well, and +been soothed. You must take the will, Beloved, for the deed. I kiss you +now, as much as even you can demand; and when you get this I will be +thinking of you all over again.--When do I ever leave off? Love, love, +love till our next meeting-, and then more love still, and more!--Ever +your own. + + + + +LETTER XXI. + + +Dearest: I am in a simple mood to-day, and give you the benefit of it: +I shall become complicated again presently, and you will hear from me +directly that happens. + +The house only emptied itself this morning; I may say emptied, for the +remainder fits like a saint into her niche, and is far too comfortable +to count. This is C----, whom you only once met, when she sat so much in +the background that you will not remember her. She has one weakness, a +thirst between meals--the blameless thirst of a rabid teetotaler. She +hides cups of cold tea about the place, as a dog its bones: now and then +one gets spilled or sat on, and when she hears of the accident, she +looks thirsty, with a thirst which only _that_ particular cup of tea +could have quenched. In no other way is she any trouble: indeed, she is +a great dear, and has the face of a Madonna, as beautiful as an +apocryphal gospel to look at and "make believe" in. + +Arthur, too, like the rest of them, when he came over to give me his +brotherly blessing, wished to know what you were like. I didn't pretend +to remember your outward appearance too well,--told him you looked like +a common or garden Englishman, and roused his suspicions by so careless +a championship of my choice. He accused me of being in reality highly +sentimental about you, and with having at that moment your portrait +concealed and strung around my neck in a locket. Mother-Aunt stood up +for me against him, declaring I was "too sensible a girl for nonsense of +that sort." (It is a little weakness of hers, you know, to resent +extremes of endearment towards anyone but herself in those she has +"brooded," and she has thought us hitherto most restrained and +proper--as, indeed, have we not been?) Arthur and I exchanged tokens of +truce: in a little while off went my aunt to bed, leaving us alone. +Then, for he is the one of us that I am most frank with: "Arthur," cried +I, and up came your little locket like a bucket from a well, for him to +have his first sight of you, my Beloved. He objected that he could not +see faces in a nutshell; and I suppose others cannot: only I. + +He, too, is gone. If you had been coming he would have spared another +day--for to-day _was_ planned and dated, you will remember--and we would +have ridden halfway to meet you. But, as fate has tripped you, and made +all comings on your part indefinite, he sends you his hopes for a later +meeting. + +How is your poor foot? I suppose, as it is ill, I may send it a kiss by +post and wish it well? I do. Truly, you are to let me know if it gives +you much pain, and I will lie awake thinking of you. This is not +sentimental, for if one knows that a friend is occupied over one's +sleeplessness one feels the comfort. + +I am perplexed how else to give you my company: your mother, I know, +could not yet truly welcome me; and I wish to be as patient as possible, +and not push for favors that are not offered. So I cannot come and ask +to take you out in _her_ carriage, nor come and carry you away in mine. +We must try how fast we can hold hands at a distance. + +I have kept up to where you have been reading in "Richard Feverel," +though it has been a scramble: for I have less opportunity of reading, I +with my feet, than you without yours. In _your_ book I have just got to +the smuggling away of General Monk in the perforated coffin, and my +sense of history capitulates in an abandonment of laughter. I yield! The +Gaul's invasion of Britain always becomes broad farce when he attempts +it. This in clever ludicrousness beats the unintentional comedy of +Victor Hugo's "John-Jim-Jack" as a name typical of Anglo-Saxon +christenings. But Dumas, through a dozen absurdities, knows apparently +how to stalk his quarry: so large a genius may play the fool and remain +wise. + +You see I have given your author a warm welcome at last: and what about +you and mine? Tell me you love his women and I will not be jealous. +Indeed, outside him I don't know where to find a written English woman +of modern times whom I would care to meet, or could feel honestly bound +to look up to:--nowhere will I have her shaking her ringlets at me in +Dickens or Thackeray. Scott is simply not modern; and Hardy's women, if +they have nobility in them, get so cruelly broken on the wheel that you +get but the wrecks of them at last. It is only his charming baggages who +come to a good ending. + +I like an author who has the courage and self-restraint to leave his noble +creations alive: too many try to ennoble them by death. For my part, if I +have to go out of life before you, I would gladly trust you to the hands +of Clara, or Rose, or Janet, or most of all Vittoria; though, to be +accurate, I fear they have all grown too old for you by now. + +And you? have you any men to offer me in turn out of your literary +admirations, supposing you should die of a snapped ankle? Would you give +me to d'Artagnan for instance? Hardly, I suspect! But either choose me +some proxy hero, or get well and come to me! You will be very welcome +when you do. Sleep is making sandy eyes at me: good-night, dearest. + + + + +LETTER XXII. + + +Why, my Beloved: Since you put it to me as a point of conscience (it is +only lying on your back with one active leg doing nothing, and the other +dying to have done aching, which has made you take this new start of +inquiring within upon everything), since you call on me for a +conscientious answer, I say that it stands to reason that I love you more +than you love me, because there is so much more of you to love, let alone +fit for loving. + +Do you imagine that you are going to be a cripple for life, and therefore +an indifferent dancer in the dances I shall always be leading you, that +you have started this fit of self-depreciation? Or is it because I have +thrown Meredith at your sick head that you doubt my tact and my affection, +and my power patiently to bear for your sake a good deal of cold shoulder? +Dearest, remember I am doctoring you from a distance: and am not yet +allowed to come and see my patient, so can only judge from your letters +how ill you are. That you have been concealing from me almost +treacherously: and only by a piece of abject waylaying did I receive word +to-day of your sleepless nights, and so get the key to your symptoms. Lay +by Meredith, then, for a while: I am sending you a cargo of Stevenson +instead. You have been truly unkind, trying to read what required effort, +when you were fit for nothing of the sort. + +And lest even Stevenson should be too much for you, and wanting very much, +and perhaps a little bit jealously, to be your most successful nurse, I am +letting my last large bit of shyness of you go; and with a pleasant sort +of pain, because I know I have hit on a thing that will please you, I open +my hands and let you have these, and with them goes my last blush: +henceforth I am a woman without a secret, and all your interest in me may +evaporate. Yet I know well it will not. + +As for this resurrection pie from love's dead-letter office, you will +find from it at least one thing--how much I depended upon response from +you before I could become at all articulate. It is you, dearest, from +the beginning who have set my head and heart free and made me a woman. I +am something quite different from the sort of child I was less than a +year ago when I wrote that small prayer which stands sponsor for all +that follows. How abundantly it has been answered, dearest Beloved, +only I know: you do not! + +Now my prayer is not that you should "come true," but that you should +get well. Do this one little thing for me, dearest! For you I will do +anything: my happiness waits for that. As yet I seem to have done +nothing. Oh, but, Beloved, I will! From a reading of the Fioretti, I +sign myself as I feel.--Your glorious poor little one. + + + + +THE CASKET LETTERS. + + +A. + + my dear Prince Wonderful,[1] + +Pray God bless ---- ---- and make him come true for my sake. Amen. + +_R.S.V.P._ + +[Footnote 1: The MS. contained at first no name, but a blank; over it +this has been written afterwards in a small hand.] + + +B. + +Dear Prince Wonderful: Now that I have met you I pray that you will be my +friend. I want just a little of your friendship, but that, so much, so +much! And even for that little I do not know how to ask. + +Always to be _your_ friend: of that you shall be quite sure. + + +C. + +Dear Prince Wonderful: Long ago when I was still a child I told myself +of you: but thought of you only as in a fairy tale. Now I am afraid of +trusting my eyes or ears, for fear I should think too much of you before +I know you really to be true. Do not make me wish so much to be your +friend, unless you are also going to be true! + +Please come true now, for mine and for all the world's sake:--but for +mine especially, because I thought of you first! And if you are not able +to come true, don't make me see you any more. I shall always remember +you, and be glad that I have seen you just once. + + +D. + +Dear Prince Wonderful: _Has_ God blessed you yet and made you come true? I +have not seen you again, so how am I to know? Not that it is necessary for +me to know even if you do come true. I believe already that you are true. + +If I were never to see you again I should be glad to think of you as +living, and shall always be your friend. I pray that you may come to +know that. + + +E. + +Dear Highness: I do not know what to write to you: I only know how much I +wish to write. I have always written the things I thought about: it has +been easy to find words for them. Now I think about you, but have no +words:--no words, dear Highness, for you! I could write at once if I knew +you were my friend. Come true for me: I will have so much to tell you +then! + + +F. + +Dear Highness: If I believe in fairy tales coming true, it is because I am +superstitious. This is what I did to-day. I shut my eyes and took a book +from the shelf, opened it, and put my fingers down on a page. This is what +I came to: + + "All I believed is true! + I am able yet + All I want to get + By a method as strange as new: + Dare I trust the same to you?" + +Fate says, then, you are to be my friend. Fate has said I am yours +already. That is very certain. Only in real life where things come true +would a book have opened as this has done. + + +G. + +Dear Highness: I am sure now, then, that I please you, and that you like +me, perhaps only a little: for you turned out of your way to ride with me +though you were going somewhere so fast. How much I wished it when I saw +you coming, but dared not believe it would come true! + +"Come true": it is the word I have always been writing, and everything +_has_:--you most of all! You are more true each time I see you. So true +that now I will write it down at last,--the truth for you who have come +so true. + +Dear Highness and Great Heart, I love you dearly, though you don't know +it,--quite ever so much; and am going to love you ever so much more, +only--please like _me_ a little better first! You on your dear side must +do something: or, before I know, I may be wringing my hands all alone on +a desert island to a bare blue horizon, with nothing in it real or +fabulous. + +If I am to love you, nothing but happiness is to be allowed to come of +it. So don't come true too fast without one little wee corresponding +wish for me to find that you are! I am quite happy thinking you out +slowly: it takes me all day long; the longer the better! + +I wonder how often in my life I shall write down that I love you, having +once written it (I do:--I love you! there [it] is for you, with more to +follow after!); and send you my love as I do now into the great +emptiness of chance, hoping somehow, known or unknown, it may bless you +and bring good to you. + +Oh, but 'tis a windy world, and I a mere feather in it: how can I get +blown the way I would? + +Still I have a superstition that some star is over me which I have not +seen yet, but shall,--Heaven helping me. + +And now good-night, and no more, no more at all! I send out an "I love +you" to be my celestial commercial traveler for me while I fold myself +up and become its sleeping partner. + +Good-night: you are the best and truest that I ever dreamed yet. + + +H. + +Dear Highness: I begin not to be able to name you anything, for there is +not a word for you that will do! "Highness" you are: but that leaves gaps +and coldnesses without end. "Royal," yet much more serene than royal: +though by that I don't mean any detraction from your royalty, for I never +saw a man carry his invisible crown with so level a head and no +haughtiness at all: and that is the finest royalty of look possible. + +I look at you and wonder so how you have grown to this--to have become +king so quietly without any coronation ceremony. You have thought more +than you should for happiness at your age; making me, by that one line +in your forehead, think you were three years older than you really are. +I wish--if I dare wish you anything different--that you were! It makes +me uncomfortable to remember that I am--what? Almost half a year your +elder as time flies:--not really, for your brain was born long before +mine began to rattle in its shell. You say quite _old_ things, and +quietly, as if you had had them in your mind ten years already. When you +told me about your two old pensioners, the blind man and his wife, whom +you brought to so funny a reconciliation, I felt ("mir war, ich wuszte +nicht wie") that I would like very much to go blindfold led by you: it +struck me suddenly how happy would be a blindfoldness of perfect trust +such as one might have with your hands on one. I suppose that is what in +religion is called faith: I haven't it there, my dear; but I have it in +you now. I love you, beginning to understand why: at first I did not. I +am ashamed not to have discovered it earlier. The matter with you is +that you have goodness prevailing in you, an integrity of goodness, I +mean:--a different thing from there being a whereabouts for goodness in +you; _that_ we all have in some proportion or another. I was quite right +to love you: I know it now,--I did not when I first did. + +Yesterday I was turning over a silly "confession book" in which a rose was +everybody's favorite flower, manliness the finest quality for a man, and +womanliness for a woman (which is as much as to say that pig is the best +quality for pork, and pork for pig): till I came upon one different from +the others, and found myself saying "Yes" all down the page. + +I turned over for the signature, and found my own mother's. Was it not a +strange sweet meeting? And only then did the memory of her handwriting +from far back come to me. She died, dear Highness, before I was seven +years old. I love her as I do my early memory of flowers, as something +very sweet, hardly as a real person. + +I noticed she loved best in men and women what they lack most often: in a +man, a fair mind; in a woman, courage. "Brave women and fair men," she +wrote. Byron might have turned in his grave at having his dissolute +stiff-neck so wrung for him by misquotation. And she--it must have been +before the eighties had started the popular craze for him--chose Meredith, +my own dear Meredith, for her favorite author. How our tastes would have +run together had she lived! + +Well, I know you fair, and believe myself brave--constitutionally, so +that I can't help it: and this, therefore, is not self-praise. But +fairness in a man is a deadly hard acquirement, I begin now to discover. +You have it fixed fast in you. + +You, I think, began to do just things consciously, as the burden of +manhood began in you. I love to think of you growing by degrees till you +could carry your head _so_--and no other way; so that, looking at you, I +can promise myself you never did a mean thing, and never consciously an +unjust thing except to yourself. I can just fancy that fault in you. +But, whatever--I love you for it more and more, and am proud knowing you +and finding that we are to become friends. For it is that, and no less +than that, now. + +I love you; and me you like cordially: and that is enough. I need not +look behind it, for already I have no way to repay you for the happiness +this brings me. + + +I. + +Oh, I think greatly of you, my dear; and it takes long thinking. Not +merely such a quantity of thought, but such a quality, makes so hard a +day's work that by the end of it I am quite drowsy. Bless me, dearest; all +to-day has belonged to you; and to-morrow, I know, waits to become yours +without the asking: just as without the asking I too am yours. I wish it +were more possible for us to give service to those we love. I am most glad +because I see you so often: but I come and go in your life empty-handed, +though I have so much to give away. Thoughts, the best I have, I give you: +I cannot empty my brain of them. Some day you shall think well of me.--That +is a vow, dear friend,--you whom I love so much! + + +J. + +I have not had to alter any thought ever formed about you, Beloved; I have +only had to deepen it--that is all. You grow, but you remain. I have heard +people talk about you, generally kindly; but what they think of you is +often wrong. I do not say anything, but I am glad, and so sure that I know +you better. If my mind is so clear about you, it shows that you are good +for me. Now for nearly three months I may not see you again; but all that +time you will be growing in my heart; and at the end without another word +from you I shall find that I know you better than before. Is that strange? +It is because I love you: love is knowledge--blind knowledge, not wanting +eyes. I only hope that I shall keep in your memory the kind place you have +given me. You are almost my friend now, and I know it. You do not know +that I love you. + + +K. + +Beloved: You love me! I know it now, and bless the sun and the moon and +the stars for the dear certainty of it. And I ask you now, O heart that +has opened to me, have I once been unhappy or impatient while this good +thing has been withheld from me? Indeed my love for you has occupied me +too completely: I have been so glad to find how much there is to learn in +a good heart deeply unconscious of its own goodness. You have employed me +as I wish I may be employed all the days of my life: and now my beloved +employer has given me the wages I did not ask. + +You love me! Is it a question of little or much? Is it not rather an +entire new thought of me that has entered your life, as the thought of you +entered mine months that seem years ago? It was the seed then, and seemed +small; but the whole life was there; and it has grown and grown till now +it is I who have become small, and have hardly room in me for the roots: +and it seems to have gone so far up over my head that I wonder if the +stars know of my happiness. + +They must know of yours too, then, my Beloved: they are no company for me +without you. Oh, to-day, to-day of all days! how in my heart I shall go on +kissing it till I die! You love me: that is wonderful! You love me: and +already it is not wonderful in the least! but belongs to Noah and the ark +and all the animals saved up for an earth washed clean and dried, and the +new beginnings of time which have ever since been twisting and turning +with us in safe keeping through all the history of the world. + +"We came over at the Norman conquest," my dear, as people say trailing +their pedigree: but there was no ancestral pride about us--it was all for +the love of the thing we did it: how clear it seems now! In the hall hangs +a portrait in a big wig, but otherwise the image of my father, of a man +who flouted the authority of James II. merely because he was so like my +father in character that he could do nothing else. I shall look for you +now in the Bayeux tapestries with a prong from your helmet down the middle +of your face--of which that line on your forehead is the remainder. And +you love me! I wonder what the line has to do with that? + +By such little things do great things seem to come about: not really. I +know it was not because I said just what I did say, and did what I did +yesterday, that your heart was bound to come for mine. But it was those +small things that brought you consciousness: and when we parted I knew +that I had all the world at my feet--or all heaven over my head! + +Ah, at last I may let the spirit of a kiss go to you from me, and not be +ashamed or think myself forward since I have your love. All this time you +are thinking of me: a certainty lying far outside what I can see. + +Beloved, if great happiness may be set to any words, it is here! If +silence goes better with it,--speak, silence, for me when I end now! + +Good-night, and think greatly of me! I shall wake early. + + +L. + +Dearest: Was my heart at all my own,--was it my own to give, till you came +and made me aware of how much it contains? Truly, dear, it contained +nothing before, since now it contains you and nothing else. So I have a +brand-new heart to give away: and you, you want it and can't see that +there it is staring you in the face like a rose with all its petals ready +to drop. + +I am quite sure that if I had not met you, I could have loved nobody as I +love you. Yet it is very likely that I should have loved--sufficiently, as +the way of the world goes. It is not a romantic confession, but it is true +to life: I do so genuinely like most of my fellow-creatures, and am not +happy except where shoulders rub socially:--that is to say, have not until +now been happy, except dependently on the company and smiles of others. +Now, Beloved, I have none of your company, and have had but few of your +smiles (I could count them all); yet I have become more happy filling up +my solitude with the understanding of you which has made me wise, than +all the rest of fate or fortune could make me. Down comes autumn's sad +heart and finds me gay; and the asters, which used to chill me at their +appearing, have come out like crocuses this year because it is the +beginning of a new world. + +And all the winter will carry more than a suspicion of summer with it, +just as the longest days carry round light from northwest to northeast, +because so near the horizon, but out of sight, lies their sun. So you, +Beloved, so near to me now at last, though out of sight. + + +M. + +Beloved: Whether I have sorry or glad things to think about, they are +accompanied and changed by thoughts of you. You are my diary:--all goes to +you now. That you love me is the very light by which I see everything. +Also I learn so much through having you in my thoughts: I cannot say how +it is, for I have no more knowledge of life than I had before:--yet I am +wiser, I believe, knowing much more what lives at the root of things and +what men have meant and felt in all they have done:--because I love you, +dearest. Also I am quicker in my apprehensions, and have more joy and more +fear in me than I had before. And if this seems to be all about myself, +it is all about you really, Beloved! + +Last week one of my dearest old friends, our Rector, died: a character you +too would have loved. He was a father to the whole village, rather stern +of speech, and no respecter of persons. Yet he made a very generous +allowance for those who did not go through the church door to find their +salvation. I often went only because I loved him: and he knew it. + +I went for that reason alone last Sunday. The whole village was full of +closed blinds: and of all things over him Chopin's Funeral March was +played!--a thing utterly unchristian in its meaning: wild pagan grief, +desolate over lost beauty. "Balder the beautiful is dead, is dead!" it +cried: and I thought of you suddenly; you, who are not Balder at all. +Too many thorns have been in your life, but not the mistletoe stroke +dealt by a blind god ignorantly. Yet in all great joy there is the +Balder element: and I feared lest something might slay it for me, and my +life become a cry like Chopin's march over mown-down unripened grass, +and youth slain in its high places. + +After service a sort of processional instinct drew people up to the house: +they waited about till permission was given, and went in to look at their +old man, lying in high state among his books. I did not go. Beloved, I +have never yet seen death: you have, I know. Do you, I wonder, remember +your father better than I mine:--or your brother? Are they more living +because you saw them once not living? I think death might open our eyes to +those we lived on ill terms with, but not to the familiar and dear. I do +not need you dead, to be certain that your heart has mine for its true +inmate and mine yours. + +I love you, I love you: so let good-night bring you good-morning! + + +N. + +At long intervals, dearest, I write to you a secret all about yourself for +my eyes to see: because, chiefly because, I have not you to look at. Thus +I bless myself with you. + +Away over the world west of this and a little bit north is the city of +spires where you are now. Never having seen it I am the more free to +picture it as I like: and to me it is quite full of you:--quite greedily +full, Beloved, when elsewhere you are so much wanted! I send my thoughts +there to pick up crumbs for me. + +It is a strange blend of notions--wisdom and ignorance combined: for +_you_ I seem to know perfectly; but of your life nothing at all. And +yet nobody there knows so much about you as I. What you _do_ matters so +much less than what you are. You, who are the clearest heart in all the +world, do what you will, you are so still to me, Beloved. + +I take a happy armful of thoughts about you into all my dreams: and when +I wake they are there still, and have done nothing but remain true. What +better can I ask of them? + +You do love me: you have not changed? Without change I remain yours so +long as I live. + + +O. + +And you, Beloved, what are you thinking of me all this while? Think well +of me, I beg you: I deserve so much, loving you as truly as I do! + +So often, dearest, I sit thinking my hands into yours again as when we +were saying good-by the last time. Then it was, under our laughter and +light words, that I saw suddenly how the thing too great to name had +become true, that from friends we were changed into lovers. It seemed the +most natural thing to be, and yet was wonderful--for it was I who loved +you first: a thing I could never be ashamed of, and am now proud to +own--for has it not proved me wise? My love for you is the best wisdom +that I have. Good-night, dearest! Sleep as well as I love you, and nobody +in the world will sleep so soundly. + + +P. + +A few times in my life, Beloved, I have had the Blue-moon-hunger for +something which seemed too impossible and good ever to come true: prosaic +people call it being "in the blues"; I comfort myself with a prettier word +for it. To-day, not the Blue-moon itself, but the Man of it came down and +ate plum-porridge with me! Also, I do believe that it burnt his mouth, and +am quite reasonably happy thinking so, since it makes me know that you +love me as much as ever. + +If I have had doubts, dearest, they have been of myself, lest I might be +unworthy of your friendship or love. Suspicions of you I never had. + +Who wrote that suspicions among thoughts are like bats among birds, flying +only by twilight? + +But even my doubts have been thoughts, Beloved,--sure of you if not always +of myself. And if I have looked for you only with doubtful vision, yet I +have always seen you in as strong a light as my eyes could bear:-- +blue-moonlight. Beloved, is not twilight: and blue-moonlight has been the +light I saw you by: it is you alone who can make sunlight of it. + +This I read yesterday has lain on my mind since as true and altogether +beautiful, with the beauty of major, not of minor poetry, though it was +a minor poet who wrote it. It is of a wood where Apollo has gone in +quest of his Beloved, and she is not yet to be found: + + "Here each branch + Sway'd with a glitter all its crowded leaves, + And brushed the soft divine hair touching them + In ruffled clusters.... + + Suddenly the moon + Smoothed herself out of vapor-drift and made + The deep night full of pleasure in the eye + Of her sweet motion. Not alone she came + Leading the starlight with her like a song: + And not a bud of all that undergrowth + But crisped and tingled out an ardent edge + As the light steeped it: over whose massed leaves + The portals of illimitable sleep + Faded in heaven." + +That is love in its moonrise, not its sunrise stage: yet you see. +Beloved, how it takes possession of its dark world, quite as fully as +the brighter sunlight could do. And if I speak of doubts, I mean no +twilight and no suspicions: nor by darkness do I mean any unhappiness. + +My blue-moon has come, leading the starlight with her like a song. Am I +not happy enough to be patiently yours before you know it? Good things +which are to be, before they happen are already true. Nothing is so true +as you are, except my love for you and yours for me. Good-night, +good-night. + +Sleep well, Beloved, and wake. + + +Q. + +Beloved: I heard somebody yesterday speak of you as "charming"; and I +began wondering to myself was that the word which could ever have covered +my thoughts of you? I do not know whether you ever charmed me, except in +the sense of charming which means magic and spell-binding. _That_ you did +from the beginning, dearest. But I think I held you at first in too much +awe to discover charm in you: and at last knew you too much to the depths +to name you by a word so lightly used for the surface of things. Yet now a +charm in you, which is not _all_ you, but just a part of you, comes to +light, when I see you wondering whether you are really loved, or whether, +Beloved, I only _like_ you rather well! + +Well, if you will be so "charming," I am helpless: and can do nothing, +nothing, but pray for the blue-moon to rise, and love you a little better +because you have some of that divine foolishness which strikes the very +wise ones of earth, and makes them kin to weaker mortals who otherwise +might miss their "charm" altogether. + +Truly, Beloved, if I am happy, it is because I am also your most patiently +loving. + + +R. + +Beloved: The certainty which I have now that you love me so fills all my +thoughts, I cannot understand you being in any doubt on your side. What +must I do that I do not do, to show gladness when we meet and sorrow when +we have to part? I am sure that I make no pretense or disguise, except +that I do not stand and wring my hands before all the world, and cry +"Don't go!"--which has sometimes been in my mind, to be kept _not_ said! + +Indeed, I think so much of you, my dear, that I believe some day, if you +do your part, you will only have to look up from your books to find me +standing. If you did, would you still be in doubt whether I loved you? + +Oh, if any apparition of me ever goes to you, all my thoughts will surely +look truthfully out of its eyes; and even you will read what is there at +last! + +Beloved, I kiss your blind eyes, and love them the better for all their +unreadiness to see that I am already their slave. Not a day now but I +think I may see you again: I am in a golden uncertainty from hour to hour. + +I love you: you love me: a mist of blessing swims over my eyes as I write +the words, till they become one and the same thing: I can no longer divide +their meaning in my mind. Amen: there is no need that I should. + + +S. + +Beloved: I have not written to you for quite a long time: ah, I could not. +I have nothing now to say! I think I could very easily die of this great +happiness, so certainly do you love me! Just a breath more of it and I +should be gone. + +Good-by, dearest, and good-by, and good-by! If you want letters from me +now, you must ask for them! That the earth contains us both, and that we +love each other, is about all that I have mind enough to take in. I do not +think I can love you more than I do: you are no longer my dream but my +great waking thought. I am waiting for no blue-moonrise now: my heart has +not a wish which you do not fulfill. I owe you my whole life, and for any +good to you must pay it out to the last farthing, and still feel myself +your debtor. + +Oh, Beloved, I am most poor and most rich when I think of your love. +Good-night; I can never let thought of you go! + + * * * * * + +Beloved: These are almost all of them, but not quite; a few here and there +have cried to be taken out, saying they were still too shy to be looked +at. I can't argue with them: they know their own minds best; and you know +mine. + +See what a dignified historic name I have given this letter-box, or +chatterbox, or whatever you like to call it. But "Resurrection Pie" is +_my_ name for it. Don't eat too much of it, prays your loving. + + + + +LETTER XXIII. + + +Saving your presence, dearest, I would rather have Prince Otto, a very +lovable character for second affections to cling to. Richard Feverel would +never marry again, so I don't ask for him: as for the rest, they are all +too excellent for me. They give me the impression of having worn +copy-books under their coats, when they were boys, to cheat punishment: +and the copy-books got beaten into their systems. + +You must find me somebody who was a "gallous young hound" in the days of +his youth--Crossjay, for instance:--there! I have found the very man for +me! + +But really and truly, are you better? It will not hurt your foot to come +to me, since I am not to come to you? How I long to see you again, +dearest! it is an age! As a matter of fact, it is a fortnight: but I dread +lest you will find some change in me. I have kept a real white hair to +show you, I drew it out of my comb the other morning: wound up into a curl +it becomes quite visible, and it is ivory-white: you are not to think it +flaxen, and take away its one wee sentiment! And I make you an offer:--you +shall have it if, honestly, you can find in your own head a white one to +exchange. + +Dearest, I am not _hurt_, nor do I take seriously to heart your mother's +present coldness. How much more I could forgive her when I put myself in +her place! She may well feel a struggle and some resentment at having to +give up in any degree her place with you. All my selfishness would come +to the front if that were demanded of me. + +Do not think, because I leave her alone, that I am repaying her coldness +in the same coin. I know that for the present anything I do must offend. +Have I demanded your coming too soon? Then stay away another day--or +two: every day only piles up the joy it will be to have your arms round +me once more. I can keep for a little longer: and the gray hair will +keep, and many to-morrows will come bringing good things for us, when +perhaps your mother's "share of the world" will be over. + +Don't say it, but when you next kiss her, kiss her for me also: I am +sorry for all old people: their love of things they are losing is so far +more to be reverenced and made room for than ours of the things which +will come to us in good time abundantly. + +To-night I feel selfish at having too much of your love: and not a bit +of it can I let go! I hope, Beloved, we shall live to see each other's +gray hairs in earnest: gray hairs that we shall not laugh at, as at this +one I pulled. How dark your dear eyes will look with a white setting! My +heart's heart, every day you grow larger round me, and I so much +stronger depending upon you! + +I won't say--come for certain, to-morrow: but come if, and as soon as, +you can. I seem to see a mile further when I am on the lookout for you: +and I shall be long-sighted every day until you come. It is only +_doubtful_ hope deferred which maketh the heart sick. I am as happy as +the day is long waiting for you: but the day _is_ long, dearest, none +the less when I don't see you. + +All this space on the page below is love. I have no time left to put it +into words, or words into it. You bless my thoughts constantly.--Believe +me, never your thoughtless. + + + + +LETTER XXIV. + + +Dearest: How, when, and where is there any use wrangling as to +which of us loves the other the best ("the better," I believe, would be +the more grammatical phrase in incompetent Queen's English), and why in +that of all things should we pretend to be rivals? For this at least +seems certain to me, that, being created male and female, no two lovers +since the world began ever loved each other quite in the _same_ way: it +is not in nature for it to be so. They cannot compare: only to the best +that is in them they _do_ love each after their kind,--as do we for +certain! + +Be sure, then, that I am utterly contented with what I get (and you, +Beloved, and you?): nay, I wonder forever at the love you have given me: +and if I will to lay mine at your feet, and feel yours crowning my +life,--why, so it is, you know; you cannot alter it! And if you insist +that your love is at _my_ feet, I have only to turn Irish and reply that +it is because I am heels over head in love with you:--and, mark you, +that is no pretty attitude for a lady that you have driven me into in +order that I may stick to my "crown"! + +Go to, dearest! There is one thing in which I can beat you, and that is +in the bandying of words and all verbal conjurings: take this as the +last proof of it and rest quiet. I know you love me a great great deal +more than I have wit or power to love you: and that is just the little +reason why your love mounts till, as I tell you, it crowns me (head or +heels): while mine, insufficient and groveling, lies at your feet, and +will till they become amputated. And I can give you, but won't, sixty +other reasons why things are as I say, and are to be left as I say. And +oh, my world, my world, it is with you I go round sunwards, and you make +my evenings and mornings, and will, till Time shuts his wings over us! +And now it is doleful business I have to write to you.... + +I have dropped to sleep over all this writing of things, and my cheek down +on the page has made the paper unwilling to take the ink again:--what a +pretty compliment to me: and, if you prefer it, what an easy way of +writing to you! I can send you such any day and be as idle as I like. And +you will decide about all the above exactly as you and I think best (or +should it be "better" again, being only between us two?). When you get +this, blow your beloved self a kiss in the glass for me,--a great big +shattering blow that shall astonish Mercury behind his window-pane. +Good-night, my best--or "better," for that is what I most want you to be. + + + + +LETTER XXV. + + +My Own Beloved: And I never thanked you yesterday for your dear words +about the resurrection pie; that comes of quarreling! Well, you must prove +them and come quickly that I may see this restoration of health and +spirits that you assure me of. You avoid saying that they sent you to +sleep; but I suppose that is what you mean. + +Fate meant me only to light upon gay things this morning: listen to this +and guess where it comes from: + + "When March with variant winds was past, + And April had with her silver showers + Ta'en leif at life with an orient blast; + And lusty May, that mother of flowers, + Had made the birds to begin their hours, + Among the odours ruddy and white, + Whose harmony was the ear's delight: + + "In bed at morrow I sleeping lay; + Methought Aurora, with crystal een, + In at the window looked by day, + And gave me her visage pale and green; + And on her hand sang a lark from the splene, + 'Awake ye lovers from slumbering! + See how the lusty morrow doth spring!'" + +Ah, but you are no scholar of the things in your own tongue! That is +Dunbar, a Scots poet contemporary of Henry VII., just a little bit +altered by me to make him soundable to your ears. If I had not had to +leave an archaic word here and there, would you ever have guessed he lay +outside this century? That shows the permanent element in all good +poetry, and in all good joy in things also. In the four centuries since +that was written we have only succeeded in worsening the meaning of +certain words, as for instance "spleen," which now means irritation and +vexation, but stood then for quite the opposite--what we should call, I +suppose, "a full heart." It is what I am always saying--a good digestion +is the root of nearly all the good living and high thinking we are +capable of: and the spleen was then the root of the happy emotions as it +is now of the miserable ones. Your pre-Reformation lark sang from "a +full stomach," and thanked God it had a constitution to carry it off +without affectation: and your nineteenth century lark applying the same +code of life, his plain-song is mere happy everyday prose, and not +poetry at all as we try to make it out to be. + +I have no news for you at all of anyone: all inside the house is a +simmer of peace and quiet, with blinds drawn down against the heat the +whole day long. No callers; and as for me, I never call elsewhere. The +gossips about here eke out a precarious existence by washing each +other's dirty linen in public: and the process never seems to result in +any satisfactory cleansing. + +I avoid saying what news I trust to-morrow's post-bag may contain for +me. Every wish I send you comes "from the spleen," which means I am very +healthy, and, conditionally, as happy as is good for me. Pray God bless +my dear Share of the world, and make him get well for his own and my +sake! Amen. + +This catches the noon post, an event which always shows I am jubilant, +with a lot of the opposite to a "little death" feeling running over my +nerves. I feel the grass growing _under_ me: the reverse of poor Keats' +complaint. Good-by, Beloved, till I find my way into the provender of +to-morrow's post-bag. + + + + +LETTER XXVI. + + +Oh, wings of the morning, here you come! I have been looking out for you +ever since post came. Roberts is carrying orders into town, and will bring +you this with a touch of the hat and an amused grin under it. I saw you +right on the top Sallis Hill: this is to wager that my eyes have told me +correctly. Look out for me from far away, I am at my corner window: wave +to me! Dearest, this is to kiss you before I can. + + + + +LETTER XXVII. + + +Dearest: I have made a bad beginning of the week: I wonder how it will +end? it all comes of my not seeing enough of you. Time hangs heavy on my +hands, and the Devil finds me the mischief! + +I prevailed upon myself to go on Sunday and listen to our new lately +appointed vicar: for I thought it not fair to condemn him on the strength +of Mrs. P----'s terrible reporting powers and her sensuous worship of his +full-blown flowers of speech--"pulpit-pot-plants" is what I call them. + +It was not worse and not otherwise than I had expected. I find there are +only two kinds of clerics as generally necessary to salvation in a country +parish--one leads his parishioners to the altar and the other to the +pulpit: and the latter is vastly the more popular among the articulate and +gad-about members of his flock. This one sways himself over the edge of +his frame, making signals of distress in all directions, and with that and +his windy flights of oratory suggests twenty minutes in a balloon-car, +till he comes down to earth at the finish with the Doxology for a +parachute. His shepherd's crook is one long note of interrogation, with +which he tries to hook down the heavens to the understanding of his +hearers, and his hearers up to an understanding of himself. All his +arguments are put interrogatively, and few of them are worth answering. +Well, well, I shall be all the freer for your visit when you come next +Sunday, and any Sunday after that you will: and he shall come in to tea if +you like and talk to you in quite a cultured and agreeable manner, as he +can when his favorite beverage is before him. + +I discover that I get "the snaps" on a Monday morning, if I get them at +all. The M.-A. gets them on the Sunday itself, softly but regularly: they +distress no one, and we all know the cause: her fingers are itching for +the knitting which she mayn't do. Your Protestant ignores Lent as a Popish +device, a fond thing vainly invented: but spreads it instead over +fifty-two days in the year. Why, I want to know, cannot I change the +subject? + +Sunday we get no post (and no collection except in church) unless we send +down to the town for it, so Monday is all the more welcome: but this I +have been up and writing before it arrives--therefore the "snaps." + +Our postman is a lovely sight. I watched him walking up the drive the +other morning, and he seemed quite perfection, for I guessed he was +bringing me the thing which would make me happy all day. I only hope the +Government pays him properly. + +I think this is the least pleasant letter I have ever sent you: shall I +tell you why? It was not the sermon: he is quite a forgivable good man in +his way. But in the afternoon that same Mrs. P---- came, got me in a +corner, and wanted to unburden herself of invective against your mother, +believing that I should be glad, because her coldness to me has become +known! What mean things some people can think about one! I heard nothing: +but I am ruffled in all my plumage and want stroking. And my love to your +mother, please, if she will have it. It is only through her that I get +you.--Ever your very own. + + + + +LETTER XXVIII. + + +Dearest: Here comes a letter to you from me flying in the opposite +direction. I won't say I am not wishing to go; but oh, to be a bird in two +places at once! Give this letter, then, a special nesting-place, because I +am so much on the wing elsewhere. + +I shut my eyes most of the time through France, and opened them on a +soup-tureen full of coffee which presented itself at the frontier: and +then realized that only a little way ahead lay Berne, with baths, buns, +bears, breakfast, and other nice things beginning with B, waiting to make +us clean, comfortable, contented, and other nice things beginning with C. + +Through France I loved you sleepy fashion, with many dreams in between not +all about you. But now I am breathing thoughts of you out of a new +atmosphere--a great gulp of you, all clean-living and high-thinking +between these Alpine royal highnesses with snow-white crowns to their +heads: and no time for a word more about anything except you: you, and +double-you,--and treble-you if the alphabet only had grace to contain so +beautiful a symbol! Good-by: we meet next, perhaps, out of Lucerne: if +not,--Italy. + +What a lot I have to go through before we meet again visibly! You will +find me world-worn, my Beloved! Write often. + + + + +LETTER XXIX. + + +Beloved: You know of the method for making a cat settle down in +a strange place by buttering her all over: the theory being that by the +time she has polished off the butter she feels herself at home? My +morning's work has been the buttering of the Mother-Aunt with such +things as will Lucerne her the most. When her instincts are appeased I +am the more free to indulge my own. + +So after breakfast we went round the cloisters, very thick set with +tablets and family vaults, and crowded graves inclosed. It proved quite +"the best butter." To me the penance turned out interesting after a +period of natural repulsion. A most unpleasant addition to sepulchral +sentiment is here the fashion: photographs of the departed set into the +stone. You see an elegant and genteel marble cross: there on the +pedestal above the name is the photo:--a smug man with bourgeois +whiskers,--a militiaman with waxed mustaches well turned up,--a woman +well attired and conscious of it: you cannot think how indecent looked +the pretension of such types to the dignity of death and immortality. + +But just one or two faces stood the test, and were justified: a young +man oppressed with the burden of youth; a sweet, toothless grandmother +in a bonnet, wearing old age like a flower; a woman not beautiful but +for her neck which carried indignation; her face had a thwarted look. +"Dead and rotten" one did not say of these in disgust and involuntarily +as one did of the others. And yet I don't suppose the eye picks out the +faces that kindled most kindness round them when living, or that one can +see well at all where one sees without sympathy. I think the +Mother-Aunt's face would not look dear to most people as it does to +me,--yet my sight of her is the truer: only I would not put it up on a +tombstone in order that it might look nothing to those that pass by. + +I wrote this much, and then, leaving the M.-A. to glory in her +innumerable correspondence, Arthur and I went off to the lake, where we +have been for about seven hours. On it, I found it become infinitely +more beautiful, for everything was mystified by a lovely bloomy haze, +out of which the white peaks floated like dreams: and the mountains +change and change, and seem not all the same as going when returning. +Don't ask me to write landscape to you: one breathes it in, and it is +there ever after, but remains unset to words. + +The T----s whittle themselves out of our company just to the right +amount: come back at the right time (which is more than Arthur and I are +likely to do when our legs get on the spin), and are duly welcome with a +diversity of doings to talk about. Their tastes are more the M.-A.'s, +and their activities about halfway between hers and ours, so we make +rather a fortunate quintette. The M---- trio join us the day after +to-morrow, when the majority of us will head away at once to Florence. +Arthur growls and threatens he means to be left behind for a week: and +it suits the funny little jealousy of the M.-A. well enough to see us +parted for a time, quite apart from the fact that I shall then be more +dependent on her company. She will then glory in overworking +herself,--say it is me; and I shall feel a fiend. No letter at all, +dearest, this; merely talky-talky.--Yours without words. + + + + +LETTER XXX. + + +Dearest: I cannot say I have seen Pisa, for the majority had +their way, and we simply skipped into it, got ourselves bumped down at +the Duomo and Campo Santo for two hours, fell exhausted to bed, and +skipped out again by the first train next morning. Over the walls of the +Campo Santo are some divine crumbs of Benozzo Gozzoli (don't expect me +ever to spell the names of dead painters correctly: it is a politeness +one owes to the living, but the famous dead are exalted by being spelt +phonetically as the heart dictates, and become all the better company +for that greatest of unspelled and spread-about names--Shakspere, +Shakspeare, Shakespeare--his mark, not himself). Such a long parenthesis +requires stepping-stones to carry you over it: "crumbs" was the last +(wasn't a whole loaf of bread a stepping-stone in one of Andersen's +fairy-tales?): but, indeed, I hadn't time to digest them properly. Let +me come back to them before I die, and bury me in that inclosure if you +love me as much then as I think you do now. + +The Baptistry has a roof of echoes that is wonderful,--a mirror of sound +hung over the head of an official who opens his mouth for centimes to +drop there. You sing notes up into it (or rather you don't, for that is +his perquisite), and they fly circling, and flock, and become a single +chord stretching two octaves: till you feel that you are living inside +what in the days of our youth would have been called "the sound of a +grand Amen." + +The cathedral has fine points, or more than points--aspects: but the +Italian version of Gothic, with its bands of flat marbles instead of +moldings, was a shock to me at first. I only begin to understand it now +that I have seen the outside of the Duomo at Florence. Curiously enough, +it doesn't strike me as in the least Christian, only civic and splendid, +reminding me of what Ruskin says about church architecture being really +a dependant on the feudal or domestic. The Strozzi Palace is a beautiful +piece of street-architecture; its effect is of an iron hand which gives +you a buffet in the face when you look up and wonder--how shall I climb +in? I will tell you more about insides when I write next. + +I fear my last letter to you from Lucerne may either have strayed, or not +even have begun straying: for in the hurry of coming away I left it, +addressed, I _think_, but unstamped; and I am not sure that that +particular hotel will be Christian enough to spare the postage out of the +bill, which had a galaxy of small extras running into centimes, and +suggesting a red-tape rectitude that would not show blind +twenty-five-centime gratitude to the backs of departed guests. So be +patient and forgiving if I seem to have written little. I found two of +yours waiting for me, and cannot choose between them which I find most +dear. I will say, for a fancy, the shorter, that you may ever be +encouraged to write your shortest rather than none at all. One word from +you gives me almost as much pleasure as twenty, for it contains all your +sincerity and truth; and what more do I want? Yon bless me quite. How many +perfectly happy days I owe to you, and seldom dare dream that I have made +any beginning of a return! If I could take one unhappy day out of your +life, dearest, the secret would be mine, and no such thing should be left +in it. Be happy, beloved! oh, happy, happy,--with me for a partial +reason--that is what I wish! + + + + +LETTER XXXI. + + +Dearest: The Italian paper-money paralyzes my brain: I cannot +calculate in it; and were I left to myself an unscrupulous shopman could +empty me of pounds without my becoming conscious of it till I beheld +vacuum. But the T----s have been wonderful caretakers to me: and +to-morrow Arthur rejoins us, so that I shall be able to resume my full +activities under his safe-conduct. + +The ways of the Italian cabbies and porters fill me with terror for the +time when I may have to fall alive and unassisted into their hands: they +have neither conscience nor gratitude, and regard thievish demands when +satisfied merely as stepping-stones to higher things. + +Many of the outsides of Florence I seemed to know by heart--the Palazzo +Vecchio for instance. But close by it Cellini's two statues, the Judith +and the Perseus, brought my heart up to my mouth unexpectedly. The +Perseus is so out of proportion as to be ludicrous from one point of +view: but another is magnificent enough to make me forgive the scamp his +autobiography from now to the day of judgment (when we shall all begin +forgiving each other in great haste, I suppose, for fear of the devil +taking the hindmost!), and I registered a vow on the spot to that +effect:--so no more of him here, henceforth, but good! + +There is not so much color about as I had expected: and austerity rather +than richness is the note of most of the exteriors. + +I have not been allowed into the Uffizi yet, so to-day consoled myself +with the Pitti. Titian's "Duke of Norfolk" is there, and I loved him, +seeing a certain likeness there to somebody whom I--like. A photo of him +will be coming to you. Also there is a very fine Lely-Vandyck of Charles +I. and Henrietta Maria, a quite moral painting, making a triumphant +assertion of that martyr's bad character. I imagine he got into heaven +through having his head cut off and cast from him: otherwise all of him +would have perished along with his mouth. + +Somewhere too high up was hanging a ravishing Botticelli--a Madonna and +Child bending over like a wind-blown tree to be kissed by St. John:--a +composition that takes you up in its arms and rocks you as you look at +it. Andrea del Sarto is to me only a big mediocrity: there is nothing +here to touch his chortling child-Christ in our National Gallery. + +At Pisa I slept in a mosquito-net, and felt like a bride at the altar +under a tulle veil which was too large for her. Here, for lack of that +luxury, being assured that there were no mosquitoes to be had, I have +been sadly ravaged. The creatures pick out all foreigners, I think, and +only when they have exhausted the supply do they pass on to the natives. +Mrs. T---- left one foot unveiled when in Pisa, and only this morning +did the irritation in the part bitten begin to come out. + +I can now ask for a bath in Italian, and order the necessary things for +myself in the hotel: also say "come in" and "thank you." But just the +few days of that very German _table d'hôte_ at Lucerne, where I talked +gladly to polish myself up, have given my tongue a hybrid way of talking +without thinking: and I say "_ja, ja_," and "_nein_," and "_der, die, +das_," as often as not before such Italian nouns as I have yet captured. +To fall upon a chambermaid who knows French is like coming upon my +native tongue suddenly. + +Give me good news of your foot and all that is above it: I am so doubtful +of its being really strong yet; and its willing spirits will overcome it +some day and do it an injury, and hurt my feelings dreadfully at the same +time. + +Walk only on one leg whenever you think of me! I tell you truly I am +wonderfully little lonely: and yet my thoughts are constantly away with +you, wishing, wishing,--what no word on paper can ever carry to you. It +shall be at our next meeting!--All yours. + + + + +LETTER XXXII. + + +My Dearest: Florence is still eating up all my time and energies: I +promised you there should be austerity and self-denial in the matter of +letter-writing: and I know you are unselfish enough to expect even less +than I send you. + +Girls in the street address compliments to Arthur's complexion:-- +"beautiful brown boy" they call him: and he simmers over with vanity, and +wishes he could show them his boating arms, brown up to the shoulder, as +well. Have you noticed that combination in some of the dearest specimens +of young English manhood,--great physical vanity and great mental modesty? +and each as transparently sincere as the other. + +The Bargello is an ideal museum for the storage of the best things out of +the Middle Ages. It opens out of splendid courtyards and staircases, and +ranges through rooms which have quite a feudal gloom about them; most of +these are hung with bad late tapestries (too late at least for my taste), +so that the gloom is welcome and charming, making even "Gobelins" quite +bearable. I find quite a new man here to admire--Pollaiolo, both painter +and sculptor, one of the school of "passionate anatomists," as I call +them, about the time of Botticelli, I fancy. He has one bust of a young +Florentine which equals Verocchio on the same ground, and charms me even +more. Some of his subjects are done twice over, in paint and bronze: but +he is more really a sculptor, I think, and merely paints his piece into a +picture from its best point of view. + +Verocchio's idea of David is charming: he is a saucy fellow who has gone +in for it for the fun of the thing--knew he could bring down a hawk with +his catapult, and therefore why not a Goliath also? If he failed, he +need but cut and run, and everybody would laugh and call him plucky for +doing even that much. So he does it, brings down his big game by good +luck, and stands posing with a sort of irresistible stateliness to suit +the result. He has a laugh something like "little Dick's," only more +full of bubbles, and is saying to himself, "What a hero they all think +me!" He is the merriest of sly-dog hypocrites, and has thin, wiry arms +and a craney neck. He is a bit like Tom Sawyer in character, more ornate +and dramatic than Huckleberry Finn, but quite as much a liar, given a +good cause. + +Another thing that has seized me, more for its idea than actual carrying +out, is an unnamed terra-cotta Madonna and Child. He is crushing himself +up against her neck, open-mouthed and terrified, and she spreading long +fingers all over his head and face. My notion of it is that it is the +Godhead taking his first look at life from the human point of view; and +he realizes himself "caught in his own trap," discovering it to be ever +so much worse than it had seemed from an outside view. It is a fine +modern _zeit-geist_ piece of declamation to come out of the rather +over-sweet della Robbia period of art. + +There seems to have been a rage at one period for commissioning statues +of David: so Donatello and others just turned to and did what they liked +most in the way of budding youth, stuck a Goliath's head at its feet, +and called it "David." Verocchio is the exception. + +We are going to get outside Florence for a week or ten days; it is too +hot to be borne at night after a day of tiring activity. So we go to the +D----s' villa, which they offered us in their absence; it lies about +four miles out, and is on much higher ground: address only your very +immediately next letter there, or it may miss me. + +There are hills out there with vineyards among them which draw me into +wishing to be away from towns altogether. Much as I love what is to be +found in this one, I think Heaven meant me to be "truly rural"; which +all falls in, dearest, with what _I_ mean to be! Beloved, how little I +sometimes can say to you! Sometimes my heart can put only silence into +the end of a letter; and with that I let this one go.--Yours, and so +lovingly. + + + + +LETTER XXXIII. + + +Beloved: I had your last letter on Friday: all your letters have come in +their right numbers. I have lost count of mine; but I think seven and two +postcards is the total, which is the same as the numbers of clean and +unclean beasts proportionately represented in the ark. + +Up here we are out of the deadliness of the heat, and are thankful for it. +Vineyards and olives brush the eyes between the hard, upright bars of the +cypresses: and Florence below is like a hot bath which we dip into and +come out again. At the Riccardi chapel I found Benozzo Gozzoli, not in +crumbs, but perfectly preserved: a procession of early Florentine youths, +turning into angels when they get to the bay of the window where the altar +once stood. The more I see of them, the greater these early men seem to +me: I shall be afraid to go to Venice soon; Titian will only half satisfy +me, and Tintoretto, I know, will be actively annoying: I shall stay in my +gondola, as your American lady did on her donkey after riding twenty +miles to visit the ruins, of--Carnac, was it not? It is well to have the +courage of one's likings and dislikings, that is the only true culture +(the state obtained by use of a "coulter" or cutter)--I cut many things +severely which, no doubt, are good for other people. + +Botticelli I was shy of, because of the craze about him among people who +know nothing: he is far more wonderful than I had hoped, both at the +Uffizi and the Academia: but he is quite pagan. I don't know why I say +"but"; he is quite typical of the world's art-training: Christianity may +get hold of the names and dictate the subjects, but the artist-breed +carries a fairly level head through it all, and, like Pater's Mona Lisa, +draws Christianity and Paganism into one: at least, wherever it reaches +perfect expression it has done so. Some of the distinctly primitives are +different; their works inclose a charm which is not artistic. Fra +Angelico, after being a great disappointment to me in some of his large +set pictures in the Academia and elsewhere, shows himself lovely in fresco +(though I think the "crumb" element helps him). His great Crucifixion is +big altogether, and has so permanent a force in its aloofness from mere +drama and mere life. In San Marco, the cells of the monks are quite +charming, a row of little square bandboxes under a broad raftered +corridor, and in every cell is a beautiful little fresco for the monks to +live up to. But they no longer live there now: all that part of San Marco +has become a peep-show. + +I liked being in Savonarola's room, and was more susceptible to the +remains of his presence than I have been to Michel Angelo or anyone +else's. Michel Angelo I feel most when he has left a thing unfinished; +then one can put one's finger into the print of the chisel, and believe +anything of the beauty that might have come out of the great stone +chrysalis lying cased and rough, waiting to be raised up to life. + +Yesterday Arthur and I walked from here to Fiesole, which we had +neglected while in Florence--six miles going, and more like twelve +coming back, all because of Arthur's absurd cross-country instinct, +which, after hours of river-bends, bare mountain tracks, and tottering +precipices, brought us out again half a mile nearer Florence than when +we started. + +At Fiesole is the only church about here whose interior architecture I +have greatly admired, austere but at the same time gracious--like a +Madonna of the best period of painting. We also went to look at the +Roman baths and theater: the theater is charming enough, because it is +still there: but for the baths--oblongs of stone don't interest me just +because they are old. All stone is old: and these didn't even hold water +to give one the real look of the thing. Too tired, and even more too +lazy, to write other things, except love, most dear Beloved. + + + + +LETTER XXXIV. + + +Dearest: We were to have gone down with the rest into Florence +yesterday: but soft miles of Italy gleamed too invitingly away on our +right, and I saw Arthur's eyes hungry with the same far-away wish. So I +said "Prato," and he ran up to the fattore's and secured a wondrous +shandry-dan with just space enough between its horns to toss the two of +us in the direction where we would go. Its gaunt framework was painted +of a bright red, and our feet had only netting to rest on: so +constructed, the creature was most vital and light of limb, taking every +rut on the road with flea-like agility. Oh, but it was worth it! + +We had a drive of fourteen miles through hills and villages, and +castellated villas with gardens shut in by formidably high walls--always, +a charm: a garden should always have something of the jealous seclusion of +a harem. I am getting Italian landscape into my system, and enjoy it more +and more. + +Prato is a little cathedral town, very like the narrow and tumble-down +parts of Florence, only more so. The streets were a seething caldron of +cattle-market when we entered, which made us feel like a tea-cup in a +bull-ring (or is it thunderstorm?) as we drove through needle's-eye ways +bristling with agitated horns. + +The cathedral is little and good: damaged, of course, wherever the last +three centuries have laid hands on it. At the corner of the west front +is an out-door pulpit beautifully put on with a mushroom hood over its +head. The main lines of the interior are finely severe, either quite +round or quite flat, and proportions good always. An upholstered priest +coming out to say mass is generally a sickening sight, so wicked and +ugly in look and costume. The best-behaved people are the low-down +beggars, who are most decoratively devotional. + +We tried to model our exit on a brigand-beggar who came in to ask +permission to murder one of his enemies. He got his request granted at +one of the side-altars (some strictly local Madonna, I imagine), and his +gratitude as he departed was quite touching. Having studiously copied +his exit, we want to know whom we shall murder to pay ourselves for our +trouble. + +It amuses me to have my share of driving over these free and easy and +very narrow highroads. But A. has to do the collision-shouting and the +cries of "Via!"--the horse only smiles when he hears me do it. + +Also did I tell you that on Saturday we two walked from here over to +Fiesole--six miles there, and ten back: for why?--because we chose to go +what Arthur calls "a bee-line across country," having thought we had +sighted a route from the top of Fiesole. But in the valley we lost it, +and after breaking our necks over precipices and our hearts down +cul-de-sacs that led nowhere, and losing all the ways that were pointed +out to us, for lack of a knowledge of the language, we came out again +into view of Florence about half a mile nearer than when we started and +proportionately far away from home. When he had got me thoroughly +foot-sore, Arthur remarked complacently, "The right way to see a country +is to lose yourself in it!" I didn't feel the truth of it then: but +applied to other things I perceive its wisdom. Dear heart, where I have +lost myself, what in all the world do I know so well as you? + + Your most lost and loving. + + + + +LETTER XXXV. + + +Beloved: Rain swooped down on us from on high during the night, and the +country is cut into islands: the river from a rocky wriggling stream has +risen into a tawny, opaque torrent that roars with a voice a mile long and +is become quite unfordable. The little mill-stream just below has broken +its banks and poured itself away over the lower vineyards into the river; +a lot of the vines look sadly upset, generally unhinged and unstrung, yet +I am told the damage is really small. I hope so, for I enjoyed a real +lash-out of weather, after the changelessness of the long heat. + +I have been down in Florence beginning to make my farewells to the many +things I have seen too little of. We start away for Venice about the end +of the week. At the Uffizi I seem to have found out all my future +favorites the first day, and very little new has come to me; but most of +them go on growing. The Raphael lady is quite wonderful; I think she was +in love with him, and her soul went into the painting though he himself +did not care for her; and she looks at you and says, "See a miracle: he +was able to paint this, and never knew that I loved him!" It is +wonderful that; but I suppose it can be done,--a soul pass into a work +and haunt it without its creator knowing anything about how it came +there. Always when I come across anything like that which has something +inner and rather mysterious, I tremble and want to get back to you. You +are the touchstone by which I must test everything that is a little new +and unfamiliar. + +From now onwards, dearest, you must expect only cards for a time: it is +not settled yet whether we stop at Padua on our way in or our way out. I +am clamoring for Verona also; but that will be off our route, so Arthur +and I may go there alone for a couple of greedy days, which I fear will +only leave me dissatisfied and wishing I had had patience to depend on +coming again--perhaps with you! + +Uncle N. has written of your numerous visits to him, and I understand you +have been very good in his direction. He does not speak of loneliness; and +with Anna and her brood next week or now, he will be as happy as his +temperament allows him to be when he has nothing to worry over. + +I am proud to say I have gone brown without freckles. And are you really +as cheerful as you write yourself to be? Dearest and best, when is your +holiday to begin; and is it to be with me? Does anywhere on earth hold +that happiness for us both in the near future? I kiss you well, Beloved. + + + + +LETTER XXXVI. + + +Dearest: Venice is round me as I write! Well, I will not waste my Baedeker +knowledge on you,--you too can get a copy; and it is not the panoramic +view of things you will be wanting from me: it is my own particular Venice +I am to find out and send you. So first of all from the heart of it I send +you mine: when I have kissed you I will go on. My eyes have been seeing so +much that is new, I shall want a fresh vocabulary for it all. But mainly I +want to say, let us be here again together quickly, before we lose any +more of our youth or our two-handed hold on life. I get short of breath +thinking of it! + +So let it be here, Beloved, that some of our soon-to-be happiness opens +and shuts its eyes: for truly Venice is a sleepy place. I am wanting, +and taking, nine hours' sleep after all I do! + +Outside coming over the flats from Padua, she looked something like a +manufacturing town at its ablutions,--a smoky chimney well to the fore: +but get near to her and you find her standing on turquoise, her feet set +about with jaspers, and with one of her eyes she ravishes you: and all +her campanile are like the "thin flames" of "souls mounting up to God." + +That is from without: within she becomes too sensuous and civic in her +splendor to let me think much of souls. "Rest and be indolent" is the +motto for the life she teaches. The architecture is the song of the +lotos-eater built into stone--were I in a more florid mood I would have +said "swan-song," for the whole stands finished with nothing more to be +added: it has sung itself out: and if there is a moral to it all, no +doubt it is in Ruskin, and I don't wont to read it just now. + +What I want is you close at hand looking up at all this beauty, and +smiling when I smile, which is your way, as if you had no opinions of +your own about anything in which you are not a professor. So you will +write and agree that I am to have the pleasure of this return to look +forward to? If I know that, I shall be so much more reconciled to all +the joy of the things I am seeing now for the first time: and shall see +so much better the second, Beloved, when your eyes are here helping me. + +Here is love, dearest! help yourself to just as much as you wish for; +though all that I send is good for you! No letter from you since +Florence, but I am neither sad nor anxious: only all the more your +loving. + + + + +LETTER XXXVII. + + +Beloved: The weather is as gray as England to-day, and much rainier. To +feel it on my cheeks and be back north with that and warmer things, I +would go out in it in the face of protests, and had to go alone--not +Arthur even being in the mood just then for a patriotic quest of the +uncomfortable. I had myself oared into the lagoons across a racing current +and a driving head-wind which made my gondolier bend like a distressed +poplar over his oar; patience on a monument smiling at backsheesh--"all +comes to him who knows." + +Of course, for comfort and pleasure, and everything but economy, we have +picked up a gondolier to pet: we making much of him, and he much out of +us. He takes Arthur to a place where he can bathe--to use his own +expression--"cleanly," that is to say, unconventionally; and this +appropriately enough is on the borders of a land called "the Garden of +Eden" (being named so after its owners). He--"Charon," I call him--is +large and of ruddy countenance, and talks English in blinkers--that is +to say, gondola English--out of which he could not find words to summon +me a cab even if it were not opposed to his interests. Still there are +no cabs to be called in Venice, and he is teaching us that the shortest +way is always by water. If Arthur is not punctually in his gondola by 7 +A.M., I hear a call for the "Signore Inglese" go up to his window; and +it is hungry Charon waiting to ferry him. + +Yesterday your friend Mr. C---- called and took me over to Murano in a +beautiful pair-oared boat that simply flew. There I saw a wonderful apse +filled with mosaic of dull gold, wherein is set a blue-black figure of +the Madonna, ten heads high and ten centuries old, which almost made me +become a Mariolatrist on the spot. She stands leaning up the bend with +two pale hands lifted in ghostly blessing. Underfoot the floor is all +mosaic, mountainous with age and earthquakes; the architecture classic +in the grip of Byzantine Christianity, which is like the spirit of God +moving on the face of the waters, or Ezekiel prophesying to the dry +bones. + +The Colleoni is quite as much more beautiful in fact and seen full-size +as I had hoped from all smaller reproductions. A fine equestrian figure +always strikes one as enthroned, and not merely riding; if I can't get +that, I consider a centaur the nobler creature with its human body set +down into the socket of the brute, and all fire--a candle burning at +both ends: which, in a way, is what the centaur means, I imagine? + +Bellini goes on being wonderful, and for me beats Raphael's Blenheim +Madonna period on its own ground. I hear now that the Raphael lady I +raved over in Florence is no Raphael at all,--which accounts for it +being so beautiful and interesting--to _me_, I hasten to add. Raphael's +studied calmness, his soul of "invisible soap and imperceptible water," +may charm some; me it only chills or leaves unmoved. + +Is this more about art than you care to hear? I have nothing to say +about myself, except that I am as happy as a cut-in-half thing can be. +Is it any use sending kind messages to your mother? If so, my heart is +full of them. Bless you, dearest, and good-night. + + + + +LETTER XXXVIII. + + +Dearest: St. Mark's inside is entirely different from anything I had +imagined. I had expected a grove of pillars instead of these wonderful +breadths of wall; and the marble overlay I had not understood at all till +I saw it. My admiration mounts every time I enter: it has a different +gloom from any I have ever been in, more joyous and satisfying, not in the +least moody as our own Gothic seems sometimes to be; and saints instead of +devils look at you solemn-eyed from every corner of shade. + +A heavy rain turns the Piazza into a lake: this morning Arthur had to +carry me across. Other foolish Englishwomen were shocked at such means, +and paddled their own leaky canoes, or stood on the brink and looked +miserable. The effect of rain-pool reflections on the inside of St. +Mark's is noticeable, causing it to bloom unexpectedly into fresh +subtleties and glories. The gold takes so sympathetically to any least +tint of color that is in the air, and counts up the altar candles even +unto its furthest recesses and cupolas. + +I think before I leave Venice I shall find about ten Tintorettos which I +really like. Best of all is that Bacchus and Ariadne in the Ducal Palace, +of which you gave me the engraving. His "Marriage of St. Catherine," which +is there also, has all Veronese's charm of color and what I call his +"breeding"; and in the ceiling of the Council Chamber is one splendid +figure of a sea-youth striding a dolphin. + +Last evening we climbed the San Giorgio campanile for a sunset view of +Venice; it is a much better point of view than the St. Mark's one, and +we were lucky in our sunset. Venice again looked like a beautified +factory town, blue and blue with smoke and evening mists. Down below in +the church I met a delightful Capuchin priest who could talk French, and +a poor, very young lay-brother who had the holy custody of the eyes +heavily upon his conscience when I spoke to him. I was so sorry for him! + +The Mother-Aunt is ill in bed; but as she is at the present moment +receiving three visitors, you will understand about how ill. The fact +is, she is worn to death with sight-seeing. I can't stop her; while she +is on her legs it is her duty, and she will. The consequence is I get +rushed through things I want to let soak into me, and have to go again. +My only way of getting her to rest has been by deserting her; and then I +come back and receive reproaches with a meek countenance. + +Mr. C---- has been good to us and cordial, and brings his gondola often +to our service. A gondola and pair has quite a different motion from a +one-oared gondola; it is like riding a seahorse instead of a sea-camel-- +almost exciting, only it is so soft in its prancings. + +He took A. and myself into the procession which welcomed the crowned heads +last Wednesday; the hurly-burly of it was splendid. We tore down the Grand +Canal from end to end, almost cheek by jowl with the royalties; the M.-A. +was quite jubilant when she heard we had had such "good places." Hundreds +of gondolas swarmed round; many of them in the old Carpaccio rig-outs, +very gorgeous though a little tawdry when taken out of the canvas. Hut the +rush and the collisions, and the sound of many waters walloping under the +bellies of the gondolas, and the blows of fighting oars--regular +underwater wrestling matches--made it as vivid and amusing as a prolonged +Oxford and Cambridge boat-race in fancy costume. Our gondoliers streamed +with the exertion, and looked like men fighting a real battle, and yet +enjoyed it thoroughly. Violent altercations with police-boats don't ruffle +them at all; at one moment it looks daggers drawn; at the next it is +shrugs and smiles. Often, from not knowing enough of Italian and Italian +ways, I get hot all over when an ordinary discussion is going on, thinking +that blows are about to be exchanged. The Mother-Aunt had hung a wonderful +satin skirt out of window for decoration; and when she leaned over it in a +bodice of the same color, it looked as if she were sitting with her legs +out as well! I suppose it was this peculiar effect that, when the King and +Queen came by earlier in the morning, won for her a special bow and smile. + +I must hurry or I shall miss the post that I wish to catch. There seems +little chance now of my getting you in Venice; but elsewhere perhaps you +will drop to me out of the clouds. + + Your own and most loving. + + + + +LETTER XXXIX. + + +My Own, Own Beloved: Say that my being away does not seem too long? I have +not had a letter yet, and that makes me somehow not anxious but +compunctious; only writing to you of all I do helps to keep me in good +conscience. Not the other foot gone to the mender's, I hope, with the same +obstructive accompaniments as went to the setting-up again of the last? If +I don't hear soon, you will have me dancing on wires, which cost as much +by the word as a gondola by the hour. + +Yesterday we went to see Carpaccio at his best in San Giorgio di +Schiavone: two are St. George pictures, three St. Jeromes, and two of some +other saint unknown to me. The St. Jerome series is really a homily on the +love and pathos of animals. First is St. Jerome in his study with a sort +of unclipped white poodle in the pictorial place of honor, all alone on a +floor beautifully swept and garnished, looking up wistfully to his master +busy at writing (a Benjy saying, "Come and take me for a walk, there's a +good saint!"). Scattered among the adornments of the room are small +bronzes of horses and, I think, birds. So, of course, these being his +tastes, when St. Jerome goes into the wilderness, a lion takes to him, and +accompanies him when he pays a call on the monks in a neighboring +monastery. Thereupon, holy men of little faith, the entire fraternity take +to their heels and rush upstairs, the hindermost clinging to the skirts of +the formermost to be hauled the quicker out of harm's way. And all the +while the lion stands incorrectly offering the left paw, and Jerome with +shrugs tries to explain that even the best butter wouldn't melt in his +dear lion's mouth. After that comes the tragedy. St. Jerome lies dying in +excessive odor of sanctity, and all the monks crowd round him with prayers +and viaticums, and the ordinary stuffy pieties of a "happy death," while +Jerome wonders feebly what it is he misses in all this to-do for which he +cares so little. And there, elbowed far out into the cold, the lion lies +and lifts his poor head and howls because he knows his master is being +taken from him. Quite near to him, fastened to a tree, a queer, +nondescript, crocodile-shaped dog runs out the length of its tether to +comfort the disconsolate beast: but _la bête humaine_ has got the +whip-hand of the situation. In another picture is a parrot that has just +mimicked a dog, or called "Carlo!" and then laughed: the dog turns his +head away with a sleek, sheepish, shy look, exactly as a sensitive dog +does when you make fun of him. + +These are, perhaps, mere undercurrents of pictures which are quite +glorious in color and design, but they help me to love Carpaccio to +distraction; and when the others lose me, they hunt through all the +Carpaccios in Venice till they find me! + +Love me a little more if possible while I am so long absent from you! What +I do and what I think go so much together now, that you will take what I +write as the most of me that it is possible to cram in, coming back to you +to share everything. + +Under such an Italian sky as to-day how I would like to see your face! +Here, dearest, among these palaces you would be in your peerage, for I +think you have some southern blood in you. + +Curious that, with all my fairness, somebody said to me to-day, "But you +are not quite English, are you?" And I swore by the nine gods of my +ancestry that I was nothing else. But the look is in us: my father had a +foreign air, but made up for it by so violent a patriotism that Uncle N. +used to call him "John Bull let loose." + +My love to England. Is it showing much autumn yet? My eyes long for green +fields again. Since I have been in Italy I had not seen one until the +other day from the top of St. Giorgio Maggiore, where one lies in hiding +under the monastery walls. + +All that I see now quickens me to fresh thoughts of you. Yet do not expect +me to come back wiser: my last effort at wisdom was to fall in love with +you, and there I stopped for good and all. There I am still, everything +included: what do you want more? My letter and my heart both threaten to +be over-weight, so no more of them this time. Most dearly do I love you. + + + + +LETTER XL. + + +Beloved: If two days slip by, I don't know where I am when I come to +write; things get so crowded in such a short space of time. Where I left +off I know not: I will begin where I am most awake--your letter which I +have just received. + +That is well, dearest, that is well indeed: a truce till February! And +since the struggle then must needs be a sharp one--with only one end, as +we know,--do not vex her now by any overt signs of preparation as if you +assumed already that her final arguments were to be as so much chaff +before the wind. You do not tell me _what_ she argues, and I do not ask. +She does not say I shall not love you enough! + +To answer businesslike to your questions first: with your forgiveness we +stay here till the 25th, and get back to England with the last of the +month. Does that seem a very cruel, far-off date? Others have the wish to +stay even longer, and it would be no fairness to hurry them beyond a +certain degree of reasonableness with my particular reason for +impatience, seeing, moreover, that in your love I have every help for +remaining patient. It is too much to hope, I suppose, that the "truce" +sets you free now, and that you could meet us here after all, and prolong +our stay indefinitely? I know one besides myself who would be glad, and +would welcome an outside excuse dearly. + +For, oh, the funniness of near and dear things! Arthur's heart is laid +up with a small love affair, and it is the comicalest of internal +maladies. He is screwing up courage to tell me all about it, and I write +in haste before my mouth is sealed by his confidences. I fancy I know +the party, an energetic little mortal whom we met at Lucerne, where +Arthur lingered while we came on to Florence. She talked vaguely of +being in Venice some time this autumn; and the vagueness continues. +Arthur, in consequence, roams round disconsolately with no interest but +in hotel books. And for fear lest we should gird up his loins and drag +him away with us out of Paradisal possibilities, he is forever praising +Venice as a resting-place, and saying he wants to be nowhere else. The +bathing just keeps him alive; but when put to it to explain what charms +him since pictures do not, and architecture only slightly, he says in +exemplary brotherly fashion that he likes to see me completing my +education and enthusiasms,--and does not realize with how foreign an +air that explanation sits upon his shoulders. + +I saw to-day a remnant of your patron saint, and for your sake +transferred a kiss to it, Italian fashion, with my thumb and the sign of +the cross. I hope it will do you good. Also, I have been up among the +galleries of St. Mark's, and about the roof and the west front where +somebody or another painted his picture of the bronze horses. + +The pigeons get to recognize people personally, and grow more intimate +every time we come. I even conceive they make favorites, for I had three +pecking food out of my mouth to-day and refusing to take it in any other +fashion, and they coo and say thank you before and after every seed they +take or spill. They are quite the pleasantest of all the Italian +beggars--and the cleanest. + +Your friend pressed us in to tea yesterday: I think less for the sake of +giving us tea than that we should see his palace, or rather his first +floor, in which alone he seems to lose himself. I have no idea for +measurements, but I imagine his big sala is about eighty feet long and +perhaps twenty-five feet across, with a flat-beamed roof, windows at +each end, and portières along the walls of old blue Venetian linen: a +place in which it seems one could only live and think nobly. His face +seems to respond to its teachings. What more might not an environment +like that bring out in you? Come and let me see! I have hopes springing +as I think of things that you may be coming after all; and that that is +what lay concealed under the gayety of your last paragraph. Then I am +more blessed even than I knew. What, you are coming? So well I do love +you, my Beloved! + + + + +LETTER XLI. + + +Dearest: This letter will travel with me: we leave to-day. Our +movements are to be too restless and uncomfortable for the next few days +for me to have a chance of quiet seeing or quiet writing anywhere. At +Riva we shall rest, I hope. + +Yesterday a storm began coming over towards evening, and I thought to +myself that if it passed in time there should be a splendid sunset of +smolder and glitter to be seen from the Campanile, and perhaps by good +chance a rainbow. + +I went alone: when I got to the top the rain was pelting hard; so there +I stayed happily weather-bound for an hour looking over Venice "silvered +with slants of rain," and watching umbrellas scuttering below with toes +beneath them. The golden smolder was very slow in coming: it lay over +the mainland and came creeping along the railway track. Then came the +glitter and the sun, and I turned round and found my rainbow. But it +wasn't a bow, it was a circle: the Campanile stood up as it were a +spoke in the middle,--the lower curve of the rainbow lay on the ground +of the Piazzetta, cut off sharp by the shadow of the Campanile. It was +worth waiting an hour to see. The islands shone mellow and bright in the +clearance with the storm going off black behind them. Good-by, Venice! + + * * * * * + +Verona began by seeming dull to me; but it improves and unfolds beautiful +corners of itself to be looked at: only I am given so little time. The +Tombs of the Della Scalas and the Renaissance façade of the Consiglio are +what chiefly delight me. I had some quiet hours in the Museo, where I fell +in love with a little picture by an unknown painter, of Orpheus charming +the beasts in a wandering green landscape, with a dance of fauns in the +distance, and here and there Eurydice running;--and Orpheus in Hades, and +the Thracian women killing him, and a crocodile fishing out his head, and +mermaids and ducks sitting above their reflections reflecting. + +Also there is one beautiful Tobias and the Angel there by a painter +whose name I most ungratefully forget. I saw a man yesterday carrying +fishes in the market, each strung through the gills on a twig of myrtle: +that is how Tobias ought to carry his fish: when a native custom +suggests old paintings, how charming it always is! + + + Riva. + +We have just got here from Verona. In the matter of the garden at least +it is a Paradise of a place. A great sill of honeysuckle leans out from +my window: beyond is a court grown round with creepers, and beyond that +the garden--such a garden! The first thing one sees is an arcade of +vines upon stone pillars, between which peep stacks of roses, going off +a little from their glory now, and right away stretches an alley of +green, that shows at the end, a furlong off, the blue glitter of water. +It is a beautifully wild garden: grass and vegetables and trees and +roses all grow in a jungle together. There are little groves of bamboo +and chestnut and willow; and a runnel of water is somewhere--I can hear +it. It suggests rest, which I want; and so, for all its difference, +suggests you, whom also I want,--more, I own it now, than I have said! +But that went without saying, Beloved, as it always must if it is to be +the truth and nothing short of the truth. + +While this has been waiting to go, your letter has been put into my hands. +I am too happy to say words about it, and can afford now to let this go as +it is. The little time of waiting for you will be perfect happiness now; +and your coming seems to color all that is behind as well. I have had a +good time indeed, and was only wearying with the plethora of my enjoyment: +but the better time has been kept till now. We shall be together day after +day and all day long for at least a month, I hope: a joy that has never +happened to us yet. + +Never mind about the lost letter now, dearest, dearest: Venice was a +little empty just one week because of it. I still hope it will come; but +what matter?--I know _you_ will. All my heart waits for you.--Your most +glad and most loving. + + + + +LETTER XLII. + + +Dearest: I saw an old woman riding a horse astride: and I was convinced on +the spot that this is the rightest way of riding, and that the sidesaddle +was a foolish and affected invention. The horse was fine, and so was the +young man leading it: the old woman was upright and stately, with a wide +hat and full petticoats like a Maximilian soldier. + +This was at Bozen, where we stayed for two nights, and from which I have +brought a cold with me: it seems such an English thing to have, that I +feel quite at home in the discomfort of it. It had been such wonderful +weather that we were sitting out of doors every evening up to 9.30 P.M. +without wraps, and on our heads only our "widows' caps." (The M.-A. +persists in a style which suggests that Uncle N. has gone to a better +world.) Mine was too flimsy a work of fiction, and a day before I had been +for a climb and got wet through, so a chill laid its benediction on my +head, and here I am,--not seriously incommoded by the malady, but by the +remedy, which is the M.-A. full of kind quackings and fierce tyranny if I +do but put my head out of window to admire the view, whose best is a +little round the corner. + +I had no idea Innsbruck was so high up among the mountains: snows are on +the peaks all around. Behind the house-tops, so close and near, lies a +quarter circle of white crests. You are told that in winter creatures +come down and look in at the windows: sometimes they are called wolves, +sometimes bears--any way the feeling is mediæval. + +Hereabouts the wayside shrines nearly always contain a crucifix, whereas +in Italy that was rare--the Virgin and Child being the most common. I +remarked on this, which I suppose gave rise to a subsequent observation +of the M.-A.'s: "I think the Tyrolese are a _good_ people: they are not +given over to Mariolatry like those poor priest-ridden Italians." I +think, however, that they merely have that fundamental grace, religious +simplicity, worshiping--just what they can get, for yesterday I saw two +dear old bodies going round and telling their beads before the bronze +statues of the Maximilian tomb--King Arthur, Charles the Bold, etc. I +suppose, by mere association, a statue helps them to pray. + +The national costume does look so nice, though not exactly beautiful. I +like the flat, black hats with long streamers behind and a gold tassel, +and the spacious apron. Blue satin is a favorite style, always silk or +satin for Sunday best: one I saw of pearl-white brocade. + +Since we came north we have had lovely weather, except the one day of +which I am still the filterings: and morning along the Brenner Pass was +perfect. I think the mountains look most beautiful quite early, at +sunrise, when they are all pearly and mysterious. + +We go on to Zurich on Thursday, and then, Beloved, and then!--so this +must be my last letter, since I shall have nowhere to write to with you +rushing all across Europe and resting nowhere because of my impatience +to have you. The Mother-Aunt concedes a whole month, but Arthur will +have to leave earlier for the beginning of term. How little my two +dearest men have yet seen of each other! Barely a week lies between us: +this will scarcely catch you. Dearest of dearests, my heart waits on +yours. + + + + +LETTER XLIII. + + +My Dearest: See what an effect your "gallous young hound" episode has had +on me. I send it back to you roughly done into rhyme. I don't know +whether it will carry; for, outside your telling of it, "Johnnie Kigarrow" +is not a name of heroic sound. What touches me as so strangely complete +about it is that you should have got that impression and momentary +romantic delusion as a child, and now hear, years after, of his +disappearing out of life thus fittingly and mysteriously, so that his name +will fix its legend to the countryside for many a long day. I would like +to go there some day with you, and standing on Twloch Hill imagine all the +country round as the burial-place of the strong man on whose knees my +beloved used to play when a child. + +It must have been soon after this that your brother died: truly, +dearest, from now, and strangely, this Johnnie Kigarrow will seem more +to me than him; touching a more heroic strain of idea, and stiffening +fibers in your nature that brotherhood, as a rule, has no bearing on. + +A short letter to-day, Beloved, because what goes with it is so long. +This is the first time I have come before your eyes as anything but a +letter-writer, and I am doubtful whether you will care to have so much +all about yourself. Yet for that very reason think how much I loved +doing it! I am jealous of those days before I knew you, and want to have +all their wild-honey flavor for myself. Do remember more, and tell me! +Dearest heart, it was to me you were coming through all your scampers +and ramblings; no wonder, with that unknown good running parallel, that +my childhood was a happy one. May long life bless you, Beloved! + +(_Inclosure._) + + My brother and I were down in Wales, + And listened by night to the Welshman's tales; + He was eleven and I was ten. + We sat on the knees of the farmer's men + After the whole day's work was done: + And I was friends with the farmer's son. + His hands were rough as his arms were strong, + His mouth was merry and loud for song; + Each night when set by the ingle-wall + He was the merriest man of them all. + I would catch at his beard and say + All the things I had done in the day-- + Tumbled bowlders over the force, + Swum in the river and fired the gorse-- + "Half the side of the hill!" quoth I:-- + "Ah!" cried he, "and didn't you die?" + + "Chut!" said he, "but the squeak was narrow! + Didn't you meet with Johnnie Kigarrow?" + "No!" said I, "and who will he be? + And what will be Johnnie Kigarrow to me?" + The farmer's son said under his breath, + "Johnnie Kigarrow may be your death + Listen you here, and keep you still-- + Johnnie Kigarrow bides under the hill; + Twloch barrow stands over his head; + He shallows the river to make his bed; + Bowlders roll when he stirs a limb; + And the gorse on the hills belongs to him! + And if so be one fires his gorse, + He's out of his bed, and he mounts his horse. + Off he sets: with the first long stride + He is halfway over the mountain side: + With his second stride he has crossed the barrow, + And he has you fast, has Johnnie Kigarrow!" + + Half I laughed and half I feared; + I clutched and tugged at the strong man's beard, + And bragged as brave as a boy could be-- + "So? but, you see, he didn't catch me!" + + Fear caught hold of me: what had I done? + High as the roof rose the farmer's son: + How the sight of him froze my marrow! + "I," he cried, "am Johnnie Kigarrow!" + + Well, you wonder, what was the end? + Never forget;--he had called me "friend"! + Mighty of limb, and hard, and blown; + Quickly he laughed and set me down. + "Heh!" said, he, "but the squeak was narrow, + Not to be caught by Johnnie Kigarrow!" + + Now, I hear, after years gone by, + Nobody knows how he came to die. + He strode out one night of storm: + "Get you to bed, and keep you warm!" + Out into darkness so went he: + Nobody knows where his bones may be. + + Only I think--if his tongue let go + Truth that once,--how perhaps _I_ know. + Twloch river, and Twloch barrow, + Do you cover my Johnnie Kigarrow? + + + + +LETTER XLIV. + + +Dearest: I have been doing something so wise and foolish: mentally wise, +I mean, and physically foolish. Do you guess?--Disobeying your parting +injunction, and sitting up to see eclipses. + +It was such a luxury to do as I was _not_ told just for once; to feel +there was an independent me still capable of asserting itself. My belief +is that, waking, you hold me subjugated: but, once your godhead has put +on its spiritual nightcap, and begun nodding, your mesmeric influence +relaxes. Up starts resolution and independence, and I breathe desolately +for a time, feeling myself once more a free woman. + +'Twas a tremulous experience, Beloved; but I loved it all the more for +that. How we love playing at grief and death--the two things that must +come--before it is their due time! I took a look at my world for three +most mortal hours last night, trying to see you _out_ of it. And oh, how +close it kept bringing me! I almost heard you breathe, and was forever +wondering--Can we ever be nearer, or love each other more than we do? +For _that_ we should each want a sixth sense, and a second soul: and it +would still be only the same spread out over larger territory. I prefer +to keep it nesting close in its present limitations, where it feels like +a "growing pain"; children have it in their legs, we in our hearts. + +I am growing sleepy as I write, and feel I am sending you a dull +letter,--my penalty for doing as you forbade. + +I sat up from half-past one to a quarter to five to see our shadow go +over heaven. I didn't see much, the sky was too piebald: but I was not +disappointed, as I had never watched the darkness into dawn like that +before: and it was interesting to hear all the persons awaking:--cocks +at half-past four, frogs immediately after, then pheasants and various +others following. I was cuddled close up against my window, throned in a +big arm-chair with many pillows, a spirit-lamp, cocoa, bread and butter, +and buns; so I fared well. Just after the pheasants and the first +querulous fidgetings of hungry blackbirds comes a soft pattering along +the path below: and Benjy, secretive and important, is fussing his way +to the shrubbery, when instinct or real sentiment prompts him to look up +at my window; he gives a whimper and a wag, and goes on. I try to +persuade myself that he didn't see me, and that he does this, other +mornings, when I am not thus perversely bolstered up in rebellion, and +peering through blinds at wrong hours. Isn't there something pathetic in +the very idea that a dog may have a behind-your-back attachment of that +sort?--that every morning he looks up at an unresponsive blank, and +wags, and goes by? + +I heard him very happy in the shrubs a moment after: he and a pheasant, +I fancy, disputing over a question of boundaries. And he comes in for +breakfast, three hours later, looking positively _fresh,_ and wants to +know why I am yawning. + +Most mornings he brings your letter up to my room in his mouth. It is +old Nan-nan's joke: she only sends up _yours_ so, and pretends it is +Benjy's own clever selection. I pretend that, too, to him; and he thinks +he is doing something wonderful. The other morning I was--well, Benjy +hears splashing: and tires of waiting--or his mouth waters. An extra can +of hot water happens to stand at the door; and therein he deposits his +treasure (mine, I mean), and retires saying nothing. The consequence is, +when I open three minutes after his scratch, I find you all ungummed and +swimming, your beautiful handwriting bleared and smeared, so that no eye +but mine could have read it. Benjy's shame when I showed him what he +had done was wonderful. + +How it rejoices me to write quite foolish things to you!--that I _can_ +helps to explain a great deal in the up-above order of things, which I +never took in when I was merely young and frivolous. One must have +touched a grave side of life before one can take in that Heaven is not +opposed to laughter. + +My eye has just caught back at what I have written; and the "little +death" runs through me, just because I wrote "grave side." It shouldn't, +but loving has made me superstitious: the happiness seems too great; how +can it go on? I keep thinking--this is not life: you are too much for +me, my dearest! + +Oh, my Beloved, come quickly to meet me to-day: this morning! Ride over; +I am willing it. My own dearest, you must come. If you don't, what shall +I believe? That Love cannot outdo space: that when you are away I cannot +reach you by willing. But I can: come to me! You shall see my arms open +to you as never before. What is it?--you must be coming. I have more +love in me after all than I knew. + +Ah, I know: I wrote "grave side," and all my heart is in arms against +the treason. With us it is not "till death us do part": we leap it +altogether, and are clasped on the other side. + +My dear, my dear, I lay my head down on your heart: I love you! I post +this to show how certain I am. At twelve to-day I shall see you. + + + + +LETTER XLV. + + +Beloved: I look at this ridiculous little nib now, running like a plow +along the furrows! What can the poor thing do? Bury its poor black, blunt +little nose in the English language in order to tell you, in all sorts of +roundabout ways, what you know already as well as I do. And yet, though +that is all it can do, you complain of not having had a letter! Not had a +letter? Beloved, there are half a hundred I have not had from you! Do you +suppose you have ever, any one week in your life, sent me as many as I +wanted? + +Now, for once, I did hold off and didn't write to you: because there was +something in your last I couldn't give any answer to, and I hoped you +would come yourself before I need. Then I hoped silence would bring you: +and now--no!--instead of your dear peace-giving face I get this complaint! + +Ah, Beloved, have you in reality any complaint, or sorrow that I can set +at rest? Or has that little, little silence made you anxious? I do come +to think so, for you never flourish your words about as I do: so, +believing that, I would like to write again differently; only it is truer +to let what I have written stand, and make amends for it in all haste. I +love you so infinitely well, how could even a year's silence give you any +doubt or anxiety, so long as you knew I was not ill? + +"Should one not make great concessions to great grief even when it is +unreasonable?" I cannot answer, dearest: I am in the dark. Great grief +cannot be great without reasons: it should give them, and you should judge +by them:--you, not I. I imagine you have again been face to face with +fierce, unexplained opposition. Dearest, if it would give you happiness, I +would say, make five, ten, twenty years' "concession," as you call it. But +the only time you ever spoke to me clearly about your mother's mind toward +me, you said she wanted an absolute surrender from you, not covered only +by her lifetime. Then though I pitied her, I had to smile. A twenty years' +concession even would not give rest to her perturbed spirit. I pray +truly--having so much reason for your sake to pray it--"God rest her soul! +and give her a saner mind toward both of us." + +Why has this come about at all? It is not February yet: and _our_ plans +have been putting forth no buds before their time. When the day comes, +and you have said the inevitable word, I think more calm will follow +than you expect. _You_, dearest, I do understand: and the instinct of +tenderness you have toward a claim which yet fills you with the sense of +its injustice. I know that you can laugh at her threat to make you poor; +but not at hurting her affections. Did your asking for an "answer" mean +that I was to write so openly? Bless you, my own dearest. + + + + +LETTER XLVI. + + +Dearest: To-day I came upon a strange spectacle: poor old Nan-nan weeping +for wounded pride in me. I found her stitching at raiment of needlework +that is to be mine (piles of it have been through her fingers since the +word first went out; for her love asserts that I am to go all home-made +from my old home to my new one--wherever that may be!). And she was +weeping because, as I slowly got to understand, from one particular +quarter too little attention had been paid to me:--the kow-tow of a +ceremonious reception into my new status had not been deep enough to +make amends to her heart for its partial loss of me. + +Her deferential recognition of the change which is coming is pathetic +and full of etiquette; it is at once so jealous and so unselfish. +Because her sense of the proprieties will not allow her to do so much +longer, she comes up to my room and makes opportunity to scold me over +quite slight things:--and there I am, meeker under her than I would be +to any relative. So to-day I had to bear a statement of your mother's +infirmities rigorously outlined in a way I could only pretend to be deaf +to until she had done. Then I said, "Nan-nan, go and say your prayers!" +And as she stuck her heels down and refused to go, there I left the poor +thing, not to prayer, I fear, but to desolate weeping, in which love and +pride will get more firmly entangled together than ever. + +I know when I go up to my room next I shall find fresh flowers put upon +my table: but the grievous old dear will be carrying a sore heart that I +cannot comfort by any words. I cannot convince her that I am not hiding +in myself any wounds such as she feels on my behalf. + +I write this, dearest, as an indirect answer to yours,--which is but +Nan-nan's woe writ large. If I could persuade your two dear and very +different heads how very slightly wounded I am by a thing which a little +waiting will bring right, I could give it even less thought than I do. +Are you keeping the truce in spirit when you disturb yourself like this? +Trust me, Beloved, always to be candid: I will complain to you when I +feel in need of comfort. Be comforted yourself, meanwhile, and don't +shape ghosts of grief which never do a goose-step over me! Ah well, +well, if there is a way to love you better than I do now, only show it +me! Meantime, think of me as your most contented and happy-go-loving. + + + + +LETTER XLVII. + + +Dearest: I am haunted by a line of quotation, and cannot think where it +comes from: + + "Now sets the year in roaring gray." + +Can you help me to what follows? If it is a true poem it ought now to be +able to sing itself to me at large from an outer world which at this +moment is all gray and roaring. To-day the year is bowing itself out +tempestuously, as if angry at having to go. Dear golden year! I am sorry +to see its face so changed and withering: it has held so much for us +both. Yet I am feeling vigorous and quite like spring. All the seasons +have their marches, with buffetings and border-forays: this is an autumn +march-wind; before long I shall be out into it, and up the hill to look +over at your territory and you being swept and garnished for the seven +devils of winter. + +"Roaring gray" suggests Tennyson, whom I do very much associate with +this sort of weather, not so much because of passages in "Maud" and "In +Memoriam" as because I once went over to Swainston, on a day such as +this when rooks and leaves alike hung helpless in the wind; and heard +there the story of how Tennyson, coming over for his friend's funeral, +would not go into the house, but asked for one of Sir John's old hats, +and with that on his head sat in the garden and wrote almost the best of +his small lyrics: + + "Nightingales warbled without, + Within was weeping for thee." + +The "old hat" was mentioned as something humorous: yet an old glove is +the most accepted symbol of faithful absence: and why should head rank +lower than hand? What creatures of convention we are! + +There is an old notion, quite likely to be true, that a nightcap carries +in it the dreams of its first owner, or that anything laid over a +sleeper's head will bring away the dream. One of the stories which used +to put a lump in my throat as a child was of an old backwoodsman who by +that means found out that his dog stole hams from the storeroom. The dog +was given away in disgrace, and came to England to die of a broken heart +at the sight of a cargo of hams, which, at their unpacking, seemed like +a monstrous day of judgment--the bones of his misdeeds rising again +reclothed with flesh to reproach him with the thing he had never +forgotten. + +I wonder how long it was before I left off definitely choosing out a +story for the pleasure of making myself cry! When one begins to avoid +that luxury of the fledgling emotions, the first leaf of youth is flown. + +To-day I look almost jovially at the decay of the best year I have ever +lived through, and am your very middle-aged faithful and true. + + + + +LETTER XLVIII. + + +Dearest: If anybody has been "calling me names" that are not mine, they do +me a fine injury, and you did well to purge the text of their abuse. I +agree with no authority, however immortal, which inquires "What's in a +name?" expecting the answer to be a snap of the fingers. I answer with a +snap of temper that the blood, boots, and bones of my ancestors are in +mine! Do you suppose I could have been the same woman had such names as +Amelia or Bella or Cinderella been clinging leechlike to my consciousness +through all the years of my training? Why, there are names I can think of +which would have made me break down into side-ringlets had I been forced +to wear them audibly. + +The effect is not so absolute when it is a second name that can be tucked +away if unpresentable, but even then it is a misfortune. There is C----, +now, who won't marry, I believe, chiefly because of the insane "Annie" +with which she was smitten at the baptismal font by an afterthought. She +regards it as a taint in her constitution which orders her to a lonely +life lest worse might follow. And apply the consideration more publicly: +do you imagine the Prince of Wales will be the same sort of king if, when +he comes to the throne, he calls himself King Albert Edward in florid +Continental fashion, instead of "Edward the Seventh," with a right hope +that an Edward the Eighth may follow after him, to make a neck-and-neck +race of it with the Henries? I don't know anything that would do more to +knit up the English constitution: but whenever I pass the Albert Memorial +I tremble lest filial piety will not allow the thing to be done. + +Now of all this I had an instance in the village the day before yesterday. +At the corner house by the post-office, as I went by, a bird opened his +bill and sang a note, and down, down, down, down he went over a golden +scale: pitched afresh, and dropped down another; and then up, up, up, over +the range of both. Then he flung back his shaggy head and laughed. "In all +my father's realm there are no such bells as these!" It was the laughing +jackass. "Who gave you your name?" "My godfathers and my godmothers in my +baptism." Well, _his_ will have _that_ to answer for, however safely for +the rest he may have eschewed the world, the flesh, and the devil. Poor +bird, to be set to sing to us under such a burden:--of which, unconscious +failure, he knows nothing. + +Here I have remembered for you a bit of a poem that took hold of me some +while ago and touched on the same unkindness: only here the flower is +conscious of the wrong done to it, and looks forward to a day of juster +judgment:-- + + "What have I done?--Man came + (There's nothing that sticks like dirt), + Looked at me with eyes of blame, + And called me 'Squinancy-wort!' + What have I done? I linger + (I cannot say that I live) + In the happy lands of my birth; + Passers-by point with the finger: + For me the light of the sun + Is darkened. Oh, what would I give + To creep away, and hide my shame in the earth! + What have I done? + Yet there is hope. I have seen + Many changes since I began. + The web-footed beasts have been + (Dear beasts!)--and gone, being part of some wider plan. + Perhaps in His infinite mercy God will remove this man!" + +Now I am on sentiment and unjust judgments: here is another instance, +where evidently in life I did not love well enough a character nobler than +this capering and accommodating boy Benjy, who toadies to all my moods. +Calling at the lower farm, I missed him whom I used to nickname "Manger," +because his dog-jaws always refused to smile on me. His old mistress gave +me a pathetic account of his last days. It was the muzzling order that +broke his poor old heart. He took it as an accusation on a point where, +though of a melancholy disposition, his reputation had been spotless. He +never lifted his head nor smiled again. And not all his mistress' love +could explain to him that he was not in fault. She wept as she told it me. + +Good-by, dearest, and for this letter so full of such little worth call me +what names you like; and I will go to Jemima, Keziah, and Kerenhappuch for +the patience in which they must have taken after their father when he so +named them, I suppose for a discipline. + +My Beloved, let my heart come where it wants to be. Twilight has been on +me to-day, I don't know why; and I have not written it off as I hoped to +do.--All yours and nothing left. + + + + +LETTER XLIX. + + +Dearest: I suppose your mother's continued absence, and her unexplanation +of her further stay, must be taken for unyielding disapproval, and tells +us what to expect of February. It is not a cordial form of "truce": but +since it lets me see just twice as much of you as I should otherwise, I +will not complain so long as it does not make you unhappy. You write to +her often and kindly, do you not? + +Well, if this last letter of hers frees you sufficiently, it is quite +settled at this end that you are to be with us for Christmas:--read into +that the warmest corners of a heart already fully occupied. I do not think +of it too much, till I am assured it is to be. + +Did you go over to Pembury for the day? Your letter does not say anything: +but your letters have a wonderful way with them of leaving out things of +outside importance. I shall hear from the rattle of returning fire-engines +some day that Hatterling has been burned down: and you will arrive cool +the next day and say, "Oh yes, it is so!" + +I am sure you have been right to secure this pledge of independence to +yourself: but it hurts me to think what a deadly offense it may be both to +her tenderness for you and her pride and stern love of power. To realize +suddenly that Hatterling does not mean to you so much as the power to be +your own master and happy in your own way, which is altogether opposite to +_her_ way, will be so much of a blow that at first you will be able to do +nothing to soften it. + +February fill-dyke is likely to be true to its name, this coming one, in +all that concerns us and our fortunes. Meanwhile, if at Pembury you +brought things any nearer settlement, and are not coming so soon as +to-morrow, let me know: for some things of "outside importance" do affect +me unfavorably while in suspense. I have not your serene determination to +abide the workings of Kismet when once all that can be done is done. + +The sun sets now, when it does so visibly, just where Pembury _is_. I +take it as an omen. In your diary to-morrow you may write down in the +business column that you have had a business letter from _me_, or as +near to one as I can go:--chiefly for that it requires an answer on this +matter of "outside importance," which otherwise you will altogether +leave out. But you will do better still to come. My whole heart goes out +to fetch you: my dearest dear, ever your own. + + + + +LETTER L. + + +Beloved: No, not Browning but Tennyson was in my thoughts at our last ride +together: and I found myself shy, as I have been for a long time wishing +to say things I could not. What has never entered your head to ask becomes +difficult when I wish to get it spoken. So I bring Tennyson to tell you +what I mean:-- + + "Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaäy? + Proputty, proputty, proputty--that's what I 'ears 'em saäy." + +The tune of this kept me silent all the while we galloped: this and +Pembury, a name that glows to me now like the New Jerusalem. + +And do you understand, Beloved? or must I say more? My freedom has made +its nest under my uncle's roof: but I _am_ a quite independent person in +other ways besides character. + +Well, Pembury was settled on your own initiative: and I looked on proud +and glad. Now I have my own little word to add, merely a tail that wags +and makes merry over a thing decided and done. Do you forgive me for +this: and for the greater offense of being quite shy at having to write +it? + +My Aunt thanks you for the game: for my part I cannot own that it will +taste sweeter to me for being your own shooting. And please, whatever +else you do big and grand and dangerous, respect my superstitions and +don't shoot any larks this winter. In the spring I would like to think +that here or there an extra lark bubbles over because I and my whims +find occasional favor in your sight. When I ask great favors you always +grant them; and so, Ahasuerus, grant this little one to your beautifully +loving. + + * * * * * + +Give me the credit of being conscious of it, Beloved: postscripts I +never _do_ write. I am glad you noticed it. If I find anything left out +I start another letter: _this_ is that other letter: it goes into the +same envelope merely for company, and signs itself yours in all state. + + + + +LETTER LI. + + +Dearest: It was so nice and comedy to see the Mother-Aunt this +morning importantly opening a letter from you all to herself with the +pleasure quite unmixed by any inclosure for me, or any other letter in +the house _to_ me so far as she was aware. I listened to you with new +ears, discovering that you write quite beautifully in the style which I +never get from you. Don't, because I admire you in your more formal +form, alter in your style to me. I prefer you much, for my own part, +formless: and feel nearer to your heart in an unfinished sentence than +in one that is perfectly balanced. Still I want you to know that your +cordial warmed her dear old heart and makes her not think now that she +has let me see too much of you. She was just beginning to worry herself +jealously into that belief the last two days: and Arthur's taking to you +helped to the same end. Very well; I seem to understand everybody's +oddities now,--having made a complete study of yours. + +Best Beloved, I have your little letter lying close, and feel dumb when +I try to answer. You with your few words make me feel a small thing with +all my unpenned rabble about me. Only you do know so very well that I +love you better than I can ever write. This is my first letter of the +new year: will our letter-writing go on all this year, or will it, as we +dearly dream, die a divine death somewhere before autumn? + +In any case, I am, dearest, your most happy and loving. + + + + +LETTER LII. + + +My Dearest: Arthur and the friend went off together yesterday. I am glad +the latter stayed just long enough after you left for me to have leisure +to find him out human. Here is the whole story: he came and unbosomed to +me three days ago: and he said nothing about not telling, so I tell you. +As water goes from a duck's back, so go all things worth hearing from me +to you. + +Arthur had said to him, "Come down for a week," and he had answered, +"Can't, because of clothes!" explaining that beyond evening-dress he had +only those he stood in. "Well," said Arthur, "stand in them, then; you +look all right." "The question is," said his friend, "can I sit down?" +However, he came; and was appalled to find that a man unpacked his +trunk, and would in all probability be carrying away his clothes each +night to brush them. He, conscious of interiors, a lining hanging in +rags, and even a patching somewhere, had not the heart to let his one +and only day-jacket go down to the servants' hall to be sniffed over: +and so every evening when he dressed for dinner he hid his jacket +laboriously under the permanent layers of a linen wardrobe which stood +in his room. + +I had all this in the frankest manner from him in the hour when he +became human: and my fancy fired at the vision. Graves with a fierce eye +set on duty probing hither and thither in search after the missing coat; +and each night the search becoming more strenuous and the mystery more +baffling than ever. It had a funny likeness to the Jack Raikes episode +in "Evan Harrington," and pleased me the more thus cropping up in real +life. + +Well, I demanded there and then to be shown the subject of so much +romance and adventure: and had the satisfaction of mending it, he +sitting by in his shirt-sleeves the while, and watching delighted and +without craven apologies. + +I notice it is not his own set he is ashamed of, but only the moneyed, +high-sniffing servant-class who have no understanding for honorable +poverty: and to be misunderstood pricks him in the thinnest of thin +places. + +He told me also that he brought only three white ties to last him for +seven days: and that Graves placed them out in order of freshness and +cleanliness night after night:--first three new ones consecutively, then +three once worn. After that, on the seventh day, Graves resigned all +further responsibility, and laid out all three of them for him to choose +from. On the last three days of his stay he did me the honor to leave his +coat out, declaring that my mendings had made it presentable before an +emperor. Out of this dates the whole of his character, and I understand, +what I did not, why Arthur and he get on together. + +Now the house is empty, and your comings will be--I cannot say more +welcome: but there will be more room for them to be after my own heart. + +Heaven be over us both. Faithfully your most loving. + + + + +LETTER LIII. + + +Beloved: I wish you could have been with me to look out into this garden +last night when the spirit moved me there. I had started for bed, but +became sensitive of something outside not normal. Whether my ear missed +the usual echoes and so guessed a muffled world I do not know. To open the +door was like slicing into a wedding-cake; then,--where was I to put a +foot into that new-laid carpet of ankle-deepness? I hobbled out in a pair +of my uncle's. I suppose it is because I know every tree and shrub in its +true form that snow seems to pile itself nowhere as it does here: it +becomes a garden of entombments. Now and then some heap would shuffle +feebly under its shroud, but resurrection was not to be: the Lawson +cypress held out great boxing-glove hands for me to shake and set free; +and the silence was wonderful. I padded about till I froze: this morning I +can see my big hoof-marks all over the place, and Benjy has been +scampering about in them as if he found some flavor of me there. The trees +are already beginning to shake themselves loose, and the spell is over: +but it had a wonderful hold while it lasted. I take a breath back into +last night, and feel myself again full of a romance without words that I +cannot explain. If you had been there, even, I think I could have +forgotten I had you by me, the place was so weighed down with its sense of +solitude. It struck eleven while I was outside, and in that, too, I could +hear a muffle as if snow choked all the belfry lattices and lay even on +the outer edge of the bell itself. Across the park there are dead boughs +cracking down under the weight of snow; and it would be very like you to +tramp over just because the roads will be so impossible. + +I heard yesterday a thing which made me just a little more free and easy +in mind, though I had nothing sensibly on my conscience. Such a good youth +who two years ago believed I was his only possible future happiness, is +now quite happy with a totally different sort of person. I had a little +letter from him, shy and stately, announcing the event. I thought it such +a friendly act, for some have never the grace to unsay their grievances, +however much actually blessed as a consequence of them. + +With that off my mind I can come to you swearing that there have been no +accidents on anybody's line of life through a mistake in signals, or a +flying in the face of them, where I have had any responsibility. As for +you, and as you know well by now, my signals were ready and waiting +before you sought for them. "Oh, whistle, and I'll come to you!" was +their giveaway attitude. + +I am going down to play snowballs with Benjy. Good-by. If you come you +will find this letter on the hall table, and me you will probably hear +barking behind the rhododendrons.--So much your most loving. + + + + +LETTER LIV. + + +Beloved: We have been having a great day of tidyings out, rummaging +through years and years of accumulations--things quite useless but which I +have not liked to throw away. My soul has been getting such dusty answers +to all sorts of doubtful inquiries as to where on earth this, that, and +the other lay hidden. And there were other things, the memory of which had +lain quite dead or slept, till under the light of day they sprouted hack +into life like corn from the grave of an Egyptian mummy. + +Very deep in one box I found a stealthy little collection of secret +playthings which it used to be my fond belief that nobody knew of but +myself. It may have been Anna's graspingness, when four years of +seniority gave her double my age, or Arthur's genial instinct for +destructiveness, which drove me into such deep concealment of my dearest +idols. But, whether for those or more mystic reasons, I know I had dolls +which I nursed only in the strictest privacy and lavished my firmest +love upon. It was because of them that I bore the reproach of being but +a lukewarm mother of dolls and careless of their toilets; the truth +being that my motherly passion expended itself in secret on certain +outcasts of society whom others despised or had forgotten. They, on +their limp and dissolute bodies, wore all the finery I could find to +pile on them: and one shady transaction done on their behalf I remember +now without pangs. There was one creature of state whom an inconsiderate +relative had presented to Anna and myself in equal shares. Of course +Anna's became more and more lionlike. I had very little love for the +bone of contention myself, but the sense of injustice rankled in me. So +one day, at an unclothing, Anna discovered that certain undergarments +were gone altogether away. She sat aghast, questioned me, and, when I +refused to disgorge, screamed down vengeance from the authorities. I was +morally certain I had taken no more than my just share, and resolution +sat on my lips under all threats. For a punishment the whole ownership +of the big doll was made over to Anna: I was no worse off, and was very +contented with my obstinacy. To-day I found the beautifully wrought +bodice, which I had carried beyond reach of even the supreme court of +appeal, clothing with ridiculous looseness a rag-doll whose head +tottered on its stem like an over-ripe plum, and whose legs had no +deportment at all: and am sending it off in charitable surrender to +Anna to be given, bag and rag, to whichever one of the children she +likes to select. + +Also I found:--would you care to have a lock of hair taken from the head +of a child then two years old, which, bright golden, does not match what +I have on now in the least? I can just remember her: but she is much of +a stranger to both of us. Why I value it is that the name and date on +the envelope inclosing it are in my mother's handwriting: and I suppose +_she_ loved very much the curly treasure she then put away. Some of the +other things, quite funny, I will show you the next time you come over. +How I wish that vanished mite had mixed some of her play-hours with +yours:--you only six miles away all the time: had one but known!--Now +grown very old and loving, always your own. + + + + +LETTER LV. + + +Beloved: I am getting quite out of letter-writing, and it is your doing, +not mine. No sooner do I get a line from you than you rush over in person +and take the answer to it out of my mouth! + +I have had six from you in the last week, and believe I have only +exchanged you one: all the rest have been nipped in the bud by your +arrivals. My pen turns up a cross nose whenever it hears you coming now, +and declares life so dull as not to be worth living. Poor dinky little +Othello! it shall have its occupation again to-day, and say just what it +likes. + +It likes you while you keep away: so that's said! When I make it write +"come," it kicks and tries to say "don't." For it is an industrious +minion, loves to have work to do, and never complains of overhours. It +is a sentimental fact that I keep all its used-up brethren in an +inclosure together, and throw none of them away. If once they have +ridden over paper to you, I turn them to grass in their old age. I let +this out because I think it is time you had another laugh at me. + +Laugh, dearest, and tell me that you have done so if you want to make me +a little more happy than I have been this last day or two. There has +been too much thinking in the heads of both of us. Be empty-headed for +once when you write next: whether you write little or much, I am sure +always of your full heart: but I cannot trust your brain to the same +pressure: it is such a Martha to headaches and careful about so many +things, and you don't bring it here to be soothed as often as you +should--not at its most needy moments, I mean. + +Have you made the announcement? or does it not go till to-day? I am not +sorry, since the move comes from her, that we have not to wait now till +February. You will feel better when the storm is up than when it is only +looming. This is the headachy period. + +Well. Say "well" with me, dearest! It is going to be well: waiting has +not suited us--not any of us, I think. Your mother is one in a thousand, +I say that and mean it:--worth conquering as all good things are. I +would not wish great fortune to come by too primrosy a way. "Canst thou +draw out Leviathan with a hook?" Even so, for size, is the share of the +world which we lay claim to, and for that we must be toilers of the +deep.--Always, Beloved, your truest and most loving. + + + + +LETTER LVI. + + +My Own Own Love: You have given me a spring day before the buds begin,-- +the weather I have been longing for! I had been quite sad at heart these +cold wet days, really _down_;--a treasonable sadness with you still +anywhere in the world (though where in the world have you been?). Spring +seemed such a long way off over the bend of it, with you unable to come; +and it seems now another letter of yours has got lost. (Write it again, +dearest,--all that was in it, with any blots that happened to come:--there +was a dear smudge in to-day's, with the whirlpool mark of your thumb quite +clear on it,--delicious to rest my face against and feel _you_ there.) + +And so back to my spring weather: all in a moment you gave me a whole +week of the weather I had longed after. For you say the sun has been +shining on you: and I would rather have it there than here if it refuses +to be in two places at once. Also my letters have pleased you. When they +do, I feel such a proud mother to them! Here they fly quick out of the +nest; but I think sometimes they must come to you broken-winged, with +so much meant and all so badly put. + +How can we ever, with our poor handful of senses, contrive to express +ourselves perfectly? Perhaps,--I don't know:--dearest, I love you! I +kiss you a hundred times to the minute. If everything in the world were +dark round us, could not kisses tell us quite well all that we wish to +know of each other?--me that you were true and brave and so beautiful +that a woman must be afraid looking at you:--and you that I was just my +very self,--loving and--no! just loving: I have no room for anything +more! You have swallowed up all my moral qualities, I have none left: I +am a beggar, where it is so sweet to beg.--Give me back crumbs of +myself! I am so hungry, I cannot show it, only by kissing you a hundred +times. + +Dear share of the world, what a wonderful large helping of it you are to +me! I alter Portia's complaint and swear that "my little body is +bursting with this great world." And now it is written and I look at it, +it seems a Budge and Toddy sort of complaint. I do thank Heaven that the +Godhead who rules in it for us does not forbid the recognition of the +ludicrous! C---- was telling me how long ago, in her own dull Protestant +household, she heard a riddle propounded by some indiscreet soul who did +not understand the prudish piety which reigned there: and saw such +shocked eyes opening all round on the sound of it. "What is it," was +asked, "that a common man can see every day but that God never sees?" +"His equal" is the correct answer: but even so demure and proper a +support to thistly theology was to the ears that heard it as the hand of +Uzzah stretched out intrusively and deserving to be smitten. As for +C----, a twinkle of wickedness seized her, she hazarded "A joke" to be +the true answer, and was ordered into banishment by the head of that +God-fearing household for having so successfully diagnosed the family +skeleton. + +As for skeletons, why your letter makes me so happy is that the one +which has been rubbing its ribs against you for so long seems to have +given itself a day off, or crumbled to dissolution. And you are yourself +again, as you have not been for many a long day. I suppose there has +been thunder, and the air is cleared: and I am not to know any of that +side of your discomforts? + +Still I _do_ know. You have been writing your letters with pressed lips +for a month past: and I have been a mere toy-thing, and no helpmate to +you at all at all. Oh, why will she not love me? I know I am lovable +except to a very hard heart, and hers is not: it is only like yours, +reserved in its expression. It is strange what pain her prejudice has +been able to drop into my cup of happiness; and into yours, dearest, I +fear, even more. + +Oh, I love you, I love you! I am crying with it, having no words to +declare to you what I feel. My tears have wings in them: first +semi-detached, then detached. See, dearest, there is a rain-stain to +make this letter fruitful of meaning! + +It is sheer convention--and we, creatures of habit--that tears don't +come kindly and easily to express where laughter leaves off and a +something better begins. Which is all very ungrammatical and entirely +me, as I am when I get off my hinges too suddenly. + +Amen, amen! When we are both a hundred we shall remember all this very +peaceably; and the "sanguine flower" will not look back at us less +beautifully because in just one spot it was inscribed with woe. And if +we with all our aids cannot have patience, where in this midge-bitten +world is that virtue to find a standing? + +I kiss you--how? as if it were for the first or the last time? No, but +for all time, Beloved! every time I see you or think of you sums up my +world. Love me a little, too, and I will be as contented as I am your +loving. + + + + +LETTER LVII. + + +Come to me! I will not understand a word you have written till you come. +Who has been using your hand to strike me like this, and why do you lend +it? Oh, if it is she, you do not owe her _that_ duty! Never write such +things:--speak! have you ever found me not listen to you, or hard to +convince? Dearest, dearest!--take what I mean: I cannot write over this +gulf. Come to me,--I will believe anything you can _say_, but I can +believe nothing of this written. I must see you and hear what it is you +mean. Dear heart, I am blind till I set eyes on you again! Beloved, I have +nothing, nothing in me but love for you: except for that I am empty! +Believe me and give me time; I will not be unworthy of the joy of holding +you. I am nothing if not _yours_! Tell this to whoever is deceiving you. + +Oh, my dearest, why did you stay away from me to write so? Come and put an +end to a thing which means nothing to either of us. You love me: how can +it have a meaning? + +Can you not hear my heart crying?--I love nobody but you--do not know +what love is without you! How can I be more yours than I am? Tell me, and +I will be! + +Here are kisses. Do not believe yourself till you have seen me. Oh, the +pain of having to _write_, of not having your arms round me in my misery! +I kiss your dear blind eyes with all my heart.--My Love's most loved and +loving. + + + + +LETTER LVIII. + + +No, no, I cannot read it! What have I done that you will not +come to me? They are mad here, telling me to be calm, that I am not to +go to you. I too am out of my mind--except that I love you. I know +nothing except that. Beloved, only on my lips will I take my dismissal +from yours: not God himself can claim you from me till you have done me +that justice. Kiss me once more, and then, if you can, say we must part. +You cannot!--Ah, come here where my heart is, and you cannot! + +Have I never told you enough how I love you? Dearest, I have no words +for all my love: I have no pride in me. Does not this alone tell +you?--You are sending me away, and I cry to you to spare me. Can I love +you more than that? What will you have of me that I have not given? Oh, +you, the sun in my dear heavens--if I lose you, what is left of me? +Could you break so to pieces even a woman you did not love? And me you +_do_ love,--you _do_. Between all this denial of me, and all this +silence of words that you have put your name to, I see clearly that you +are still my lover.--Your writing breaks with trying not to say it: you +say again and again that there is no fault in me. I swear to you, +dearest, there is none, unless it be loving you: and how can you mean +that? For what are you and I made for unless for each other? With all +our difference people tell us we are alike. We were shaped for each +other from our very birth. Have we not proved it in a hundred days of +happiness, which have lifted us up to the blue of a heaven higher than +any birds ever sang? And now you say--taking on you the blame for the +very life-blood in us both--that the fault is yours, and that your fault +is to have allowed me to love you and yourself to love me! + +Who has suddenly turned our love into a crime? Beloved, is it a sin that +here on earth I have been seeing God through you? Go away from me, and He +is gone also. Ah, sweetheart, let me see you before all my world turns +into a wilderness! Let me know better why,--if my senses are to be emptied +of you. My heart can never let you go. Do you wish that it should? + +Bring your own here, and see if it can tell me that! Come and listen to +mine! Oh, dearest heart that ever beat, mine beats so like yours that +once together you shall not divide their sound! + +Beloved, I will be patient, believe me, to any words you can say: but I +cannot be patient away from you. If I have seemed to reproach you, do +not think that now. For you are to give me a greater joy than I ever had +before when you take me in your arms again after a week that has spelled +dreadful separation. And I shall bless you for it--for this present pain +even--because the joy will be so much greater. + +Only come: I do not live till you have kissed me again. Oh, my beloved, +how cruel love may seem if we do not trust it enough! My trust in you has +come back in a great rush of warmth, like a spring day after frost. I +almost laugh as I let this go. It brings you,--perhaps before I wake: I +shall be so tired to-night. Call under my window, make me hear in my +sleep. I will wake up to you, and it shall be all over before the rest of +the world wakes. There is no dream so deep that I shall not hear you out +of the midst of it. Come and be my morning-glory to-morrow without fail. I +will rewrite nothing that I have written--let it go! See me out of deep +waters again, because I have thought so much of you! I have come through +clouds and thick darkness. I press your name to my lips a thousand times. +As sure as sunrise I say to myself that you will come: the sun is not +truer to his rising than you to me. + +Love will go flying after this till I sleep. God bless you!--and me also; +it is all one and the same wish.--Your most true, loving, and dear +faithful one. + + + + +LETTER LIX. + + +I have to own that I know your will now, at last. Without seeing you I am +convinced: you have a strong power in you to have done that! You have told +me the word I am to say to you: it is your bidding, so I say it--Good-by. +But it is a word whose meaning I cannot share. + +Yet I have something to tell you which I could not have dreamed if it +had not somehow been true: which has made it possible for me to believe, +without hearing you speak it, that I am to be dismissed out of your +heart.--May the doing of it cost you far less pain than I am fearing! + +You did not come, though I promised myself so certainly that you would: +instead came your last very brief note which this is to obey. Still I +watched for you to come, believing it still and trusting to silence on +my part to bring you more certainly than any more words could do. And +at last either you came to me, or I came to you: a bitter last meeting. +Perhaps your mind too holds what happened, if so I have got truly at +what your will is. I must accept it as true, since I am not to see you +again. I cannot tell you whether I thought it or dreamed it, but it +seems still quite real, and has turned all my past life into a mockery. + +When I came I was behind you; then you turned and I could see your +face--you too were in pain: in that we seemed one. But when I touched +you and would have kissed you, you shuddered at me and drew back your +head. I tell you this as I would tell you anything unbelievable that I +had heard told of you behind your back. You see I am obeying you at +last. + +For all the love which you gave me when I seemed worthy of it I thank +you a thousand times. Could you ever return to the same mind, I should +be yours once more as I still am; never ceasing on my side to be your +lover and servant till death, and--if there be anything more--after as +well. + +My lips say amen now: but my heart cannot say it till breath goes out of +my body. Good-by: that means--God be with you. I mean it; but He seems to +have ceased to be with me altogether. Good-by, dearest. I kiss your heart +with writing for the last time, and your eyes, that will see nothing more +from me after this. Good-by. + + +Note.--All the letters which follow were found lying loosely +together. They only went to their destination after the writer's death. + + + + +LETTER LX. + + +To-day, dearest, a letter from you reached me: a fallen star which had +lost its way. It lies dead in my bosom. It was the letter that lost itself +in the post while I was traveling: it comes now with half a dozen +postmarks, and signs of long waiting in one place. In it you say, "We have +been engaged now for two whole months; I never dreamed that two moons +could contain so much happiness." Nor I, dearest! We have now been +separated for three; and till now I had not dreamed that time could so +creep, to such infinitely small purpose, as it has in carrying me from the +moment when I last saw you. + +You were so dear to me, Beloved; _that_ you ever are! Time changes +nothing in you as you seemed to me then. Oh, I am sick to touch your +hands: all my thoughts run to your service: they seem to hear you call, +only to find locked doors. + +If you could see me now I think you would open the door for a little +while. + +If they came and told me--"You are to see him just for five minutes, and +then part again"--what should I be wanting most to say to you? Nothing-- +only "Speak, speak!" I would have you fill my heart with your voice the +whole time: five minutes more of you to fold my life round. It would +matter very little what you said, barring the one thing that remains never +to be said. + +Oh, could all this silence teach me the one thing I am longing to know!-- +why am I unworthy of you? If I cannot be your wife, why cannot I see you +still,--serve you if possible? I would be grateful. + +You meant to be generous; and wishing not to wound me, you said that +"there was no fault" in me. I realize now that you would not have said +that to the woman you still loved. And now I am never to know what part +in me is hateful to you. I must live with it because you would not tell +me the truth! + +Every day tells me I am different from the thing I wish to be--your +love, the woman you approve. + +I love you, I love you! Can I get no nearer to you ever for all this +straining? If I love you so much, I must be moving toward what you would +have me be. In our happiest days my heart had its growing pains,--growing +to be as you wished it. + +Dear, even the wisest make mistakes, and the tenderest may be hard +without knowing: I do not think I am unworthy of you, if you knew all. + +Writing to you now seems weakness: yet it seemed peace to come in here +and cry to you. And when I go about I have still strength left, and try +to be cheerful. Nobody knows, I think nobody knows. No one in the house +is made downcast because of me. How dear they are, and how little I can +thank them! Except to you, dearest, I have not shown myself selfish. + +I love you too much, too much: I cannot write it. + + + + +LETTER LXI. + + +You are very ill, they tell me. Beloved, it is such kindness in +them to have regard for the wish they disapprove and to let me know. +Knowledge is the one thing needful whose lack has deprived me of my +happiness: the express image of sorrow is not so terrible as the +foreboding doubt of it. Not because you are ill, but because I know +something definitely about you, I am happier to-day: a little nearer to +a semblance of service to you in my helplessness. How much I wish you +well, even though that might again carry you out of my knowledge! And, +though death might bring you nearer than life now makes possible, I pray +to you, dearest, not to die. It is not right that you should die yet, +with a mistake in your heart which a little more life might clear away. + +Praying for your dear eyes to remain open, I realize suddenly how much +hope still remains in me, where I thought none was left. Even your +illness I take as a good omen; and the thought of you weak as a child +and somewhat like one in your present state with no brain for deep +thinking, comes to my heart to be cherished endlessly: there you lie, +Beloved, brought home to my imagination as never since the day we +parted. And the thought comes to the rescue of my helpless longing--that +it is as little children that men get brought into the kingdom of +Heaven. Let that be the medicine and outcome of your sickness, my own +Beloved! I hold my breath with hope that I shall have word of you when +your hand has strength again to write. For I know that in sleepless +nights and in pain you will be unable not to think of me. If you made +resolutions against that when you were well, they will go now that you +are laid weak; and so some power will come back to me, and my heart will +never be asleep for thinking that yours lies awake wanting it:--nor ever +be at rest for devising ways by which to be at the service of your +conscious longing. + +Ah, my own one Beloved, whom I have loved so openly and so secretly, if +you were as I think some other men are, I could believe that I had given +you so much of my love that you had tired of me because I had made no +favor of it but had let you see that I was your faithful subject and +servant till death: so that after twenty years you, chancing upon an +empty day in your life, might come back and find me still yours;--as +to-morrow, if you came, you would. + +My pride died when I saw love looking out of your eyes at me; and it has +not come back to me now that I see you no more. I have no wish that it +should. In all ways possible I would wish to be as I was when you loved +me; and seek to change nothing except as you bid me. + + + + +LETTER LXII. + + +So I have seen you, Beloved, again, after fearing that I never should. A +day's absence from home has given me this great fortune. + +The pain of it was less than it might have been, since our looks did not +meet. To have seen your eyes shut out their recognition of me would have +hurt me too much: I must have cried out against such a judgment. But you +passed by the window without knowing, your face not raised: so little +changed, yet you have been ill. Arthur tells me everything: he knows I +must have any word of you that goes begging. + +Oh, I hope you are altogether better, happier! An illness helps some +people: the worst of their sorrow goes with the health that breaks down +under it; and they come out purged into a clearer air, and are made +whole for a fresh trial of life. + +I hear that you are going quite away; and my eyes bless this chance to +have embraced you once again. Your face is the kindest I have ever +seen: even your silence, while I looked at you, seemed a grace instead +of a cruelty. What kindness, I say to myself, even if it be mistaken +kindness, must have sealed those dear lips not to tell me of my unworth! + +Oh, if I could see once into the brain of it all! No one but myself knows +how good you are: how can I, then, be so unworthy of you? Did you think I +would not surrender to anything you fixed, that you severed us so +completely, not even allowing us to meet, and giving me no way to come +back to you though I might come to be all that you wished? Ah, dear face, +how hungry you have made me!--the more that I think you are not yet so +happy as I could wish,--as I could make you,--I say it foolishly:--yet if +you would trust me, I am sure. + +Oh, how tired loving you now makes me! physically I grow weary with the +ache to have you in my arms. And I dream, I dream always, the shadows of +former kindness that never grow warm enough to clasp me before I +wake.--Yours, dearest, waking or sleeping. + + + + +LETTER LXIII. + + +Do you remember, Beloved, when you came on your birthday, you said I was +to give you another birthday present of your own choosing, and I promised? +And it was that we were to do for the whole day what _I_ wished: you were +not to be asked to choose. + +You said then that it was the first time I had ever let you have your +way, which was to see me be myself independently of you:--as if such a +self existed. + +You will never see what I write now; and I did not do then any of the +things I most wished: for first I wished to kneel down and kiss your +hands and feet; and you would not have liked that. Even now that you +love me no more, you would not like me to do such a thing. A woman can +never do as she likes when she loves--there is no such thing until he +shows it her or she divines it. I loved you, I loved you!--that was all +I could do, and all I wanted to do. + +You have kept my letters? Do you read them ever, I wonder? and do they +tell you differently about me, now that you see me with new eyes? Ah no, +you dare not look at them: they tell too much truth! How can love-letters +ever cease to be the winged things they were when they first came? I fancy +mine sick to death for want of your heart to rest on; but never less +loving. + +If you would read them again, you would come back to me. Those little +throats of happiness would be too strong for you. And so you lay them in +a cruel grave of lavender,--"Lavender for forgetfulness" might be +another song for Ophelia to sing. + +I am weak with writing to you, I have written too long: this is twice +to-day. + +I do not write to make myself more miserable: only to fill up my time. + +When I go about something definite, I can do it:--to ride, or read aloud +to the old people, or sit down at meals with them is very easy; but I +cannot make employment for myself--that requires too much effort of +invention and will: and I have only will for one thing in life--to get +through it: and no invention to the purpose. Oh, Beloved, in the grave I +shall lie forever with a lock of your hair in my hand. I wonder if, +beyond there, one sees anything? My eyes ache to-day from the brain, +which is always at blind groping for you, and the point where I missed +you. + + + + +LETTER LXIV. + + +Dearest: It is dreadful to own that I was glad at first to know that you +and your mother were no longer together, glad of something that must mean +pain to you! I am not now. When you were ill I did a wrong thing: from her +something came to me which I returned. I would do much to undo that act +now; but this has fixed it forever. With it were a few kind words. I could +not bear to accept praise from her: all went back to her! Oh, poor thing, +poor thing! if I ever had an enemy I thought it was she! I do not think so +now. Those who seem cold seldom are. I hope you were with her at the last: +she loved you beyond any word that was in her nature to utter, and the +young are hard on the old without knowing it. We were two people, she and +I, whose love clashed jealously over the same object, and we both failed. +She is the first to get rest. + + + + +LETTER LXV. + + +My Dear: I dream of you now every night, and you are always kind, always +just as I knew you: the same without a shadow of change. + +I cannot picture you anyhow else, though my life is full of the silence +you have made. My heart seems to have stopped on the last beat the sight +of your handwriting gave it. + +I dare not bid you come back now: sorrow has made me a stranger to +myself. I could not look at you and say "I am your Star":--I could not +believe it if I said it. Two women have inhabited me, and the one here +now is not the one you knew and loved: their one likeness is that they +both have loved the same man, the one certain that her love was +returned, and the other certain of nothing. What a world of difference +lies in that! + +I lay hands on myself, half doubting, and feel my skeleton pushing to +the front: my glass shows it me. Thus we are all built up: bones are at +the foundations of our happiness, and when the happiness wears thin, +they show through, the true architecture of humanity. + +I have to realize now that I have become the greatest possible failure +in life,--a woman who has lost her "share of the world": I try to shape +myself to it. + +It is deadly when a woman's sex, what was once her glory, reveals itself +to her as an all-containing loss. I realized myself fully only when I +was with you; and now I can't undo it.--You gone, I lean against a +shadow, and feel myself forever falling, drifting to no end, a Francesca +without a Paolo. Well, it must be some comfort that I do not drag you +with me. I never believed myself a "strong" woman; your lightest wish +shaped me to its liking. Now you have molded me with your own image and +superscription, and have cast me away. + +Are not the die and the coin that comes from it only two sides of the +same form?--there is not a hair's breadth anywhere between their +surfaces where they lie, the one inclosing the other. Yet part them, and +the light strikes on them how differently! That is a mere condition of +light: join them in darkness, where the light cannot strike, and they +are the same--two faces of a single form. So you and I, dear, when we +are dead, shall come together again, I trust. Or are we to come back to +each other defaced and warped out of our true conjunction? I think not: +for if you have changed, if soul can ever change, I shall be melted +again by your touch, and flow to meet all the change that is in you, +since my true self is to be you. + +Oh, you, my Beloved, do you wake happy, either with or without thoughts +of me? I cannot understand, but I trust that it may be so. If I could +have a reason why I have so passed out of your life, I could endure it +better. What was in me that you did not wish? What was in you that I +must not wish for evermore? If the root of this separation was in you, +if in God's will it was ordered that we were to love, and, without +loving less, afterwards be parted, I could acquiesce so willingly. But +it is this knowing nothing that overwhelms me:--I strain my eyes for +sight and can't see; I reach out my hands for the sunlight and am given +great handfuls of darkness. I said to you the sun had dropped out of my +heaven.--My dear, my dear, is this darkness indeed you? Am I in the mold +with my face to yours, receiving the close impression of a misery in +which we are at one? Are you, dearest, hungering and thirsting for me, +as I now for you? + +I wonder what, to the starving and drought-stricken, the taste of death +can be like! Do all the rivers of the world run together to the lips +then, and all its fruits strike suddenly to the taste when the long +deprivation ceases to be a want? Or is it simply a ceasing of hunger and +thirst--an antidote to it all? + +I may know soon. How very strange if at the last I forget to think of +you! + + + + +LETTER LXVI. + + +Dearest: Every day I am giving myself a little more pain than I need--for +the sake of you. I am giving myself your letters to read again day by day +as I received them. Only one a day, so that I have still something left to +look forward to to-morrow: and oh, dearest, what _unanswerable_ things +they have now become, those letters which I used to answer so easily! +There is hardly a word but the light of to-day stands before it like a +drawn sword, between the heart that then felt and wrote so, and mine as it +now feels and waits. + +All your tenderness then seems to be cruelty now: only _seems_, dearest, +for I still say, I _do_ say that it is not so. I know it is not so: I, +who know nothing else, know that! So I look every day at one of these +monstrous contradictions, and press it to my heart till it becomes +reconciled with the pain that is there always. + +Indeed you loved me: that I see now. Words which I took so much for +granted then have a strange force now that I look back at them. You did +love: and I who did not realize it enough then, realize it now when you +no longer do. + +And the commentary on all this is that one letter of yours which I say +over and over to myself sometimes when I cannot pray: "There is no fault +in you: the fault is elsewhere; I can no longer love you as I did. All +that was between us must be at an end; for your good and mine the only +right thing is to say good-by without meeting. I know you will not +forget me, but you will forgive me, even because of the great pain I +cause you. You are the most generous woman I have known. If it would +comfort you to blame me for this I would beg you to do it: but I know +you better, and ask you to believe that it is my deep misfortune rather +than my fault that I can be no longer your lover, as, God knows, I was +once, I dare not say how short a time ago. To me you remain, what I +always found you, the best and most true-hearted woman a man could pray +to meet." + +This, dearest, I say and say: and write down now lest you have forgotten +it. For your writing of it, and all the rest of you that I have, goes +with me to my grave. How superstitious we are of our own bodies after +death!--I, as if I believed that I should ever rise or open my ears to +any sound again! I do not, yet it comforts me to make sure that certain +things shall go with me to dissolution. + +Truly, dearest, I believe grief is a great deceiver, and that no one +quite quite wishes not to exist. I have no belief in future existence; +yet I wish it so much--to exist again outside all this failure of my +life. For at present I have done you no good at all, only evil. + +And I hope now and then, that writing thus to you I am not writing +altogether in vain. If I can see sufficiently at the last to say--Send +him these, it will be almost like living again: for surely you will love +me again when you see how much I have suffered,--and suffered because I +would not let thought of you go. + +Could you dream, Beloved, reading _this_ that there is bright sunlight +streaming over my paper as I write? + + + + +LETTER LXVII. + + +Do you forgive me for coming into your life, Beloved? I do not know in +what way I can have hurt you, but I know that I have. Perhaps without +knowing it we exchange salves for the wounds we have given and received? +Dearest, I trust those I send reach you: I send them, wishing till I grow +weak. My arms strain and become tired trying to be wings to carry them to +you: and I am glad of that weariness--it seems to be some virtue that has +gone out of me. If all my body could go out in the effort, I think I +should get a glimpse of your face, and the meaning of everything then at +last. + +I have brought in a wild rose to lay here in love's cenotaph, among all +my thoughts of you. It comes from a graveyard full of "little deaths." I +remember once sending you a flower from the same place when love was +still fortunate with us. I must have been reckless in my happiness to do +that! + +Beloved, if I could speak or write out all my thoughts, till I had +emptied myself of them, I feel that I should rest. But there is no +_emptying_ the brain by thinking. Things thought come to be thought +again over and over, and more and fresh come in their train: children +and grandchildren, generations of them, sprung from the old stock. I +have many thoughts now, born of my love for you, that never came when we +were together,--grandchildren of our days of courtship. Some of them are +set down here, but others escape and will never see your face! + +If (poor word, it has the sound but no hope of a future life): still, +IF you should ever come back to me and want, as you would want, +to know something of the life in between,--I could put these letters +that I keep into your hands and trust them to say for me that no day +have I been truly, that is to say _willingly_, out of your heart. When +Richard Feverel comes back to his wife, do you remember how she takes +him to see their child, which till then he had never seen--and its +likeness to him as it lies asleep? Dearest, have I not been as true to +you in all that I leave here written? + +If, when I come to my finish, I get any truer glimpse of your mind, and +am sure of what you would wish, I will leave word that these shall be +sent to you. If not, I must suppose knowledge is still delayed, not that +it will not reach you. + +Sometimes I try still not to wish to die. For my poor body's sake I +wish Well to have its last chance of coming to pass. It is the unhappy +unfulfilled clay of life, I think, which robbed of its share of things +set ghosts to walk: mists which rise out of a ground that has not worked +out its fruitfulness, to take the shape of old desires. If I leave a +ghost, it will take _your_ shape, not mine, dearest: for it will be "as +trees walking" that the "lovers of trees" will come back to earth. +Browning did not know that. Someone else, not Browning, has worded it +for us: a lover of trees far away sends his soul back to the country +that has lost him, and there "the traveler, marveling why, halts on the +bridge to hearken how soft the poplars sigh," not knowing that it is the +lover himself who sighs in the trees all night. That is how the ghosts +of real love come back into the world. The ghosts of love and the ghosts +of hatred must be quite different: these bring fear, and those none. +Come to me, dearest, in the blackest night, and I will not be afraid. + +How strange that when one has suffered most, it is the poets (those who +are supposed to _sing_) who best express things for us. Yet singing is the +thing I feel least like. If ever a heart once woke up to find itself full +of tune, it was mine; now you have drawn all the song out of it, emptied +it dry: and I go to the poets to read epitaphs. I think it is their +cruelty that appeals to me:--they can sing of grief! O hard hearts! + +Sitting here thinking of you, my ears have suddenly become wide open to +the night-sounds outside. A night-jar is making its beautiful burr in +the stillness, and there are things going away and away, telling me the +whereabouts of life like points on a map made for the ear. You, too, are +_somewhere_ outside, making no sound: and listening for you I heard +these. It seemed as if my brain had all at once opened and caught a new +sense. Are you there? This is one of those things which drop to us with +no present meaning: yet I know I am not to forget it as long as I live. + +Good-night! At your head, at your feet, is there any room for me to-night, +Beloved? + + + + +LETTER LXVIII. + + +Dearest: The thought keeps troubling me how to give myself to you most, if +you should ever come back for me when I am no longer here. These poor +letters are all that I can leave: will they tell you enough of my heart? + +Oh, into that, wish any wish that you like, and it is there already! My +heart, dearest, only moves in the wish to be what you desire. + +Yet I am conscious that I cannot give, unless you shall choose to take: +and though I write myself down each day your willing slave, I cry my +wares in a market where there is no bidder to hear me. + +Dearest, though my whole life is yours, it is little you know of it. +My wish would be to have every year of my life blessed by your +consciousness of it. Barely a year of me is all that you have, truly, to +remember: though I think five summers at least came to flower, and +withered in that one. + +I wish you knew my whole life: I cannot tell it: it was too full of +infinitely small things. Yet what I can remember I would like to tell +now: so that some day, perhaps, perhaps, my childhood may here and there +be warmed long after its death by your knowledge coming to it and +discovering in it more than you knew before. + +How I long, dearest, that what I write may look up some day and meet your +eye! Beloved, _then_, however faded the ink may have grown, I think the +spirit of my love will remain fresh in it:--I kiss you on the lips with +every word. The thought of "good-by" is never to enter here: it is _A +reviderci_ for ever and ever:--"Love, love," and "meet again!"--the words +we put into the thrush's song on a day you will remember, when all the +world for us was a garden. + +Dearest, what I can tell you of older days,--little things they must be--I +will: and I know that if you ever come to value them at all, their +littleness will make them doubly welcome:--just as to know that you were +once called a "gallous young hound" by people whom you plagued when a boy, +was to me a darling discovery: all at once I caught my childhood's +imaginary comrade to my young spirit's heart and kissed him, brow and +eyes. + +Good-night, good-night! To-morrow I will find you some earliest memory: +the dew of Hermon be on it when you come to it--if ever! + +Oh, Beloved, could you see into my heart now, or I into yours, time +would grow to nothing for us; and my childhood would stay unwritten! + +From far and near I gather my thoughts of you for the kiss I cannot +give. Good-night, dearest. + + + + +LETTER LXIX. + + +Beloved: I remember my second birthday. I am quite sure of it, because my +third I remember so infinitely well.--Then I was taken in to see Arthur +lying in baby bridal array of lace fringes and gauze, and received in my +arms held up for me by Nan-nan the awful weight and imperial importance of +his small body. + +I think from the first I was told of him as my "brother": cousin I have +never been able to think him. But all this belongs to my third: on my +second, I remember being on a floor of roses; and they told me if I +would go across to a clipboard and pull it open there would be something +there waiting for me. And it was on all-fours that I went all eagerness +across great patches of rose-pattern, till I had butted my way through a +door left ajar, and found in a cardboard box of bright tinsel and +flowers two little wax babes in the wood lying. + +I think they gave me my first sense of color, except, perhaps, the +rose-carpet which came earlier, and they remained for quite a long time +the most beautiful thing I knew. It is strange that I cannot remember +what became of them, for I am sure I neither broke nor lost them,--perhaps +it was done for me: Arthur came afterward, the tomb of many of my early +joys, and the maker of so many new ones. He, dearest, is the one, the only +one, who has seen the tears that belong truly to you: and he blesses me +with such wonderful patience when I speak your name, allowing that perhaps +I know better than he. And after the wax babies I had him for my third +birthday. + + + + +LETTER LXX. + + +Beloved: I think that small children see very much as animals must do: +just the parts of things which have a direct influence on their lives, and +no memory outside that. I remember the kindness or frowns of faces in +early days far more than the faces themselves: and it is quite a distinct +and later memory that I have of standing within a doorway and watching my +mother pass downstairs unconscious of my being there,--and _then_, for the +first time, studying her features and seeing in them a certain solitude +and distance which I had never before noticed:--I suppose because I had +never before thought of looking at her when she was not concerned with me. + +It was this unobservance of actual features, I imagine, which made me +think all gray-haired people alike, and find a difficulty in recognizing +those who called, except generically as callers--people who kissed me, +and whom therefore I liked to see. + +One, I remember, for no reason unless because she had a brown face, I +mistook from a distance for my Aunt Dolly, and bounded into the room +where she was sitting, with a cry of rapture. And it was my earliest +conscious test of politeness, when I found out my mistake, not to cry over +it in the kind but very inferior presence to that one I had hoped for. + +I suppose, also, that many sights which have no meaning to children go, +happily, quite out of memory; and that what our early years leave for us +in the mind's lavender are just the tit-bits of life, or the first blows +to our intelligence--things which did matter and mean much. + +Corduroys come early into my life,--their color and the queer earthy +smell of those which particularly concerned me: because I was picked up +from a fall and tenderly handled by a rough working-man so clothed, whom +I regarded for a long time afterward as an adorable object. He and I +lived to my recognition of him as a wizened, scrubby, middle-aged man, +but remained good friends after the romance was over. I don't know when +the change in my sense of beauty took place as regards him. + +Anything unusual that appealed to my senses left exaggerated marks. My +father once in full uniform appeared to me as a giant, so that I +screamed and ran, and required much of his kindest voice to coax me back +to him. + +Also once in the street a dancer in fancy costume struck me in the same +way, and seemed in his red tunic twice the size of the people who +crowded round him. + +I think as a child the small ground-flowers of spring took a larger hold +upon me than any others:--I was so close to them. Roses I don't remember +till I was four or five; but crocus and snowdrop seem to have been in my +blood from the very beginning of things; and I remember likening the +green inner petals of the snowdrop to the skirts of some ballet-dancing +dolls, which danced themselves out of sight before I was four years old. + +Snapdragons, too, I remember as if with my first summer: I used to feed +them with bits of their own green leaves, believing faithfully that +those mouths must need food of some sort. When I became more thoughtful +I ceased to make cannibals of them: but I think I was less convinced +then of the digestive process. I don't know when I left off feeding +snapdragons: I think calceolarias helped to break me off the habit, for +I found they had no throats to swallow with. + +In much the same way as sights that have no meaning leave no traces, so +I suppose do words and sounds. It was many years before I overheard, in +the sense of taking in, a conversation by elders not meant for me: +though once, in my innocence, I hid under the table during the elders' +late dinner, and came out at dessert, to which we were always allowed to +come down, hoping to be an amusing surprise to them. And I could not at +all understand why I was scolded; for, indeed, I had _heard_ nothing at +all, though no doubt plenty that was unsuitable for a child's ears had +been said, and was on the elders' minds when they upbraided me. + + + +Dearest, such a long-ago! and all these smallest of small things I +remember again, to lay them up for you: all the child-parentage of me whom +you loved once, and will again if ever these come to you. + +Bless my childhood, dearest: it did not know it was lonely of you, as I +know of myself now! And yet I have known you, and know you still, so am +the more blest.--Good-night. + + + + +LETTER LXXI. + + +I used to stand at the foot of the stairs a long time, when by myself, +before daring to start up: and then it was always the right foot that went +first. And a fearful feeling used to accompany me that I was going to meet +the "evil chance" when I got to the corner. Sometimes when I felt it was +there very badly, I used at the last moment to shut my eyes and walk +through it: and feel, on the other side, like a pilgrim who had come +through the waters of Jordan. + +My eyes were always the timidest things about me: and to shut my eyes +tight against the dark was the only way I had of meeting the solitude of +the first hour of bed when Nan-nan had left me, and before I could get +to sleep. + +I have an idea that one listens better with one's eyes shut, and that this +and other things are a remnant of our primitive existence when perhaps the +ears of our arboreal ancestors kept a lookout while the rest of their +senses slept. I think, also, that the instinct I found in myself, and have +since in other children, to conceal a wound is a similar survival. At one +time, I suppose, in the human herd the damaged were quickly put out of +existence; and it was the self-preservation instinct which gave me so keen +a wish to get into hiding when one day I cut my finger badly--something +more than a mere scratch, which I would have cried over and had bandaged +quite in the correct way. I remember I sat in a corner and pretended to be +nursing a rag doll which I had knotted round my hand, till Nan-nan +noticed, perhaps, that I looked white, and found blood flowing into my +lap. And I can recall still the overcoming comfort which fell upon me as I +let resolution go, and sobbed in her arms full of pity for myself and +scolding the "naughty knife" that had done the deed. The rest of that day +is lost to me. + +Yet it is not only occasions of happiness and pain which impress +themselves. When the mind takes a sudden stride in consciousness,--that, +also, fixes itself. I remember the agony of shyness which came on me when +strange hands did my undressing for me once in Nan-nan's absence: the +first time I had felt such a thing. And another day I remember, after +contemplating the head of Judas in a pictorial puzzle for a long time, +that I seized a brick and pounded him with it beyond recognition:--these +were the first vengeful beginnings of Christianity in me. All my history, +Bible and English, came to me through picture-books. I wept tenderly over +the endangered eyes of Prince Arthur, yet I put out the eyes of many +kings, princes, and governors who incurred my displeasure, scratching them +with pins till only a white blur remained on the paper. + +All this comes to me quite seriously now: I used to laugh thinking it +over. But can a single thing we do be called trivial, since out of it we +grow up minute by minute into a whole being charged with capacity for +gladness or suffering? + +Now, as I look back, all these atoms of memory are dust and ashes that I +have walked through in order to get to present things. How I suffer, how +I suffer! If you could have dreamed that a human body could contain so +much suffering, I think you would have chosen a less dreadful way of +showing me your will: you would have given me a reason why I have to +suffer so. + +Dearest, I am broken off every habit I ever had, except my love of you. If +you would come back to me you could shape me into whatever you wished. I +will be different in all but just that one thing. + + + + +LETTER LXXII. + + +Here in my pain, Beloved, I remember keenly now the one or two occasions +when as a small child I was consciously a cause of pain to others. What an +irony of life that once of the two times when I remember to have been +cruel, it was to Arthur, with his small astonished baby-face remaining a +reproach to me ever after! I was hardly five then, and going up to the +nursery from downstairs had my supper-cake in my hand, only a few +mouthfuls left. He had been having his bath, and was sitting up on +Nan-nan's knee being got into his bed clothes; when spying me with my cake +he piped to have a share of it. I dare say it would not have been good for +him, but of that I thought nothing at all: the cruel impulse took me to +make one mouthful of all that was left. He watched it go without crying; +but his eyes opened at me in a strange way, wondering at this sudden +lesson of the hardness of a human heart. "All gone!" was what he said, +turning his head from me up to Nan-nan, to see perhaps if she too had a +like surprise for his wee intelligence. I think I have never forgiven +myself that, though Arthur has no memory of it left in him: the judging +remembrance of it would, I believe, win forgiveness to him for any wrong +he might now do me, if that and not the contrary were his way with me: so +unreasonably is my brain scarred where the thought of it still lies. God +may forgive us our trespasses by marvelous slow ways; but we cannot always +forgive them ourselves. + +The other thing came out of a less personal greed, and was years later: +Arthur and I were collecting eggs, and in the loft over one of the +out-houses there was a swallow's nest too high up to be reached by any +ladder we could get up there. I was intent on getting the _eggs_, and +thought of no other thing that might chance: so I spread a soft fall +below, and with a long pole I broke the floor of the nest. Then with a +sudden stir of horror I saw soft things falling along with the clay, +tiny and feathery. Two were killed by the breakage that fell with them, +but one was quite alive and unhurt. I gathered up the remnants of the +nest and set it with the young one in it by the loft window where the +parent-birds might see, making clumsy strivings of pity to quiet my +conscience. The parent-birds did see, soon enough: they returned, first +up to the rafters, then darting round and round and crying; then to +where their little one lay helpless and exposed, hung over it with a +nibbling movement of their beaks for a moment, making my miserable heart +bound up with hope: then away, away, shrieking into the July sunshine. +Once they came back, and shrieked at the horror of it all, and fled away +not to return. + +I remained for hours and did whatever silly pity could dictate: but of +course the young one died: and I--_cleared away all remains that nobody +might see_! And that I gave up egg-collecting after that was no penance, +but choice. Since then the poignancy of my regret when I think of it has +never softened. The question which pride of life and love of make-believe +till then had not raised in me, "Am I a god to kill and to make alive?" +was answered all at once by an emphatic "No," which I never afterward +forgot. But the grief remained all the same, that life, to teach me that +blunt truth, should have had to make sacrifice in the mote-hung loft of +three frail lives on a clay-altar, and bring to nothing but pain and a +last miserable dart away into the bright sunshine the spring work of two +swift-winged intelligences. Is man, we are told to think, not worth many +sparrows? Oh, Beloved, sometimes I doubt it! and would in thought give my +life that those swallows in their generations might live again. + +Beloved, I am letting what I have tried to tell you of my childhood end +in a sad way. For it is no use, no use: I have not to-day a glimmer of +hope left that your eyes will ever rest on what I have been at such deep +trouble to write. + +If I were being punished for these two childish things I did, I should +see a side of justice in it all. But it is for loving you I am being +punished: and not God himself shall make me let you go! Beloved, +Beloved, all my days are at your feet, and among them days when you held +me to your heart. Good-night; good-night always now! + + + + +LETTER LXXIII. + + +Dearest: I could never have made any appeal _from_ you to anybody: all my +appeal has been _to_ you alone. I have wished to hear reason from no other +lips but yours; and had you but really and deeply confided in me, I +believe I could have submitted almost with a light heart to what you +thought best:--though in no way and by no stretch of the imagination can I +see you coming to me for the last time and _saying_, as you only wrote, +that it was best we should never see each other again. + +You could not have said that with any sound of truth; and how can it +look truer frozen into writing? I have kissed the words, because you +wrote them; not believing them. It is a suspense of unbelief that you +have left me in, oh, still dearest! Yet never was sad heart truer to the +fountain of all its joy than mine to yours. You had only to see me to +know that. + +Some day, I dream, we shall come suddenly together, and you will see, +before a word, before I have time to gather my mind back to the bodily +comfort of your presence, a face filled with thoughts of you that have +never left it, and never been bitter:--I believe never once bitter. For +even when I think, and convince myself that you have wronged yourself--and +so, me also,--even then: oh, then most of all, my heart seems to break +with tenderness, and my spirit grow more famished than ever for the want +of you! For if you have done right, wisely, then you have no longer any +need of me: but if you have done wrong, then you must need me. Oh, dear +heart, let that need overwhelm you like a sea, and bring you toward me on +its strong tide! And come when you will I shall be waiting. + + + + +LETTER LXXIV. + + +Dearest and Dearest: So long as you are still this to my heart I trust to +have strength to write it; though it is but a ghost of old happiness that +comes to me in the act. I have no hope now left in me: but I love you not +less, only more, if that be possible: or is it the same love with just a +weaker body to contain it all? I find that to have definitely laid off all +hope gives me a certain relief: for now that I am so hopeless it becomes +less hard not to misjudge you--not to say and think impatiently about you +things which would explain why I had to die like this. + +Dearest, nothing but love shall explain anything of you to me. When I +think of your dear face, it is only love that can give it its meaning. +If love would teach me the meaning of this silence, I would accept all +the rest, and not ask for any joy in life besides. For if I had the +meaning, however dark, it would be by love speaking to me again at last; +and I should have your hand holding mine in the darkness forever. + +Your face, Beloved, I can remember so well that it would be enough if I +had your hand:--the meaning, just the meaning, why I have to sit blind. + + + + +LETTER LXXV. + + +Dearest: There is always one possibility which I try to remember in all I +write: even where there is no hope a thing remains _possible_:--that your +eye may some day come to rest upon what I leave here. And I would have +nothing so dark as to make it seem that I were better dead than to have +come to such a pass through loving you. If I felt that, dearest, I should +not be writing my heart out to you, as I do: when I cease doing that I +shall indeed have become dead and not want you any more, I suppose. How +far I am from dying, then, now! + +So be quite sure that if now, even now,--for to-day of all days has +seemed most dark--if now I were given my choice--to have known you or +not to have known you,--Beloved, a thousand times I would claim to keep +what I have, rather than have it taken away from me. I cannot forget +that for a few months I was the happiest woman I ever knew: and that +happiness is perhaps only by present conditions removed from me. If I +have a soul, I believe good will come back to it: because I have done +nothing to deserve this darkness unless by loving you: and if _by_ +loving you, I am glad that the darkness came. + +Beloved, you have the yes and no to all this: _I_ have not, and cannot +have. Something that you have not chosen for me to know, you know: it +should be a burden on your conscience, surely, not to have shared it +with me. Maybe there is something I know that you do not. In the way of +sorrow, I think and wish--yes. In the way of love, I wish to think--no. + +Any more thinking wearies me. Perhaps we have loved too much, and have +lost our way out of our poor five senses, without having strength to +take over the new world which is waiting beyond them. Well, I would +rather, Beloved, suffer through loving too much, than through loving too +little. It is a good fault as faults go. And it is _my_ fault, Beloved: +so some day you may have to be tender to it. + + + + +LETTER LXXVI. + + +Dearest: I feel constantly that we are together still: I cannot explain. +When I am most miserable, even so that I feel a longing to fly out of +reach of the dear household voices which say shy things to keep me +cheerful,--I feel that I have you in here waiting for me. Heart's heart, +in my darkest, it is you who speak to me! + +As I write I have my cheek pressed against yours. None of it is true: +not a word, not a day that has separated us! I am yours: it is only the +poor five senses part of us that spells absence. Some day, some day you +will answer this letter which has to stay locked in my desk. Some day, +I mean, an answer will reach me:--without your reading this, your answer +will come. Is not your heart at this moment answering me? + +Dearest, I trust you: I could not have dreamed you to myself, therefore +you must be true, quite independently of me. You as I saw you once with +open eyes remain so forever. You cannot make yourself, Beloved, not to be +what you are: you have called my soul to life if for no other reason than +to bear witness of you, come what may. No length of silence can make a +truth once sounded ever cease to be: borne away out of our hearing it +makes its way to the stars: dispersed or removed it cannot be lost. I too, +for truth's sake, may have to be dispersed out of my present self which +shuts me from you: but I shall find you some day,--you who made me, you +who every day make me! A part of you cut off, I suffer pain because I _am_ +still part of you. If I had no part in you I should suffer nothing. But I +do, I do. One is told how, when a man has lost a limb, he still feels +it,--not the pleasure of it but the pain. Dearest, are you aware of me +now? + +Because I am suffering, you shall not think I am entirely miserable. But +here and now I am all unfinished ends. Desperately I need faith at times +to tell me that each shoot of pain has a point at which it assuages +itself and becomes healing: that pain is not endurance wasted; but that +I and my weary body have a goal which will give a meaning to all this, +somehow, somewhere: never, I begin to fear, here, while this body has +charge of me. + +Dearest, I lay my heart down on yours and cry: and having worn myself +out with it and ended, I kiss your lips and bless God that I have known +you. + +I have not said--I never could say it--"Let the day perish wherein Love +was born!" I forget nothing of you: you are clear to me,--all but one +thing: why we have become as we are now, one whole, parted and sent +different ways. And yet so near! On my most sleepless nights my pillow +is yours: I wet your face with my tears and cry, "Sleep well." + +To-night also, Beloved, sleep well! Night and morning I make you my +prayer. + + + + +LETTER LXXVII. + + +My own one beloved, my dearest dear! Want me, please want me! I will keep +alive for you. Say you wish me to live,--not come to you: don't say that +if you can't--but just wish me to live, and I will. Yes, I will do +anything, even live, if you tell me to do it. I will be stronger than all +the world or fate, if you have any wish about me at all. Wish well, +dearest, and surely the knowledge will come to me. Wish big things of me, +or little things: wish me to sleep, and I will sleep better because of it. +Wish anything of me: only not that I should love you better. I can't, +dearest, I can't. Any more of that, and love would go out of my body and +leave it clay. If you would even wish _that_, I would be happy at finding +a way to do your will below ground more perfectly than any I found on it. +Wish, wish: only wish something for me to do. Oh, I could rest if I had +but your little finger to love. The tyranny of love is when it makes no +bidding at all. That you have no want or wish left in you as regards me +is my continual despair. My own, my beloved, my tormentor and comforter, +my ever dearest dear, whom I love so much! + + + + +LETTER LXXVIII. + + +To-night, Beloved, the burden of things is too much for me. +Come to me somehow, dear ghost of all my happiness, and take me in your +arms! I ache and ache, not to belong to you. I do: I must. It is only +our senses that divide us; and mine are all famished servants waiting +for their master. They have nothing to do but watch for you, and pretend +that they believe you will come. Oh, it is grievous! + +Beloved, in the darkness do you feel my kisses? They go out of me in +sharp stabs of pain: they must go _somewhere_ for me to be delivered of +them only with so much suffering. Oh, how this should make me hate you, +if that were possible: how, instead, I love you more and more, and +shall, dearest, and will till I die! + +I _will_ die, because in no other way can I express how much I love you. +I am possessed by all the despairing words about lost happiness that the +poets have written. They go through me like ghosts: I am haunted by +them: but they are bloodless things. It seems when I listen to all the +other desolate voices that have ever cried, that I alone have blood in +me. Nobody ever loved as I love since the world began. + +There, dearest, take this, all this bitter wine of me poured out until I +feel in myself only the dregs left: and still in them is the fire and +the suffering. + +No: but I will be better: it is better to have known you than not. Give +me time, dearest, to get you to heart again! I cannot leave you like +this: not with such words as these for "good-night!" + +Oh, dear face, dear unforgettable lost face, my soul strains up to look +for you through the blind eyes that have been left to torment me because +they can never behold you. Very often I have seen you looking grieved, +shutting away some sorrow in yourself quietly: but never once angry or +impatient at any of the small follies of men. Come, then, and look at me +patiently now! I am your blind girl: I must cry out because I cannot see +you. Only make me believe that you yet think of me as, when you so +unbelievably separated us, you said you had always found me--"the +dearest and most true-hearted woman a man could pray to meet." Beloved, +if in your heart I am still that, separation does not matter. I can +wait, I can wait. + +I kiss your feet: even to-morrow may bring the light. God bless you! I +pray it more than ever; because to me to-night has been so very dark. + + + + +LETTER LXXIX. + + +Dearest: I have not written to you for three weeks. At last I am better +again. You seem to have been waiting for me here: always wondering when I +would come back. I do come back, you see. + +Dear heart, how are you? I kiss your feet; you are my one only happiness, +my great one. Words are too cold and cruel to write anything for me. +Picture me: I am too weak to write more, but I have written this, and am +so much better for it. + +Reward me some day by reading what is here. I kiss, because of you, this +paper which I am too tired to fill any more. + +Love, nothing but love! Into every one of these dead words my heart has +been beating, trying to lay down its life and reach to you. + + + + +LETTER LXXX. + + +A secret, dearest, that will be no secret soon: before I am done with +twenty-three I shall have passed my age. Beloved, it hurts me more than I +can say that the news of it should come to you from anyone but me: for +this, though I write it, is already a dead letter, lost like a predestined +soul even in the pains that gave it birth. Yes, it does pain me, frightens +me even, that I must die all by myself, and feeling still so young. I +thought I should look forward to it, but I do not; no, no, I would give +much to put it off for a time, until I could know what it will mean for me +as regards you. Oh, if you only knew and _cared,_ what wild comfort I +might have in the knowledge! It seems strange that if I were going away +from the chance of a perfect life with you I should feel it with less pain +than I feel this. The dust and the ashes of life are all that I have to +let fall: and it is bitterness itself to part with them. + +How we grow to love sorrow! Joy is never so much a possession--it goes +over us, incloses us like air or sunlight; but sorrow goes into us and +becomes part of our flesh and bone. So that I, holding up my hand to the +sunshine, see sorrow red and transparent like stained glass between me +and the light of day, sorrow that has become inseparably mine, and is +the very life I am wishing to keep! + +Dearest, will the world be more bearable to you when I am out of it? It is +selfish of me not to wish so, since I can satisfy you in this so soon! +Every day I will try to make it my wish: or wish that it may be so when +the event comes--not a day before. Till then let it be more bearable that +I am still alive: grant me, dearest, that one little grace while I live! + +Bearable! My sorrow _is_ bearable, I suppose, because I do bear it from +day to day: otherwise I would declare it not to be. Don't suffer as I +do, dearest, unless that will comfort you. + +One thing is strange, but I feel quite certain of it: when I heard that I +carried death about in me, scarcely an arm's-length away, I thought +quickly to myself that it was not the solution of the mystery. Others +might have thought that it was: that because I was to die so soon, +therefore I was not fit to be your wife. But I know it was not that. I +know that whatever hopes death in me put an end to, you would have married +me and loved me patiently till I released you, as I am to so soon. + +It is always this same woe that crops up: nothing I can ever think can +account for what has been decreed. That too is a secret: mine comes to +meet it. When it arrives shall I know? + +And not a word, not a word of this can reach you ever! Its uses are +wrung out and drained dry to comfort me in my eternal solitude. + +Good-night; very soon it will have to be good-by. + + + + +LETTER LXXXI. + + +Beloved: I woke last night and believed I had your arms round me, and that +all storms had gone over me forever. The peace of your love had inclosed +me so tremendously that when I was fully awake I began to think that what +I held was you dead, and that our reconciliation had come at that great +cost. + +Something remains real of it all, even now under the full light of day: +yet I know you are not dead. Only it leaves me with a hope that at the +lesser cost of my own death, when it comes, happiness may break in, and +that whichever of us has been the most in poor and needy ignorance will +know the truth at last--the truth which is an inseparable need for all +hearts that love rightly. + +Even now to me the thought of you is a peace passing _all_ understanding. +Beloved, Beloved, Beloved, all the greetings I ever gave you gather here, +and are hungry to belong to you by a better way than I have ever dreamed. +I am yours, till something more than death swallows me up. + + + + +LETTER LXXXII. + + +Dearest: If you will believe any word of mine, you must not believe that I +have died of a broken heart should science and the doctors bring about a +fulfillment of their present prophesyings concerning me. + +I think my heart has held me up for a long time, not letting me know +that I was ill: I did not notice. And now my body snaps on a stem that +has grown too thin to hold up its weight. I am at the end of twenty-two +years: they have been too many for me, and the last has seemed a useless +waste of time. It is difficult not to believe that great happiness might +have carried me over many more years and built up for me in the end a +renewed youth: I asked that quite frankly, wishing to know, and was told +not to think it. + +So, dearest, whatever comes, whatever I may have written to fill up my +worst loneliness, be sure, if you care to be, that though my life was +wholly yours, my death was my own, and comes at its right natural time. +Pity me, but invent no blame to yourself. My heart has sung of you even +in the darkest days; in the face of everything, the blankness of +everything, I mean, it has clung to an unreasoning belief that in spite of +appearances all had some well in it, above all to a conviction that-- +perhaps without knowing it--you still love me. Believing _that,_ it +could not break, could not, dearest. Any other part of me, but not that. + +Beloved, I kiss your face, I kiss your lips and eyes: my mind melts into +kisses when I think of you. However weak the rest of me grows, my love +shall remain strong and certain. If I could look at you again, how in a +moment you would fill up the past and the future and turn even my grief +into gold! Even my senses then would forget that they had ever been +starved. Dear "share of the world," you have been out of sight, but I +have never let you go! Ah, if only the whole of me, the double doubting +part of me as well, could only be so certain as to be able to give wings +to this and let it fly to you! Wish for it, and I think the knowledge +will come to me! + +Good-night! God brings you to me in my first dream: but the longing so +keeps me awake that sometimes I am a whole night sleepless. + + + + +LETTER LXXXIII. + + +I am frightened, dearest, I am frightened at death. Not only +for fear it should take me altogether away from you instead of to you, +but for other reasons besides,--instincts which I thought gone but am +not rid of even yet. No healthy body, or body with power of enjoyment in +it, wishes to die, I think: and no heart with any desire still living +out of the past. We know nothing at all really: we only think we +believe, and hope we know; and how thin that sort of conviction gets +when in our extremity we come face to face with the one immovable fact +of our own death waiting for us! That is what I have to go through. Yet +even the fear is a relief: I come upon something that I can meet at +last; a challenge to my courage whether it is still to be found here in +this body I have worn so weak with useless lamentations. If I had your +hand, or even a word from you, I think I should not be afraid: but +perhaps I should. It is all one. Good-by: I am beginning at last to feel +a meaning in that word which I wrote at your bidding so long-ago. Oh, +Beloved, from face to feet, good-by! God be with you wherever you go and +I do not! + + + + +LETTER LXXXIV. + + +Dearest: I am to have news of you. Arthur came to me last night, and told +me that, if I wished, he would bring me word of you. He goes to-morrow. He +put out the light that I might not see his face: I felt what was there. + +You should know this of him: he has been the dearest possible of human +beings to me since I lost you. I am almost not unblessed when I have him +to speak to. Yet we can say so little together. I guess all he means. An +endless wish to give me comfort:--and I stay selfish. The knowledge that +he would stolidly die to serve me hardly touches me. + +Oh, look kindly in his eyes if you see him: mine will be looking at you +out of his! + + + + +LETTER LXXXV. + + +Good-morning, Beloved; there is sun shining. I wonder if Arthur is with +you yet? + +If faith could still remove mountains, surely I should have seen you +long ago. But if I were to see you now, I should fear that it meant you +were dead. + +That the same world should hold you and me living and unseen by each +other is a great mystery. Will love ever explain it? + +I wish I could bid the sun stand still over your meeting with Arthur so +that I might know. We were so like each other once. Time has worn it +off: but he is like what I was. Will you remember me well enough to +recognize me in him, and to be a little pitiful to my weak longing for a +word this one last time of all? Beloved, I press my lips to yours, and +pray--speak! + + + + +LETTER LXXXVI. + + +Dearest: To-day Arthur came and brought me your message: I have at my +heart your "profoundly grateful remembrances." Somewhere else unanswered +lies your prayer for God to bless me. To answer that, dearest, is not in +His hands but in yours. And the form of your message tells me it will not +be,--not for this body and spirit that have been bound together so long in +truth to you. + +I set down for you here--if you should ever, for love's sake, send +and make claim for any message back from me--a profoundly grateful +remembrance; and so much more, so much more that has never failed. + +Most dear, most beloved, you were to me and are. Now I can no longer +hold together: but it is my body, not my love that has failed. + + * * * * * + +[Transcriber's Notes: + +--Though this book was published anonymously, it was later revealed to be +by Laurence Housman. + +--In Letter XLIII "roughtly" was corrected to "roughly" + +--In Letter XXXVI "sort" was corrected to "short" + +--In Letter LXX, "elder's" was corrected to "elders'" + +--In Letter LXXVIII "unforgetable" was corrected to "unforgettable"] + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's An Englishwoman's Love-Letters, by Anonymous + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN ENGLISHWOMAN'S LOVE-LETTERS *** + +***** This file should be named 15941-8.txt or 15941-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/9/4/15941/ + +Produced by Bill Tozier, Barbara Tozier, Cally Soukup and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: An Englishwoman's Love-Letters + +Author: Anonymous + +Release Date: May 30, 2005 [EBook #15941] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN ENGLISHWOMAN'S LOVE-LETTERS *** + + + + +Produced by Bill Tozier, Barbara Tozier, Cally Soukup and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net. + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + +<p><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1"></a></p> +<h1>AN</h1> +<h1>ENGLISHWOMAN'S</h1> +<h1>LOVE-LETTERS</h1> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/pub.jpg" +alt="publisher stamp" title="publisher stamp" /> +</div> + +<p class="center">NEW YORK</p> + +<p class="center">THE MERSHON COMPANY</p> + +<p class="center">PUBLISHERS<a name="Page_2" id="Page_2"></a> +</p><p><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3"></a></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="CONTENTS"> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_I"><b>LETTER I.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_II"><b>LETTER II.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_III"><b>LETTER III.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_IV"><b>LETTER IV.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_V"><b>LETTER V.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_VI"><b>LETTER VI.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_VII"><b>LETTER VII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_VIII"><b>LETTER VIII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_IX"><b>LETTER IX.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_X"><b>LETTER X.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XI"><b>LETTER XI</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XII"><b>LETTER XII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XIII"><b>LETTER XIII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XIV"><b>LETTER XIV.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XV"><b>LETTER XV.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XVI"><b>LETTER XVI.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XVII"><b>LETTER XVII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XVIII"><b>LETTER XVIII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XIX"><b>LETTER XIX.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XX"><b>LETTER XX.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XXI"><b>LETTER XXI.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XXII"><b>LETTER XXII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#THE_CASKET_LETTERS"><b>THE CASKET LETTERS.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XXIII"><b>LETTER XXIII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XXIV"><b>LETTER XXIV.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XXV"><b>LETTER XXV.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XXVI"><b>LETTER XXVI.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XXVII"><b>LETTER XXVII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XXVIII"><b>LETTER XXVIII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XXIX"><b>LETTER XXIX.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XXX"><b>LETTER XXX.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XXXI"><b>LETTER XXXI.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XXXII"><b>LETTER XXXII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XXXIII"><b>LETTER XXXIII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XXXIV"><b>LETTER XXXIV.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XXXV"><b>LETTER XXXV.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XXXVI"><b>LETTER XXXVI.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XXXVII"><b>LETTER XXXVII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XXXVIII"><b>LETTER XXXVIII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XXXIX"><b>LETTER XXXIX.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XL"><b>LETTER XL.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XLI"><b>LETTER XLI.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XLII"><b>LETTER XLII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XLIII"><b>LETTER XLIII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XLIV"><b>LETTER XLIV.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XLV"><b>LETTER XLV.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XLVI"><b>LETTER XLVI.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XLVII"><b>LETTER XLVII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XLVIII"><b>LETTER XLVIII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_XLIX"><b>LETTER XLIX.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_L"><b>LETTER L.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LI"><b>LETTER LI.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LII"><b>LETTER LII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LIII"><b>LETTER LIII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LIV"><b>LETTER LIV.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LV"><b>LETTER LV.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LVI"><b>LETTER LVI.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LVII"><b>LETTER LVII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LVIII"><b>LETTER LVIII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LIX"><b>LETTER LIX.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LX"><b>LETTER LX.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXI"><b>LETTER LXI.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXII"><b>LETTER LXII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXIII"><b>LETTER LXIII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXIV"><b>LETTER LXIV.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXV"><b>LETTER LXV.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXVI"><b>LETTER LXVI.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXVII"><b>LETTER LXVII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXVIII"><b>LETTER LXVIII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXIX"><b>LETTER LXIX.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXX"><b>LETTER LXX.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXXI"><b>LETTER LXXI.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXXII"><b>LETTER LXXII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXXIII"><b>LETTER LXXIII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXXIV"><b>LETTER LXXIV.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXXV"><b>LETTER LXXV.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXXVI"><b>LETTER LXXVI.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXXVII"><b>LETTER LXXVII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXXVIII"><b>LETTER LXXVIII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXXIX"><b>LETTER LXXIX.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXXX"><b>LETTER LXXX.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXXXI"><b>LETTER LXXXI.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXXXII"><b>LETTER LXXXII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXXXIII"><b>LETTER LXXXIII.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXXXIV"><b>LETTER LXXXIV.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXXXV"><b>LETTER LXXXV.</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LETTER_LXXXVI"><b>LETTER LXXXVI.</b></a></td></tr> +</table></div> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>AN ENGLISHWOMAN'S LOVE-LETTERS.</h2> + +<h3>EXPLANATION.</h3> + + +<p>It need hardly be said that the woman by whom these letter were written +had no thought that they would be read by anyone but the person to whom +they were addressed. But a request, conveyed under circumstances which +the writer herself would have regarded as all-commanding, urges that +they should now be given to the world; and, so far as is possible with a +due regard to the claims of privacy, what is here printed presents the +letters as they were first written in their complete form and sequence.</p> + +<p>Very little has been omitted which in any way bears upon the devotion of +which they are a record. A few names of persons and localities have been +changed; and several short notes (not above twenty in all), together +with some passages bearing too intimately upon events which might be<a name="Page_4" id="Page_4"></a> +recognized, have been left out without indication of their omission.</p> + +<p>It was a necessary condition to the present publication that the +authorship of these letters should remain unstated. Those who know will +keep silence; those who do not, will not find here any data likely to +guide them to the truth.</p> + +<p>The story which darkens these pages cannot be more fully indicated while +the feelings of some who are still living have to be consulted; nor will +the reader find the root of the tragedy explained in the letters +themselves. But one thing at least may be said as regards the principal +actors—that to the memory of neither of them does any blame belong. +They were equally the victims of circumstances, which came whole out of +the hands of fate and remained, so far as one of the two was concerned, +a mystery to the day of her death.</p><p><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_I" id="LETTER_I"></a>LETTER I.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> This is your first letter from me: yet it is not the +first I have written to you. There are letters to you lying at love's +dead-letter office in this same writing—so many, my memory has lost +count of them!</p> + +<p>This is my confession: I told you I had one to make, and you +laughed:—you did not know how serious it was—for to be in love with +you long before you were in love with me—nothing can be more serious +than that!</p> + +<p>You deny that I was: yet I know when you first really loved me. All at +once, one day something about me came upon you as a surprise: and how, +except on the road to love, can there be surprises? And in the surprise +came love. You did not <i>know</i> me before. Before then, it was only the +other nine entanglements which take hold of the male heart and occupy it +till the tenth is ready to make one knot of them all.</p> + +<p>In the letter written that day, I said, "You love me." I could never +have said it before; though I had written twelve letters to my love for<a name="Page_6" id="Page_6"></a> +you, I had not once been able to write of your love for me. Was not +<i>that</i> serious?</p> + +<p>Now I have confessed! I thought to discover myself all blushes, but my +face is cool: you have kissed all my blushes away! Can I ever be ashamed +in your eyes now, or grow rosy because of anything <i>you</i> or <i>I</i> think? +So!—you have robbed me of one of my charms: I am brazen. Can you love +me still?</p> + +<p>You love me, you love me; you are wonderful! we are both wonderful, you +and I.</p> + +<p>Well, it is good for you to know I have waited and wished, long before +the thing came true. But to see <i>you</i> waiting and wishing, when the +thing <i>was</i> true all the time:—oh! that was the trial! How not suddenly +to throw my arms round you and cry, "Look, see! O blind mouth, why are +you famished?"</p> + +<p>And you never knew? Dearest, I love you for it, you never knew! I +believe a man, when he finds he has won, thinks he has taken the city by +assault: he does not guess how to the insiders it has been a weary +siege, with flags of surrender fluttering themselves to rags from every +wall and window! No: in love it is the women who are the strategists: +and they have at last to fall into the ambush they know of with a good +grace.</p><p><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7"></a></p> + +<p>You must let me praise myself a little for the past, since I can never +praise myself again. You must do that for me now! There is not a battle +left for me to win. You and peace hold me so much a prisoner, have so +caught me from my own way of living, that I seem to hear a pin drop +twenty years ahead of me: it seems an event! Dearest, a thousand times, +I would not have it be otherwise: I am only too willing to drop out of +existence altogether and find myself in your arms instead. Giving you my +love, I can so easily give you my life. Ah, my dear, I am yours so +utterly, so gladly! Will you ever find it out, you who took so long to +discover anything?</p><p><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_II" id="LETTER_II"></a>LETTER II.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> Your name woke me this morning: I found my lips piping +their song before I was well back into my body out of dreams. I wonder +if the rogues babble when my spirit is nesting? Last night you were a +high tree and I was in it, the wind blowing us both; but I forget the +rest,—whatever, it was enough to make me wake happy.</p> + +<p>There are dreams that go out like candle-light directly one opens the +shutters: they illumine the walls no longer; the daylight is too strong +for them. So, now, I can hardly remember anything of my dreams: +daylight, with you in it, floods them out.</p> + +<p>Oh, how are you? Awake? Up? Have you breakfasted? I ask you a thousand +things. You are thinking of me, I know: but what are you thinking? I am +devoured by curiosity about myself—none at all about you, whom I have +all by heart! If I might only know how happy I make you, and just +<i>which</i> thing I said <a name="Page_9" id="Page_9"></a>yesterday is making you laugh to-day—I could cry +with joy over being the person I am.</p> + +<p>It is you who make me think so much about myself, trying to find myself +out. I used to be most self-possessed, and regarded it as the crowning +virtue: and now—your possession of me sweeps it away, and I stand +crying to be let into a secret that is no longer mine. Shall I ever know +<i>why</i> you love me? It is my religious difficulty; but it never rises +into a doubt. You <i>do</i> love me, I know. <i>Why</i>, I don't think I ever can +know.</p> + +<p>You ask me the same question about yourself, and it becomes absurd, +because I altogether belong to you. If I hold my breath for a moment +wickedly (for I can't do it breathing), and try to look at the world +with you out of it, I seem to have fallen over a precipice; or rather, +the solid earth has slipped from under my feet, and I am off into +vacuum. Then, as I take breath again for fear, my star swims up and +clasps me, and shows me your face. O happy star this that I was born +under, that moved with me and winked quiet prophecies at me all through +my childhood, I not knowing what it meant:—the dear radiant thing +naming to me my lover!</p> + +<p>As a child, now and then, and for no reason, I used to be sublimely +happy: real wings took <a name="Page_10" id="Page_10"></a>hold of me. Sometimes a field became fairyland +as I walked through it; or a tree poured out a scent that its blossoms +never had before or after. I think now that those must have been moments +when you too were in like contact with earth,—had your feet in grass +which felt a faint ripple of wind, or stood under a lilac in a drench of +fragrance that had grown double after rain.</p> + +<p>When I asked you about the places of your youth, I had some fear of +finding that we might once have met, and that I had not remembered it as +the summing up of my happiness in being young. Far off I see something +undiscovered waiting us, something I could not have guessed at +before—the happiness of being old. Will it not be something like the +evening before last when we were sitting together, your hand in mine, +and one by one, as the twilight drew about us, the stars came and took +up their stations overhead? They seemed to me then to be following out +some quiet train of thought in the universal mind: the heavens were +remembering the stars back into their places:—the Ancient of Days +drawing upon the infinite treasures of memory in his great lifetime. +Will not Love's old age be the same to us both—a starry place of +memories?</p> + +<p>Your dear letter is with me while I write: how <a name="Page_11" id="Page_11"></a>shortly you are able to +say everything! To-morrow you will come. What more do I want—except +to-morrow itself, with more promises of the same thing?</p> + +<p>You are at my heart, dearest: nothing in the world can be nearer to me +than you!</p><p><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_III" id="LETTER_III"></a>LETTER III.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest and rightly Beloved:</span> You cannot tell how your gift has +pleased me; or rather you <i>can</i>, for it shows you have a long memory +back to our first meeting: though at the time I was the one who thought +most of it.</p> + +<p>It is quite true; you have the most beautifully shaped memory in +Christendom: these are the very books in the very edition I have long +wanted, and have been too humble to afford myself. And now I cannot stop +to read one, for joy of looking at them all in a row. I will kiss you +for them all, and for more besides: indeed it is the "besides" which +brings you my kisses at all.</p> + +<p>Now that you have chosen so perfectly to my mind, I may proffer a +request which, before, I was shy of making. It seems now beneficently +anticipated. It is that you will not ever let your gifts take the form +of jewelry, not after the ring which you are bringing me: <i>that</i>, you +know, I both welcome and wish for. But, as to the rest, the world has +supplied me with a feeling <a name="Page_13" id="Page_13"></a>against jewelry as a love-symbol. Look +abroad and you will see: it is too possessive, too much like "chains of +office"—the fair one is to wear her radiant harness before the world, +that other women may be envious and the desire of her master's eye be +satisfied! Ah, no!</p> + +<p>I am yours, dear, utterly; and nothing you give me would have that +sense: I know you too well to think it. But in the face of the present +fashion (and to flout it), which expects the lover to give in this sort, +and the beloved to show herself a dazzling captive, let me cherish my +ritual of opposition which would have no meaning if we were in a world +of our own, and no place in my thoughts, dearest;—as it has not now, so +far as you are concerned. But I am conscious I shall be looked at as +your chosen; and I would choose my own way of how to look back most +proudly.</p> + +<p>And so for the books more thanks and more,—that they are what I would +most wish, and not anything else: which, had they been, they would still +have given me pleasure, since from you they could come only with a good +meaning: and—diamonds even—I could have put up with them!</p> + +<p>To-morrow you come for your ring, and bring me my own? Yours is here +waiting. I have it on my finger, very loose, with another <a name="Page_14" id="Page_14"></a>standing +sentry over it to keep it from running away.</p> + +<p>A mouse came out of my wainscot last night, and plunged me in horrible +dilemma: for I am equally idiotic over the idea of the creature trapped +or free, and I saw sleepless nights ahead of me till I had secured a +change of locality for him.</p> + +<p>To startle him back into hiding would have only deferred my getting +truly rid of him, so I was most tiptoe and diplomatic in my doings. +Finally, a paper bag, put into a likely nook with some sentimentally +preserved wedding-cake crumbled into it, crackled to me of his arrival. +In a brave moment I noosed the little beast, bag and all, and lowered +him from the window by string, till the shrubs took from me the burden +of responsibility.</p> + +<p>I visited the bag this morning: he had eaten his way out, crumbs and +all: and has, I suppose, become a fieldmouse, for the hay smells +invitingly, and it is only a short run over the lawn and a jump over the +ha-ha to be in it. Poor morsels, I prefer them so much undomesticated!</p> + +<p>Now this mouse is no allegory, and the paper bag is <i>not</i> a diamond +necklace, in spite of the wedding-cake sprinkled over it! So don't say +that this letter is too hard for your understanding, or you will +frighten me from telling you <a name="Page_15" id="Page_15"></a>anything foolish again. Brains are like +jewels in this, difference of surface has nothing to do with the size +and value of them. Yours is a beautiful smooth round, like a pearl, and +mine all facets and flashes like cut glass. And yours so much the +bigger, and I love it so much the best! The trap which caught me was +baited with one great pearl. So the mouse comes in with a meaning tied +to its tail after all!</p><p><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_IV" id="LETTER_IV"></a>LETTER IV.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">In</span> all the world, dearest, what is more unequal than love +between a man and a woman? I have been spending an amorous morning and +want to share it with you: but lo, the task of bringing that bit of my +life into your vision is altogether beyond me.</p> + +<p>What have I been doing? Dear man, I have been dressmaking! and dress, +when one is in the toils, is but a love-letter writ large. You will see +and admire the finished thing, but you will take no interest in the +composition. Therefore I say your love is unequal to mine.</p> + +<p>For think how ravished I would be if you brought me a coat and told me +it was all your own making! One day you had thrown down a mere +tailor-made thing in the hall, and yet I kissed it as I went by. And +that was at a time when we were only at the handshaking stage, the +palsied beginnings of love:—<i>you</i>, I mean!</p> + +<p>But oh, to get you interested in the dress I was making to you +to-day!—the beautiful flowing opening,—not too flowing: the elaborate +cen<a name="Page_17" id="Page_17"></a>tral composition where the heart of me has to come, and the wind-up +of the skirt, a long reluctant tailing-off, full of commas and colons of +ribbon to make it seem longer, and insertions everywhere. I dreamed +myself in it, retiring through the door after having bidden you +good-night, and you watching the long disappearing eloquence of that +tail, still saying to you as it vanished, "Good-by, good-by. I love you +so! see me, how slowly I am going!"</p> + +<p>Well, that is a bit of my dress-making, a very corporate part of my +affection for you; and you are not a bit interested, for I have shown +you none of the seamy side; it is that which interests you male +creatures, Zolaites, every one of you.</p> + +<p>And what have you to show similar, of the thought of me entering into +all your masculine pursuits? Do you go out rabbit-shooting for the love +of me? If so, I trust you make a miss of it every time! That you are a +sportsman is one of the very hardest things in life that I have to bear.</p> + +<p>Last night Peterkins came up with me to keep guard against any further +intrusion of mice. I put her to sleep on the couch: but she discarded +the red shawl I had prepared for her at the bottom, and lay at the top +most uncomfortably in a parcel of millinery into which from one end I +<a name="Page_18" id="Page_18"></a>had already made excavations, so that it formed a large bag. Into the +further end of this bag Turks crept and snuggled down: but every time +she turned in the night (and it seemed very often) the brown paper +crackled and woke me up. So at last I took it up and shook out its +contents; and Pippins slept soundly on red flannel till Nan-nan brought +the tea.</p> + +<p>You will notice that in this small narrative Peterkins gets three names: +it is a fashion that runs through the household, beginning with the +Mother-Aunt, who on some days speaks of Nan-nan as "the old lady," and +sometimes as "that girl," all according to the two tempers she has about +Nan-nan's privileged position in regard to me.</p> + +<p>You were only here yesterday, and already I want you again so much, so +much!</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Your never satisfied but always loving.<br /></span><p><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19"></a></p> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_V" id="LETTER_V"></a>LETTER V.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Most Beloved:</span> I have been thinking, staring at this blank piece +of paper, and wondering how <i>there</i> am I ever to say what I have in me +here—not wishing to say anything at all, but just to be! I feel that I +am living now only because you love me: and that my life will have run +out, like this penful of ink, when that use in me is past. Not yet, +Beloved, oh, not yet! Nothing is finished that we have to do and +be:—hardly begun! I will not call even this "midsummer," however much +it seems so: it is still only spring.</p> + +<p>Every day your love binds me more deeply than I knew the day before: so +that no day is the same now, but each one a little happier than the +last. My own, you are my very own! And yet, true as that is, it is not +so true as that I am <i>your</i> own. It is less absolute, I mean; and must +be so, because I cannot very well <i>take</i> possession of anything when I +am given over heart and soul out of my own possession: there isn't +enough identity left in me, I am yours so much, so much!<a name="Page_20" id="Page_20"></a> All this is +useless to say, yet what can I say else, if I have to begin saying +anything?</p> + +<p>Could I truly be your "star and goddess," as you call me, Beloved, I +would do you the service of Thetis at least (who did it for a greater +than herself)—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Bid Heaven and Earth combine their charms,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And round you early, round you late,<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">Briareus fold his hundred arms<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To guard you from your single fate."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>But I haven't got power over an eight-armed octopus even: so am merely a +very helpless loving nonentity which merges itself most happily in you, +and begs to be lifted to no pedestal at all, at all.</p> + +<p>If you love me in a manner that is at all possible, you will see that +"goddess" does not suit me. "Star" I would I were now, with a wide eye +to carry my looks to you over this horizon which keeps you invisible. +Choose one, if you will, dearest, and call it mine: and to me it shall +be yours: so that when we are apart and the stars come out, our eyes may +meet up at the same point in the heavens, and be "keeping company" for +us among the celestial bodies—with their permission: for I have too +lively a sense of their beauty not to be a little superstitious about +them. Have you not felt for yourself a sort of physiog<a name="Page_21" id="Page_21"></a>nomy in the +constellations,—most of them seeming benevolent and full of kind +regards:—but not all? I am always glad when the Great Bear goes away +from my window, fine beast though he is: he seems to growl at me! No +doubt it is largely a question of names; and what's in a name? In yours, +Beloved, when I speak it, more than I can compass!</p><p><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_VI" id="LETTER_VI"></a>LETTER VI.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> I have been trusting to fate, while keeping silence, +that something from you was to come to-day and make me specially happy. +And it has: bless you abundantly! You have undone and got round all I +said about "jewelry," though this is nothing of the sort, but a shrine: +so my word remains. I have it with me now, safe hidden, only now and +then it comes out to have a look at me,—smiles and goes back again. +Dearest, you must <i>feel</i> how I thank you, for I cannot say it: body and +soul I grow too much blessed with all that you have given me, both +visibly and invisibly, and always perfectly.</p> + +<p>And as for the day: I have been thinking you the most uncurious of men, +because you had not asked: and supposed it was too early days yet for +you to remember that I had ever been born. To-day is my birthday! you +said nothing, so I said nothing; and yet this has come: I trusted my +star to show its sweet influences in its own way. Or, after all, did you +know, and had you asked anyone but me? Yet had you known, you <a name="Page_23" id="Page_23"></a>would +have wished me the "happy returns" which among all your dear words to me +you do not. So I take it that the motion comes straight to you from +heaven; and, in the event, you will pardon me for having been still +secretive and shy in not telling what you did not inquire after. +<i>Yours</i>, I knew, dear, quite long ago, so had no need to ask you for it. +And it is six months before you will be in the same year with me again, +and give to twenty-two all the companionable sweetness that twenty-one +has been having.</p> + +<p>Many happy returns of <i>my</i> birthday to you, dearest! That is all that my +birthdays are for. Have you been happy to-day, I wonder? and am +wondering also whether this evening we shall see you walking quietly in +and making everything into perfection that has been trembling just on +the verge of it all day long.</p> + +<p>One drawback of my feast is that I have to write short to you; for there +are other correspondents who on this occasion look for quick answers, +and not all of them to be answered in an offhand way. Except you, it is +the coziest whom I keep waiting; but elders have a way with them—even +kind ones: and when they condescend to write upon an anniversary, we +have to skip to attention or be in their bad books at once.</p> + +<p>So with the sun still a long way out of bed,<a name="Page_24" id="Page_24"></a> I have to tuck up these +sheets for you, as if the good of the day had already been sufficient +unto itself and its full tale had been told. Good-night. It is so hard +to take my hands off writing to you, and worry on at the same exercise +in another direction. I kiss you more times than I can count: it is +almost really you that I kiss now! My very dearest, my own sweetheart, +whom I so worship. Good-night! "Good-afternoon" sounds too funny: is +outside our vocabulary altogether. While I live, I must love you more +than I know!</p><p><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_VII" id="LETTER_VII"></a>LETTER VII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">My Friend:</span> Do you think this a cold way of beginning? I do not: +is it not the true send-off of love? I do not know how men fall in love: +but I could not have had that come-down in your direction without being +your friend first. Oh, my dear, and after, after; it is but a limitless +friendship I have grown into!</p> + +<p>I have heard men run down the friendships of women as having little true +substance. Those who speak so, I think, have never come across a real +case of woman's friendship. I praise my own sex, dearest, for I know +some of their loneliness, which you do not: and until a certain date +their friendship was the deepest thing in life I had met with.</p> + +<p>For must it not be true that a woman becomes more absorbed in friendship +than a man, since friendship may have to mean so much more to her, and +cover so far more of her life, than it does to the average man? However +big a man's capacity for friendship, the beauty of it does not fill his +whole horizon for the future: he still looks ahead of it for the mate +who will complete his <a name="Page_26" id="Page_26"></a>life, giving his body and soul the complement +they require. Friendship alone does not satisfy him: he makes a bigger +claim on life, regarding certain possessions as his right.</p> + +<p>But a woman:—oh, it is a fashion to say the best women are sure to find +husbands, and have, if they care for it, the certainty before them of a +full life. I know it is not so. There are women, wonderful ones, who +come to know quite early in life that no men will ever wish to make +wives of them: for them, then, love in friendship is all that remains, +and the strongest wish of all that can pass through their souls with +hope for its fulfillment is to be a friend to somebody.</p> + +<p>It is man's arrogant certainty of his future which makes him impatient +of the word "friendship": it cools life to his lips, he so confident +that the headier nectar is his due!</p> + +<p>I came upon a little phrase the other day that touched me so deeply: it +said so well what I have wanted to say since we have known each other. +Some peasant rhymer, an Irishman, is singing his love's praises, and +sinks his voice from the height of his passionate superlatives to call +her his "share of the world." Peasant and Irishman, he knew that his +fortune did not embrace the universe: but for him his love was just +that—his share of the world.</p> + +<p>Surely when in anyone's friendship we seem <a name="Page_27" id="Page_27"></a>to have gained our share of +the world, that is all that can be said. It means all that we can take +in, the whole armful the heart and senses are capable of, or that fate +can bestow. And for how many that must be friendship—especially for how +many women!</p> + +<p>My dear, you are my share of the world, also my share of Heaven: but +there I begin to speak of what I do not know, as is the way with happy +humanity. All that my eyes could dream of waking or sleeping, all that +my ears could be most glad to hear, all that my heart could beat faster +to get hold of—your friendship gave me suddenly as a bolt from the +blue.</p> + +<p>My friend, my friend, my friend! If you could change or go out of my +life now, the sun would drop out of my heavens: I should see the world +with a great piece gashed out of its side,—my share of it gone. No, I +should not see it, I don't think I should see anything ever again,—not +truly.</p> + +<p>Is it not strange how often to test our happiness we harp on sorrow? I +do: don't let it weary you. I know I have read somewhere that great love +always entails pain. I have not found it yet: but, for me, it does mean +fear,—the sort of fear I had as a child going into big buildings. I +loved them: but I feared, because of their bigness, they were likely to +tumble on me.</p><p><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28"></a></p> + +<p>But when I begin to think you may be too big for me, I remember you as +my "friend," and the fear goes for a time, or becomes that sort of fear +I would not part with if I might.</p> + +<p>I have no news for you: only the old things to tell you, the wonder of +which ever remains new. How holy your face has become to me: as I saw it +last, with something more than the usual proofs of love for me upon +it—a look as if your love troubled you! I know the trouble: I feel it, +dearest, in my own woman's way. Have patience.—When I see you so, I +feel that prayer is the only way given me for saying what my love for +you wishes to be. And yet I hardly ever pray in words.</p> + +<p>Dearest, be happy when you get this: and, when you can, come and give my +happiness its rest. Till then it is a watchman on the lookout.</p> + +<p>"Night-night!" Your true sleepy one.</p><p><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_VIII" id="LETTER_VIII"></a>LETTER VIII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Now</span> <i>why</i>, I want to know, Beloved, was I so specially "good" +to you in my last? I have been quite as good to you fifty times +before,—if such a thing can be from me to you. Or do you mean good +<i>for</i> you? Then, dear, I must be sorry that the thing stands out so much +as an exception!</p> + +<p>Oh, dearest Beloved, for a little I think I must not love you so much, +or must not let you see it.</p> + +<p>When does your mother return, and when am I to see her? I long to so +much. Has she still not written to you about our news?</p> + +<p>I woke last night to the sound of a great flock of sheep going past. I +suppose they were going by forced marches to the fair over at Hylesbury: +It was in the small hours: and a few of them lifted up their voices and +complained of this robbery of night and sleep in the night. They were so +tired, so tired, they said: and so did the muffawully patter of their +poor feet. The lambs said most; and the sheep agreed with a husky +croak.</p><p><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30"></a></p> + +<p>I said a prayer for them, and went to sleep again as the sound of the +lambs died away; but somehow they stick in my heart, those sad sheep +driven along through the night. It was in its degree like the woman +hurrying along, who said, "My God, my God!" that summer Sunday morning. +These notes from lives that appear and disappear remain endlessly; and I +do not think our hearts can have been made so sensitive to suffering we +can do nothing to relieve, without some good reason. So I tell you this, +as I would any sorrow of my own, because it has become a part of me, and +is underlying all that I think to-day.</p> + +<p>I am to expect you the day after to-morrow, but "not for certain"? Thus +you give and you take away, equally blessed in either case. All the +same, I shall <i>certainly</i> expect you, and be disappointed if on Thursday +at about this hour your way be not my way.</p> + +<p>"How shall I my true love know" if he does not come often enough to see +me? Sunshine be on you all possible hours till we meet again.</p><p><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_IX" id="LETTER_IX"></a>LETTER IX.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> Is the morning looking at you as it is looking at me? +A little to the right of the sun there lies a small cloud, filmy and +faint, but enough to cast a shadow somewhere. From this window, high up +over the view, I cannot see where the shadow of it falls,—further than +my eye can reach: perhaps just now over you, since you lie further west. +But I cannot be sure. We cannot be sure about the near things in this +world; only about what is far off and fixed.</p> + +<p>You and I looking up see the same sun, if there are no clouds over us: +but we may not be looking at the same clouds even when both our hearts +are in shadow. That is so, even when hearts are as close together as +yours and mine: they respond to the same light: but each one has its own +roof of shadow, wearing its rue with a world of difference.</p> + +<p>Why is it? why can no two of us have sorrows quite in common? What can +be nearer together than our wills to be one? In joy we are; and yet, +though I reach and reach, and sadden if you are sad, I cannot make your +sorrow my own.</p><p><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32"></a></p> + +<p>I suppose sorrow is of the earth earthy: and all that is of earth makes +division. Every joy that belongs to the body casts shadows somewhere. I +wonder if there can enter into us a joy that has no shadow anywhere? The +joy of having you has behind it the shadow of parting; is there any way +of loving that would make parting no sorrow at all? To me, now, the idea +seems treason! I cling to my sorrow that you are not here: I send up my +cloud, as it were, to catch the sun's brightness: it is a kite that I +pull with my heart-strings.</p> + +<p>To the sun of love the clouds that cover absence must look like white +flowers in the green fields of earth, or like doves hovering: and he +reaches down and strokes them with his warm beams, making all their +feathers like gold.</p> + +<p>Some clouds let the gold come through; <i>mine</i>, now.—That cloud I saw +away to the right is coming this way toward me. I can see the shadow of +it now, moving along a far-off strip of road: and I wonder if it is +<i>your</i> cloud, with you under it coming to see me again!</p> + +<p>When you come, why am I any happier than when I know you are coming? It +is the same thing in love. I have you now all in my mind's eye; I have +you by heart; have I my arms a bit more round you then than now?</p> + +<p>How it puzzles me that, when love is perfect, <a name="Page_33" id="Page_33"></a>there should be +disappearances and reappearances: and faces now and then showing a +change!—You, actually, the last time you came, looking a day older than +the day before! What was it? Had old age blown you a kiss, or given you +a wrinkle in the art of dying? Or had you turned over some new leaf, and +found it withered on the other side?</p> + +<p>I could not see how it was: I heard you coming—it was spring! The door +opened:—oh, it was autumnal! One day had fallen away like a leaf out of +my forest, and I had not been there to see it go!</p> + +<p>At what hour of the twenty-four does a day shed itself out of our lives? +Not, I think, on the stroke of the clock, at midnight, or at cock-crow. +Some people, perhaps, would say—with the first sleep; and that the +"beauty-sleep" is the new day putting out its green wings. <i>I</i> think it +must be not till something happens to make the new day a stronger +impression than the last. So it would please me to think that your +yesterday dropped off as you opened the door; and that, had I peeped and +seen you coming up the stairs, I should have seen you looking a day +younger.</p> + +<p><i>That</i> means that you age at the sight of me! I think you do. I, I feel +a hundred on the road to immortality, directly your face dawns on me.</p> + +<p>There's a foot gone over my grave! The <a name="Page_34" id="Page_34"></a>angel of the resurrection with +his mouth pursed fast to his trumpet!—Nothing else than the +gallop-a-gallop of your horse:—it sounds like a kettle boiling over!</p> + +<p>So this goes into hiding: listens to us all the while we talk; and comes +out afterwards with all its blushes stale, to be rouged up again and +sent off the moment your back is turned. No, better!—to be slipped into +your pocket and carried home to yourself <i>by</i> yourself. How, when you +get to your destination and find it, you will curse yourself that you +were not a speedier postman!</p><p><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_X" id="LETTER_X"></a>LETTER X.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> Did you find your letter? The quicker I post, the +quicker I need to sit down and write again. The grass under love's feet +never stops growing: I must make hay of it while the sun shines.</p> + +<p>You say my metaphors make you giddy.—My clear, you, without a metaphor +in your composition, do that to me! So it is not for you to complain; +your curses simply fly back to roost. Where do you pigeon-hole them? In +a pie? (I mean to write now until I have made you as giddy as a dancing +dervish!) <i>Your</i> letters are much more like blackbirds: and I have a pie +of them here, twenty-four at least; and when I open it they sing +"Chewee, chewee, chewee!" in the most scared way!</p> + +<p>Your last but three said most solemnly, just as if you meant it, "I hope +you don't keep these miserables! Though I fill up my hollow hours with +them, there is no reason why they should fill up yours." You added that +I was better oc<a name="Page_36" id="Page_36"></a>cupied—and here I am "better occupied" even as you bid +me.</p> + +<p>But one can jump best from a spring-board: and how could I jump as far +as your arms by letter, if I had not yours to jump from?</p> + +<p>So you see they are kept, and my disobedience of you has begun: and I +find disobedience wonderfully sweet. But then, you gave me a law which +you knew I should disobey:—that is the way the world began. It is not +for nothing that I am a daughter of Eve.</p> + +<p>And here is our world in our hands, yours and mine, now in the making. +Which day are the evening and the morning now? I think it must be the +birds'—and already, with the wings, disobedience has been reached! Make +much of it! the day will come when I shall wish to obey. There are +moments when I feel a wish taking hold of me stronger than I can +understand, that you should command me beyond myself—to things I have +not strength or courage for of my own accord. How close, dearest, when +that day comes, my heart will feel itself to yours! It feels close now: +but it is to your feet I am nearest, as yet. Lift me! There, there, +Beloved, I kiss you with all my will. Oh, dear heart, forgive me for +being no more than I am: your freehold to all eternity!</p><p><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XI" id="LETTER_XI"></a>LETTER XI</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Oh, Dearest:</span> I have danced and I have danced till I am tired! I +am dropping with sleep, but I must just touch you and say good-night. +This was our great day of publishing, dearest, <i>ours</i>: all the world +knows it; and all admire your choice! I was determined they should. I +have been collecting scalps for you to hang at your girdle. All thought +me beautiful: people who never did so before. I wanted to say to them, +"Am I not beautiful? I am, am I not?" And it was not for myself I was +asking this praise. Beloved, I was wearing the magic rose—what you gave +me when we parted: you saying, alas, that you were not to be there. But +you <i>were</i>! Its leaves have not dropped nor the scent of it faded. I +kiss you out of the heart of it. Good-night: come to me in my first +dream!</p><p><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XII" id="LETTER_XII"></a>LETTER XII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> It has been such a funny day from post-time +onwards:—congratulations on the great event are beginning to arrive in +envelopes and on wheels. Some are very kind and dear; and some are not +so—only the ordinary seemliness of polite sniffle-snaffle. Just after +you had gone yesterday, Mrs. —— called and was told the news. Of course +she knew <i>of</i> you: but didn't think she had ever seen you. "Probably he +passed you at the gates," I said. "What?" she went off with a +view-hallo; "that well-dressed sort of young fellow in gray, and a +mustache, and knowing how to ride? Met us in the lane. <i>Well</i>, my dear, +I <i>do</i> congratulate you!"</p> + +<p>And whether it was by the gray suit, or the mustache, or the knowing how +to ride that her congratulations were so emphatically secured, I know +not!</p> + +<p>Others are yet more quaint, and more to my liking. Nan-nan is Nan-nan: I +cannot let you off what she said! No tears or sentiment came <a name="Page_39" id="Page_39"></a>from her +to prevent me laughing: she brisked like an old war-horse at the first +word of it, and blessed God that it had come betimes, that she might be +a nurse again in her old age! She is a true "Mrs. Berry," and is ready +to make room for you in my affections for the sake of far-off divine +events, which promise renewed youth to her old bones.</p> + +<p>Roberts, when he brought me my pony this morning, touched his hat quick +twice over to show that the news brimmed in his body: and a very nice +cordial way of showing, I thought it! He was quite ready to talk when I +let him go; and he gave me plenty of good fun. He used to know you when +he was in service at the H——s, and speaks of you as being then "a +gallous young hound," whatever that may mean. I imagine "gallous" to be +a rustic Lewis Carroll compound, made up in equal parts of callousness +and gallantry, which most boys are, at some stage of their existence.</p> + +<p>What tales will you be getting of me out of Nan-nan, some day behind my +back, I wonder? There is one I shall forbid her to reveal: it shall be +part of my marriage-portion to show you early that you have got a wife +with a temper!</p> + +<p>Here is a whole letter that must end now,—and the great Word never +mentioned! It is good for you to be put upon <i>maigre</i> fare, for once. I +<a name="Page_40" id="Page_40"></a>ho<i>l</i>d my pen back with b<i>o</i>th hands: it wants so much to gi<i>v</i>e you +the forbidd<i>e</i>n treat. Oh, the serpent in the garden! See where it has +underlined its meaning. Frailty, thy pen is a J pen!</p> + +<p>Adieu, adieu, remember me.</p><p><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XIII" id="LETTER_XIII"></a>LETTER XIII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> letters? No, Beloved, I could not! Not yet. There you have +caught me where I own I am still shy of you.</p> + +<p>A long time hence, when we are a safely wedded pair, you shall turn them +over. It <i>may</i> be a short time; but I will keep them however long. +Indeed I must ever keep them; they talk to me of the dawn of my +existence,—the early light before our sun rose, when my love of you was +growing and had not yet reached its full.</p> + +<p>If I disappoint you I will try to make up for it with something I wrote +long before I ever saw you. To-day I was turning over old things my +mother had treasured for me of my childhood—of days spent with her: +things of laughter as well as of tears; such a dear selection, so quaint +and sweet, with moods of her as I dimly remember her to have been. And +among them was this absurdity, written, and I suppose placed in the +mouth of my stocking, the Christmas I stayed with her in France. I +remember the time as a great treat, but nothing of this. "Nilgoes" is +"Nicholas," you must understand! How he <a name="Page_42" id="Page_42"></a>must have laughed over me +asleep while he read this!</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Cher père Nilgoes. S'il vous plait voulez vous me donné +plus de jeux que des oranges des pommes et des pombons parc +que nous allons faire l'arbre de noel cette anné et les +jeaux ferait mieux pour l'arbre de Noel. Il ne faut pas dire +à petite mere s'il vous plait parce que je ne veut pas +quelle sache sil vous voulez venir ce soir du ceil pour que +vous pouvez me donner ce que je vous demande Dites bon jour +á la St. Viearge est à l'enfant Jeuses et à Ste Joseph. +Adieu cher St. Nilgoes."</p></div> + +<p>I haven't altered the spelling, I love it too well, prophetic of a fault +I still carry about me. How strange that little bit of invocation to the +dear folk above sounds to me now! My mother must have been teaching me +things after her own persuasion; most naturally, poor dear one—though +that too has gone like water off my mind. It was one of the troubles +between her and my father: the compact that I was to be brought up a +Catholic was dissolved after they separated; and I am sorry, thinking it +unjust to her; yet glad, content with being what I am.</p> + +<p>I must have been less than five when I penned this: I was always a +letter-writer, it seems.</p><p><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43"></a></p> + +<p>It is a reproach now from many that I have ceased to be: and to them I +fear it is true. That I have not truly ceased, "witness under my hand +these presents,"—or whatever may be the proper legal terms for an +affidavit.</p> + +<p>What were <i>you</i> like, Beloved, as a very small child? Should I have +loved you from the beginning had we toddled to the rencounter; and would +my love have passed safely through the "gallous young hound" period; and +could I love you more now in any case, had I <i>all</i> your days treasured +up in my heart, instead of less than a year of them?</p> + +<p>How strangely much have seven miles kept our fates apart! It seems +uncharacteristic for this small world,—where meetings come about so far +above the dreams of average—to have played us such a prank.</p> + +<p>This must do for this once, Beloved; for behold me busy to-day: with +<i>what</i>, I shall not tell you. I would like to put you to a test, as +ladies did their knights of old, and hardly ever do now—fearing, I +suppose, lest the species should altogether fail them at the pinch. I +would like to see if you could come here and sit with me from beginning +to end, <i>with your eyes shut</i>: never once opening them. I am not saying +whether I think curiosity, or affection, would make the attempt too +difficult. But if you were sure you could, you might come <a name="Page_44" id="Page_44"></a>here +to-morrow—a day otherwise interdicted. Only know, having come, that if +you open those dear cupboards of vision and set eyes on things not yet +intended to be looked at, there will be confusion of tongues in this +Tower we are building whose top is to reach heaven. Will you come? I +don't <i>say</i> "come"; I only want to know—will you?</p> + +<p>To-day my love flies low over the earth like a swallow before rain, and +touching the tops of the flowers has culled you these. Kiss them until +they open: they are full of my thoughts, as the world, to me, is full of +you.</p><p><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XIV" id="LETTER_XIV"></a>LETTER XIV.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Own Dearest:</span> Come I did not think that you would, or mean that +you should seriously; for is it not a poor way of love to make the +object of it cut an absurd or partly absurd figure? I wrote only as a +woman having a secret on the tip of her tongue and the tips of her +fingers, and full of a longing to say it and send it.</p> + +<p>Here it is at last: love me for it, I have worked so hard to get it +done! And you do not know why and what for? Beloved, it—<i>this</i>—is the +anniversary of the day we first met; and you have forgotten it already +or never remembered it:—and yet have been clamoring for "the letters"!</p> + +<p>On the first anniversary of our marriage, <i>if you remember it</i>, you +shall have those same letters: and not otherwise. So there they lie safe +till doomsday!</p> + +<p>The M.-A. has been very gracious and clear after her little outbreak of +yesterday: her repentances, after I have hurt her feelings, are so +gentle and sweet, they always fill me with compunction. Finding that I +would go on with the thing I was doing, she volunteered to come and read +to me: a requiem over the bone of contention which we had gnawed between +us. Was not <a name="Page_46" id="Page_46"></a>that pretty and charitable? She read Tennyson's Life for a +solid hour, and continued it to-day. Isn't it funny that she should take +up such a book?—she who "can't abide" Tennyson or Browning or +Shakespeare: only likes Byron, I suppose because it was the right and +fashionable liking when she was young. Yet she is plodding through the +Life religiously—only skipping the verses. I have come across two +little specimens of "Death and the child" in it. His son, Lionel, was +carried out in a blanket one night in the great comet year, and waking +up under the stars asked, "Am I dead?" Number two is of a little girl at +Wellington's funeral who saw his charger carrying his <i>boots</i>, and +asked, "Shall I be like that after I die?"</p> + +<p>A queer old lady came to lunch yesterday, a great traveler, though lame +on two crutches. We carefully hid all guide-books and maps, and held our +peace about next month, lest she should insist on coming too: though I +think Nineveh was the place she was most anxious to go to, if the M.-A. +would consent to accompany her!</p> + +<p>Good-by, dearest of one-year-old acquaintances! you, too, send your +blessing on the anniversary, now that my better memory has reminded you +of it! All that follow we will bless in company. I trust you are +one-half as happy as I am, my own, my own.</p><p><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XV" id="LETTER_XV"></a>LETTER XV.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">You</span> told me, dearest, that I should find your mother +formidable. It is true; I did. She is a person very much in the grand +pagan style: I admire it, but I cannot flow in that sort of company, and +I think she meant to crush me. You were very wise to leave her to come +alone.</p> + +<p>I like her: I mean I believe that under that terribleness she has a +heart of gold, which once opened would never shut: but she has not +opened it to me. I believe she could have a great charity, that no +evil-doing would dismay her: "stanch" sums her up. But I have done +nothing wrong enough yet to bring me into her good graces. Loving her +son, even, though, I fear, a great offense, has done me no good turn.</p> + +<p>Perhaps that is her inconsistency: women are sure to be inconsistent +somewhere: it is their birthright.</p> + +<p>I began to study her at once, to find <i>you</i>: it did not take long. How I +could love her, if she would let me!</p> + +<p>You know her far far better than I, and want <a name="Page_48" id="Page_48"></a>no advice: otherwise I +would say—never praise me to her; quote my follies rather! To give +ground for her distaste to revel in will not deepen me in her bad books +so much as attempts to warp her judgment.</p> + +<p>I need not go through it all: she will have told you all that is to the +purpose about our meeting. She bristled in, a brave old fighting figure, +announcing compulsion in every line, but with all her colors flying. She +waited for the door to close, then said, "My son has bidden me come, I +suppose it is my duty: he is his own master now."</p> + +<p>We only shook hands. Our talk was very little of you. I showed her all +the horses, the dogs, and the poultry; she let the inspection appear to +conclude with myself: asked me my habits, and said I looked healthy. I +owned I felt it. "Looks and feelings are the most deceptive things in +the world," she told me; adding that "poor stock" got more than its +share of these. And when she said it I saw quite plainly that she meant +me.</p> + +<p>I wonder where she gets the notion: for we are a long-lived race, both +sides of the family. I guessed that she would like frankness, and was as +frank as I could be, pretending no deference to her objections. "You +think you suit each other?" she asked me. My answer, "He suits <a name="Page_49" id="Page_49"></a>me!" +pleased her maternal palate, I think. "Any girl might say that!" she +admitted. (She might indeed!)</p> + +<p>This is the part of our interview she will not have repeated to you.</p> + +<p>I was due at Hillyn when she was preparing to go: Aunt N—— came in, +and I left her to do the honors while I slipped on my habit. I rode by +your mother's carriage as far as the Greenway, where we branched. I +suppose that is what her phrase means that you quote about my "making a +trophy of her," and marching her a prisoner across the borders before +all the world!</p> + +<p>I do like her: she is worth winning.—Can one say warmer of a future +mother-in-law who stands hostile?</p> + +<p>All the same it was an ordeal. I believe I have wept since: for Benjy +scratched my door often yesterday evening, and looked most wistful when +I came out. Merely paltry self-love, dearest:—I am so little accustomed +to not being—liked.</p> + +<p>I think she will be more gracious in her own house. I have her formal +word that I am to come. Soon, not too soon, I will come over; and you +shall meet me and take me to see her. There is something in her +opposition that I can't fathom: I wondered twice was lunacy her notion: +she looked at me so hard.</p> + +<p>My mother's seclusion and living apart from <a name="Page_50" id="Page_50"></a>us was not on <i>that</i> +account. I often saw her: she was very dear and sweet to me, and had +quiet eyes the very reverse of a person mentally deranged. My father, I +know, went to visit her when she lay dying; and I remember we all wore +mourning. My uncle has told me they had a deep regard for each other: +but disagreed, and were independent enough to choose living apart.</p> + +<p>I do not remember my father ever speaking of her to us as children: but +I am sure there was no state of health to be concealed.</p> + +<p>Last night I was talking to Aunt N—— about her. "A very dear woman," +she told me, "but your father was never so much alive to her worth as +the rest of us." Of him she said, "A dear, fine fellow: but not at all +easy to get on with." Him, of course, I have a continuous recollection +of, and "a fine fellow" we did think him. My mother comes to me more +rarely, at intervals.</p> + +<p>Don't talk me down your mother's throat: but tell her as much as she +cares to know of this. I am very proud of my "stock" which she thinks +"poor"!</p> + +<p>Dear, how much I have written on things which can never concern us +finally, and so should not ruffle us while they last! Hold me in your +heart always, always; and the world may turn adamant to me for aught I +care! Be in my dreams to-night!</p><p><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XVI" id="LETTER_XVI"></a>LETTER XVI.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">But, Dearest:</span> When I think of you I never question whether what +I think would be true or false in the eyes of others. All that concerns +you seems to go on a different plane where evidence has no meaning or +existence: where nobody exists or means anything, but only we two alone, +engaged in bringing about for ourselves the still greater solitude of +two into one. Oh, Beloved, what a company that will be! Take me in your +arms, fasten me to your heart, breathe on me. Deny me either breath or +the light of day: I am yours equally, to live or die at your word. I +shut my eyes to feel your kisses falling on me like rain, or still more +like sunshine,—yet most of all like kisses, my own dearest and best +beloved!</p> + +<p>Oh, we two! how wonderful we seem! And to think that there have been +lovers like us since the world began: and the world not able to tell us +one little word of it:—not well, so as to be believed—or only along +with sadness where Fate has broken up the heavens which lay over some +<a name="Page_52" id="Page_52"></a>pair of lovers. Œnone's cry, "Ah me, my mountain shepherd," tells us +of the joy when it has vanished, and most of all I get it in that song +of wife and husband which ends:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Not a word for you,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Not a lock or kiss,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Good-by.<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">We, one, must part in two;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Verily death is this:<br /></span> +<span class="i4">I must die."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It was a woman wrote that: and we get love there! Is it only when joy is +past that we can give it its full expression? Even now, Beloved, I break +down in trying to say how I love you. I cannot put all my joy into my +words, nor all my love into my lips, nor all my life into your arms, +whatever way I try. Something remains that I cannot express. Believe, +dearest, that the half has not yet been spoken, neither of my love for +you, nor of my trust in you,—nor of a wish that seems sad, but comes in +a very tumult of happiness—the wish to die so that some unknown good +may come to you out of me.</p> + +<p>Not till you die, dearest, shall I die truly! I love you now too much +for your heart not to carry me to its grave, though I should die now, +and you live to be a hundred. I pray you may! I cannot choose a day for +you to die. I am too <a name="Page_53" id="Page_53"></a>grateful to life which has given me to you to +say—if I were dying—"Come with me, dearest!" Though, how the words +tempt me as I write them!—Come with me, dearest: yes, come! Ah, but you +kiss me more, I think, when we say good-by than when meeting; so you +will kiss me most of all when I have to die:—a thing in death to look +forward to! And, till then,—life, life, till I am out of my depth in +happiness and drown in your arms!</p> + +<p>Beloved, that I can write so to you,—think what it means; what you have +made me come through in the way of love, that this, which I could not +have dreamed before, comes from me with the thought of you! You told me +to be still—to let you "worship": I was to write back acceptance of all +your dear words. Are you never to be at my feet, you ask. Indeed, +dearest, I do not know how, for I cannot move from where I am! Do you +feel where my thoughts kiss you? You would be vexed with me if I wrote +it down, so I do not. And after all, some day, under a bright star of +Providence, I may have gifts for you after my own mind which will allow +me to grow proud. Only now all the giving comes from you. It is I who am +enriched by your love, beyond knowledge of my former self. Are <i>you</i> +changed, dearest, by anything I have done?</p><p><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54"></a></p> + +<p>My heart goes to you like a tree in the wind, and all these thoughts are +loose leaves that fly after you when I have to remain behind. Dear +lover, what short visits yours seem! and the Mother-Aunt tells me they +are most unconscionably long.—You will not pay any attention to <i>that</i>, +please: forever let the heavens fall rather than that a hint to such +foul effect should grow operative through me!</p> + +<p>This brings you me so far as it can:—such little words off so great a +body of—"liking" shall I call it? My paper stops me: it is my last +sheet: I should have to go down to the library to get more—else I think +I could not cease writing.</p> + +<p>More love than I can name.—Ever, dearest, your own.</p><p><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XVII" id="LETTER_XVII"></a>LETTER XVII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> Do I not write you long letters? It reveals my +weakness. I have thought (it had been coming on me, and now and then had +broken out of me before I met you) that, left to myself, I should have +become a writer of books—I scarcely can guess what sort—and gone +contentedly into middle-age with that instead of <i>this</i> as my <i>raison +d'être</i>.</p> + +<p>How gladly I lay down that part of myself, and say—"But for you, I had +been this quite other person, whom I have no wish to be now"! Beloved, +your heart is the shelf where I put all my uncut volumes, wondering a +little what sort of a writer I should have made; and chiefly wondering, +would <i>you</i> have liked me in that character?</p> + +<p>There is one here in the family who considers me a writer of the darkest +dye, and does not approve of it. Benjy comes and sits most mournfully +facing me when I settle down on a sunny morning, such as this, to write: +and inquires, with all the dumbness a dog is capable of—"What has come +between us, that you fill up <a name="Page_56" id="Page_56"></a>your time and mine with those cat's-claw +scratchings, when you should be in your woodland dress running [with] me +through damp places?"</p> + +<p>Having written this sentimental meaning into his eyes, and Benjy still +sitting watching me, I was seized with ruth for my neglect of him, and +took him to see his mother's grave. At the bottom of the long walk is +our dog's cemetery:—no tombstones, but mounds; and a dog-rose grows +there and flourishes as nowhere else. It was my fancy as a child to have +it planted: and I declare to you, it has taken wonderfully to the +notion, as if it <i>knew</i> that it had relations of a higher species under +its keeping. Benjy, too, has a profound air of knowing, and never +scratches for bones there, as he does in other places. What horror, were +I to find him digging up his mother's skeleton! Would my esteem for him +survive?</p> + +<p>When we got there to-day, he deprecated my choice of locality, asking +what I had brought him <i>there</i> for. I pointed out to him the precise +mound which covered the object of his earliest affections, and gathered +you these buds. Are they not a deep color for wild ones?—if their blush +remains a fixed state till the post brings them to you.</p> + +<p>Through what flower would you best like to be passed back, as regards +your material atoms, into <a name="Page_57" id="Page_57"></a>the spiritualized side of nature, when we +have done with ourselves in this life? No single flower quite covers all +my wants and aspirations. You and I would put our heads together +underground and evolve a new flower—"carnation, lily, lily, rose"—and +send it up one fine morning for scientists to dispute over and give +diabolical learned names to. What an end to our cozy floral +collaboration that would be!</p> + +<p>Here endeth the epistle: the elect salutes you. This week, if the +authorities permit, I shall be paying you a flying visit, with wings +full of eyes,—<i>and</i>, I hope, healing; for I believe you are seedy, and +that <i>that</i> is what is behind it. You notice I have not complained. +Dearest, how could I! My happiness reaches to the clouds—that is, to +where things are not quite clear at present. I love you no more than I +ought: yet far more than I can name. Good-night and good-morning.—Your +star, since you call me so.</p><p><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XVIII" id="LETTER_XVIII"></a>LETTER XVIII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> Not having had a letter from you this morning, I have +read over some back ones, and find in one a bidding which I have never +fulfilled, to tell you what I <i>do</i> all day. Was that to avoid the too +great length of my telling you what I <i>think</i>? Yet you get more of me +this way than that. What I do is every day so much the same: while what +I think is always different. However, since you want a woman of action +rather than of brain, here I start telling you.</p> + +<p>I wake punctual and hungry at the sound of Nan-nan's drawing of the +blinds: wait till she is gone (the old darling potters and tattles: it +is her most possessive moment of me in the day, except when I sham +headaches, and let her put me to bed); then I have my hand under my +pillow and draw out your last for a reading that has lost count whether +it is the twenty-second or the fifty-second time;—discover new beauties +in it, and run to the glass to discover new beauties in myself,—find +them; Benjy comes up with the post's latest, and behold, my day is +begun!</p><p><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59"></a></p> + +<p>Is that the sort of thing you want to know? My days are without an +action worth naming: I only think swelling thoughts, and write some of +them: if ever I do anything worth telling, be sure I run a pen-and-ink +race to tell you. No, it is man who <i>does</i> things; a woman only diddles +(to adapt a word of diminutive sound for the occasion), unless, good, +fortunate, independent thing, she works for her own living: and that is +not me!</p> + +<p>I feel sometimes as if a real bar were between me and a whole conception +of life; because I have carpets and curtains, and Nan-nan, and Benjy, +and last of all you—shutting me out from the realities of existence.</p> + +<p>If you would all leave me just for one full moon, and come back to me +only when I am starving for you all—for my tea to be brought to me in +the morning, and all the paddings and cushionings which bolster me up +from morning till night—with what a sigh of wisdom I would drop back +into your arms, and would let you draw the rose-colored curtains round +me again!</p> + +<p>Now I am afraid lest I have become too happy: I am leaning so far out of +window to welcome the dawn, I seem to be tempting a fall—heaven itself +to fall upon me.</p> + +<p>What do I <i>know</i> truly, who only know so much happiness?</p><p><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60"></a></p> + +<p>Dearest, if there is anything else in love which I do not know, teach it +me quickly: I am utterly yours. If there is sorrow to give, give it me! +Only let me have with it the consciousness of your love.</p> + +<p>Oh, my dear, I lose myself if I think of you so much. What would life +have without you in it? The sun would drop from my heavens. I see only +by you! you have kissed me on the eyes. You are more to me than my own +poor brain could ever have devised: had I started to invent Paradise, I +could not have invented <i>you</i>. But perhaps you have invented me: I am +something new to myself since I saw you first. God bless you for it!</p> + +<p>Even if you were to shut your eyes at me now—though I might go blind, +you could not unmake me:—"The gods themselves cannot recall their +gifts." Also that I am yours is a gift of the gods, I will trust: and +so, not to be recalled!</p> + +<p>Kiss me, dearest; here where I have written this! I am yours, Beloved. I +kiss you again and again.—Ever your own making.</p><p><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XIX" id="LETTER_XIX"></a>LETTER XIX.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest, Dearest:</span> How long has this happened? You don't tell me +the day or the hour. Is it ever since you last wrote? Then you have been +in pain and grief for four days: and I not knowing anything about it! +And you have no hand in the house kind enough to let you dictate by it +one small word to poor me? What heartless merrymakings may I not have +sent you to worry you, when soothing was the one thing wanted? Well, I +will not worry now, then; neither at not being told, nor at not being +allowed to come: but I will come thus and thus, O my dear heart, and +take you in my arms. And you will be comforted, will you not be? when I +tell you that even if you had no legs at all, I would love you just the +same. Indeed, dearest, so much of you is a superfluity: just your heart +against mine, and the sound of your voice, would carry me up to more +heavens than I could otherwise have dreamed of. I may say now, now that +I know it was not your choice, what a void these last few days the lack +of letters has been <a name="Page_62" id="Page_62"></a>to me. I wondered, truly, if you had found it well +to put off such visible signs for a while in order to appease one who, +in other things more essential, sees you rebellious. But the wonder is +over now; and I don't want you to write—not till a consultation of +doctors orders it for the good of your health. I will be so happy +talking to you: also I am sending you books:—those I wish you to read; +and which now you <i>must</i>, since you have the leisure! And I for my part +will make time and read yours. Whose do you most want me to read, that +my education in your likings may become complete? What I send you will +not deprive me of anything: for I have the beautiful complete set—your +gift—and shall read side by side with you to realize in imagination +what the happiness of reading them for the first time ought to be.</p> + +<p>Yesterday, by a most unsympathetic instinct, I went out for a long tramp +on my two feet; and no ache in them came and told me of you! Over +Sillingford I sat on a bank and looked downhill where went a carter. And +I looked uphill where lay something which might be nothing—or not his. +Now, shall I make a fool of myself by pursuing to tell him he may have +dropped something, or shall I go on and see? So I went on and saw a coat +with a fat pocket: and by then he was out of sight, and perhaps it +wasn't his; <a name="Page_63" id="Page_63"></a>and it was very hot and the hill steep. So I minded my own +business, making Cain's motto mine; and now feel so had, being quite +sure that it was his. And I wonder how many miles he will have tramped +back looking for it, and whether his dinner was in the pocket.</p> + +<p>These unintentional misdoings are the "sins" one repents of all one's +life long: I have others stored away, the bitterest of small things done +or undone in haste and repented of at so much leisure afterwards. And +always done to people or things I had no grudge against, sometimes even +a love for. They are my skeletons: I will tell you of them some day.</p> + +<p>This, dearest, is our first enforced absence from each other; and I feel +it almost more hard on me than on you. Beloved, let us lay our hearts +together and get comforted. It is not real separation to know that +another part of the world contains the rest of me. Oh, the rest of me, +the rest of me that you are! So, thinking of you, I can never be tired. +I rest yours.</p><p><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XX" id="LETTER_XX"></a>LETTER XX.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Yes, Dearest,</span> "Patience!" but it is a virtue I have little +enough of naturally, and used to be taught to pray for as a child. And I +remember once really hurting clear Mother-Aunt's feelings by trying to +repay her for that teaching by a little iniquitous laughter at her +expense. It was too funny for me to feel very contrite about, as I do +sometimes over quite small things, or I would not be telling it you now +(for there are things in me I would conceal even from you). I dare say +you wouldn't guess it, but the M.-A. is a most long person over her +private devotions. Perhaps it was her own habit, with the cares of a +household sometimes conflicting, which made her recite to me so often +her pet legend of a saintly person who, constantly interrupted over her +prayers by mundane matters, became a pattern in patience out of these +snippings of her godly desires. So, one day, angels in the disguise of +cross people with selfish demands on her time came seeking to know where +in her composition or composure exasperation began: and finding none, +they let <a name="Page_65" id="Page_65"></a>her return in peace to her missal, where for a reward all the +letters had been turned into gold. "And that, my dear, comes of +patience," my aunt would say, till I grew a little tired of the saying. +I don't know what experience my uncle had gathered of her patience under +like circumstances: but I notice that to this day he treads delicately, +like Agag, when he knows her to be on her knees; and prefers then to +send me on his errands instead of doing them himself.</p> + +<p>So it happened one day that he wanted a particular coat which had been +put away in her clothes-closet—and she was on her knees between him and +it, with the time of her Amen quite indefinite. I was sent, said my +errand briefly, and was permitted to fumble out her keys from her pocket +while she continued to kneel over her morning psalms.</p> + +<p>What I brought to him turned out to be the wrong coat: I went back and +knocked for readmittance. Long-sufferingly she bade me to come in. I +explained, and still she repressed herself, only saying in a tone of +affliction, "Do see this time that you take the right one!"</p> + +<p>After I had made my second selection, and proved it right on my uncle's +person, the parallelism of things struck me, and I skipped back to my +aunt's door and tapped. I got a low wailing "Yes?" for answer—a +monosyllabic substi<a name="Page_66" id="Page_66"></a>tute for the "How long, O Lord?" of a saint in +difficulties. When I called through the keyhole, "Are your psalms +written in gold?" she became really angry:—I suppose because the +miracle so well earned had not come to pass.</p> + +<p>Well, dearest, if you have been patient with me over so much about +nothing, I pray this letter may appear to you written in gold. Why I +write so is, partly, that, it is bad for us both to be down in the +mouth, or with hearts down at heel: and so, since you cannot, I have to +do the dancing;—and, partly, because I found I had a bad temper on me +which needed curing, and being brought to the sun-go-down point of owing +no man anything. Which, sooner said, has finally been done; and I am +very meek now and loving to you, and everything belonging to you—not to +come nearer the sore point.</p> + +<p>And I hope some day, some day, as a reward to my present submission, +that you will sprain your ankle in my company (just a very little bit +for an excuse) and let me have the nursing of it! It hurts my heart to +have your poor bones crying out for comfort that I am not to bring to +them. I feel robbed of a part of my domestic training, and may never +pick up what I have just lost. And I fear greatly you must have been +truly in pain to have put off Meredith for a day. If I had been at hand +to read to you, I flatter myself <a name="Page_67" id="Page_67"></a>you would have liked him well, and +been soothed. You must take the will, Beloved, for the deed. I kiss you +now, as much as even you can demand; and when you get this I will be +thinking of you all over again.—When do I ever leave off? Love, love, +love till our next meeting-, and then more love still, and more!—Ever +your own.</p><p><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XXI" id="LETTER_XXI"></a>LETTER XXI.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> I am in a simple mood to-day, and give you the benefit +of it: I shall become complicated again presently, and you will hear +from me directly that happens.</p> + +<p>The house only emptied itself this morning; I may say emptied, for the +remainder fits like a saint into her niche, and is far too comfortable +to count. This is C——, whom you only once met, when she sat so much in +the background that you will not remember her. She has one weakness, a +thirst between meals—the blameless thirst of a rabid teetotaler. She +hides cups of cold tea about the place, as a dog its bones: now and then +one gets spilled or sat on, and when she hears of the accident, she +looks thirsty, with a thirst which only <i>that</i> particular cup of tea +could have quenched. In no other way is she any trouble: indeed, she is +a great dear, and has the face of a Madonna, as beautiful as an +apocryphal gospel to look at and "make believe" in.</p> + +<p>Arthur, too, like the rest of them, when he came <a name="Page_69" id="Page_69"></a>over to give me his +brotherly blessing, wished to know what you were like. I didn't pretend +to remember your outward appearance too well,—told him you looked like +a common or garden Englishman, and roused his suspicions by so careless +a championship of my choice. He accused me of being in reality highly +sentimental about you, and with having at that moment your portrait +concealed and strung around my neck in a locket. Mother-Aunt stood up +for me against him, declaring I was "too sensible a girl for nonsense of +that sort." (It is a little weakness of hers, you know, to resent +extremes of endearment towards anyone but herself in those she has +"brooded," and she has thought us hitherto most restrained and +proper—as, indeed, have we not been?) Arthur and I exchanged tokens of +truce: in a little while off went my aunt to bed, leaving us alone. +Then, for he is the one of us that I am most frank with: "Arthur," cried +I, and up came your little locket like a bucket from a well, for him to +have his first sight of you, my Beloved. He objected that he could not +see faces in a nutshell; and I suppose others cannot: only I.</p> + +<p>He, too, is gone. If you had been coming he would have spared another +day—for to-day <i>was</i> planned and dated, you will remember—and we would +have ridden halfway to meet you. But, <a name="Page_70" id="Page_70"></a>as fate has tripped you, and made +all comings on your part indefinite, he sends you his hopes for a later +meeting.</p> + +<p>How is your poor foot? I suppose, as it is ill, I may send it a kiss by +post and wish it well? I do. Truly, you are to let me know if it gives +you much pain, and I will lie awake thinking of you. This is not +sentimental, for if one knows that a friend is occupied over one's +sleeplessness one feels the comfort.</p> + +<p>I am perplexed how else to give you my company: your mother, I know, +could not yet truly welcome me; and I wish to be as patient as possible, +and not push for favors that are not offered. So I cannot come and ask +to take you out in <i>her</i> carriage, nor come and carry you away in mine. +We must try how fast we can hold hands at a distance.</p> + +<p>I have kept up to where you have been reading in "Richard Feverel," +though it has been a scramble: for I have less opportunity of reading, I +with my feet, than you without yours. In <i>your</i> book I have just got to +the smuggling away of General Monk in the perforated coffin, and my +sense of history capitulates in an abandonment of laughter. I yield! The +Gaul's invasion of Britain always becomes broad farce when he attempts +it. This in clever ludicrousness beats the unintentional comedy of +Victor Hugo's "John-Jim-<a name="Page_71" id="Page_71"></a>Jack" as a name typical of Anglo-Saxon +christenings. But Dumas, through a dozen absurdities, knows apparently +how to stalk his quarry: so large a genius may play the fool and remain +wise.</p> + +<p>You see I have given your author a warm welcome at last: and what about +you and mine? Tell me you love his women and I will not be jealous. +Indeed, outside him I don't know where to find a written English woman +of modern times whom I would care to meet, or could feel honestly bound +to look up to:—nowhere will I have her shaking her ringlets at me in +Dickens or Thackeray. Scott is simply not modern; and Hardy's women, if +they have nobility in them, get so cruelly broken on the wheel that you +get but the wrecks of them at last. It is only his charming baggages who +come to a good ending.</p> + +<p>I like an author who has the courage and self-restraint to leave his +noble creations alive: too many try to ennoble them by death. For my +part, if I have to go out of life before you, I would gladly trust you +to the hands of Clara, or Rose, or Janet, or most of all Vittoria; +though, to be accurate, I fear they have all grown too old for you by +now.</p> + +<p>And you? have you any men to offer me in turn out of your literary +admirations, supposing you should die of a snapped ankle? Would you give +<a name="Page_72" id="Page_72"></a>me to d'Artagnan for instance? Hardly, I suspect! But either choose me +some proxy hero, or get well and come to me! You will be very welcome +when you do. Sleep is making sandy eyes at me: good-night, dearest.</p><p><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XXII" id="LETTER_XXII"></a>LETTER XXII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Why, my Beloved:</span> Since you put it to me as a point of +conscience (it is only lying on your back with one active leg doing +nothing, and the other dying to have done aching, which has made you +take this new start of inquiring within upon everything), since you call +on me for a conscientious answer, I say that it stands to reason that I +love you more than you love me, because there is so much more of you to +love, let alone fit for loving.</p> + +<p>Do you imagine that you are going to be a cripple for life, and +therefore an indifferent dancer in the dances I shall always be leading +you, that you have started this fit of self-depreciation? Or is it +because I have thrown Meredith at your sick head that you doubt my tact +and my affection, and my power patiently to bear for your sake a good +deal of cold shoulder? Dearest, remember I am doctoring you from a +distance: and am not yet allowed to come and see my patient, so can only +judge from your letters how ill you <a name="Page_74" id="Page_74"></a>are. That you have been concealing +from me almost treacherously: and only by a piece of abject waylaying +did I receive word to-day of your sleepless nights, and so get the key +to your symptoms. Lay by Meredith, then, for a while: I am sending you a +cargo of Stevenson instead. You have been truly unkind, trying to read +what required effort, when you were fit for nothing of the sort.</p> + +<p>And lest even Stevenson should be too much for you, and wanting very +much, and perhaps a little bit jealously, to be your most successful +nurse, I am letting my last large bit of shyness of you go; and with a +pleasant sort of pain, because I know I have hit on a thing that will +please you, I open my hands and let you have these, and with them goes +my last blush: henceforth I am a woman without a secret, and all your +interest in me may evaporate. Yet I know well it will not.</p> + +<p>As for this resurrection pie from love's dead-letter office, you will +find from it at least one thing—how much I depended upon response from +you before I could become at all articulate. It is you, dearest, from +the beginning who have set my head and heart free and made me a woman. I +am something quite different from the sort of child I was less than a +year ago when I wrote that small prayer which stands sponsor for all +that follows. How abundantly it has been <a name="Page_75" id="Page_75"></a>answered, dearest Beloved, +only I know: you do not!</p> + +<p>Now my prayer is not that you should "come true," but that you should +get well. Do this one little thing for me, dearest! For you I will do +anything: my happiness waits for that. As yet I seem to have done +nothing. Oh, but, Beloved, I will! From a reading of the Fioretti, I +sign myself as I feel.—Your glorious poor little one.</p><p><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_CASKET_LETTERS" id="THE_CASKET_LETTERS"></a>THE CASKET LETTERS.</h2> + + +<h3>A.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">my dear Prince Wonderful,<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Pray God bless —— —— and make him come true for my sake. Amen.</p> + +<p><i>R.S.V.P.</i></p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> The MS. contained at first no name, but a blank; over it +this has been written afterwards in a small hand.</p></div> + + +<h3>B.</h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Prince Wonderful:</span> Now that I have met you I pray that you +will be my friend. I want just a little of your friendship, but that, so +much, so much! And even for that little I do not know how to ask.</p> + +<p>Always to be <i>your</i> friend: of that you shall be quite sure.</p> + + +<h3>C.</h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Prince Wonderful:</span> Long ago when I was still a child I told +myself of you: but thought of you only as in a fairy tale. Now I am +afraid of trusting my eyes or ears, for fear I should <a name="Page_77" id="Page_77"></a>think too much of +you before I know you really to be true. Do not make me wish so much to +be your friend, unless you are also going to be true!</p> + +<p>Please come true now, for mine and for all the world's sake:—but for +mine especially, because I thought of you first! And if you are not able +to come true, don't make me see you any more. I shall always remember +you, and be glad that I have seen you just once.</p> + + +<h3>D.</h3> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Prince Wonderful:</span> <i>Has</i> God blessed you yet and made you +come true? I have not seen you again, so how am I to know? Not that it +is necessary for me to know even if you do come true. I believe already +that you are true.</p> + +<p>If I were never to see you again I should be glad to think of you as +living, and shall always be your friend. I pray that you may come to +know that.</p> + + +<h3>E.</h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Highness:</span> I do not know what to write to you: I only know +how much I wish to write. I have always written the things I thought +about: it has been easy to find words for them. Now I think about you, +but have no words:—no words, <a name="Page_78" id="Page_78"></a>dear Highness, for you! I could write at +once if I knew you were my friend. Come true for me: I will have so much +to tell you then!</p> + + +<h3>F.</h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Highness:</span> If I believe in fairy tales coming true, it is +because I am superstitious. This is what I did to-day. I shut my eyes +and took a book from the shelf, opened it, and put my fingers down on a +page. This is what I came to:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"All I believed is true!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I am able yet<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All I want to get<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">By a method as strange as new:<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">Dare I trust the same to you?"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Fate says, then, you are to be my friend. Fate has said I am yours +already. That is very certain. Only in real life where things come true +would a book have opened as this has done.</p> + + +<h3>G.</h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Highness:</span> I am sure now, then, that I please you, and that +you like me, perhaps only a little: for you turned out of your way to +ride with me though you were going somewhere so <a name="Page_79" id="Page_79"></a>fast. How much I wished +it when I saw you coming, but dared not believe it would come true!</p> + +<p>"Come true": it is the word I have always been writing, and everything +<i>has</i>:—you most of all! You are more true each time I see you. So true +that now I will write it down at last,—the truth for you who have come +so true.</p> + +<p>Dear Highness and Great Heart, I love you dearly, though you don't know +it,—quite ever so much; and am going to love you ever so much more, +only—please like <i>me</i> a little better first! You on your dear side must +do something: or, before I know, I may be wringing my hands all alone on +a desert island to a bare blue horizon, with nothing in it real or +fabulous.</p> + +<p>If I am to love you, nothing but happiness is to be allowed to come of +it. So don't come true too fast without one little wee corresponding +wish for me to find that you are! I am quite happy thinking you out +slowly: it takes me all day long; the longer the better!</p> + +<p>I wonder how often in my life I shall write down that I love you, having +once written it (I do:—I love you! there [it] is for you, with more to +follow after!); and send you my love as I do now into the great +emptiness of chance, hoping somehow, known or unknown, it may bless you +and bring good to you.</p> + +<p>Oh, but 'tis a windy world, and I a mere <a name="Page_80" id="Page_80"></a>feather in it: how can I get +blown the way I would?</p> + +<p>Still I have a superstition that some star is over me which I have not +seen yet, but shall,—Heaven helping me.</p> + +<p>And now good-night, and no more, no more at all! I send out an "I love +you" to be my celestial commercial traveler for me while I fold myself +up and become its sleeping partner.</p> + +<p>Good-night: you are the best and truest that I ever dreamed yet.</p> + + +<h3>H.</h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Highness:</span> I begin not to be able to name you anything, for +there is not a word for you that will do! "Highness" you are: but that +leaves gaps and coldnesses without end. "Royal," yet much more serene +than royal: though by that I don't mean any detraction from your +royalty, for I never saw a man carry his invisible crown with so level a +head and no haughtiness at all: and that is the finest royalty of look +possible.</p> + +<p>I look at you and wonder so how you have grown to this—to have become +king so quietly without any coronation ceremony. You have thought more +than you should for happiness at your age; making me, by that one line +in your forehead, think you were three years older than <a name="Page_81" id="Page_81"></a>you really are. +I wish—if I dare wish you anything different—that you were! It makes +me uncomfortable to remember that I am—what? Almost half a year your +elder as time flies:—not really, for your brain was born long before +mine began to rattle in its shell. You say quite <i>old</i> things, and +quietly, as if you had had them in your mind ten years already. When you +told me about your two old pensioners, the blind man and his wife, whom +you brought to so funny a reconciliation, I felt ("mir war, ich wuszte +nicht wie") that I would like very much to go blindfold led by you: it +struck me suddenly how happy would be a blindfoldness of perfect trust +such as one might have with your hands on one. I suppose that is what in +religion is called faith: I haven't it there, my dear; but I have it in +you now. I love you, beginning to understand why: at first I did not. I +am ashamed not to have discovered it earlier. The matter with you is +that you have goodness prevailing in you, an integrity of goodness, I +mean:—a different thing from there being a whereabouts for goodness in +you; <i>that</i> we all have in some proportion or another. I was quite right +to love you: I know it now,—I did not when I first did.</p> + +<p>Yesterday I was turning over a silly "confession book" in which a rose +was everybody's favorite flower, manliness the finest quality for a +<a name="Page_82" id="Page_82"></a>man, and womanliness for a woman (which is as much as to say that pig +is the best quality for pork, and pork for pig): till I came upon one +different from the others, and found myself saying "Yes" all down the +page.</p> + +<p>I turned over for the signature, and found my own mother's. Was it not a +strange sweet meeting? And only then did the memory of her handwriting +from far back come to me. She died, dear Highness, before I was seven +years old. I love her as I do my early memory of flowers, as something +very sweet, hardly as a real person.</p> + +<p>I noticed she loved best in men and women what they lack most often: in +a man, a fair mind; in a woman, courage. "Brave women and fair men," she +wrote. Byron might have turned in his grave at having his dissolute +stiff-neck so wrung for him by misquotation. And she—it must have been +before the eighties had started the popular craze for him—chose +Meredith, my own dear Meredith, for her favorite author. How our tastes +would have run together had she lived!</p> + +<p>Well, I know you fair, and believe myself brave—constitutionally, so +that I can't help it: and this, therefore, is not self-praise. But +fairness in a man is a deadly hard acquirement, I begin now to discover. +You have it fixed fast in you.</p> + +<p>You, I think, began to do just things con<a name="Page_83" id="Page_83"></a>sciously, as the burden of +manhood began in you. I love to think of you growing by degrees till you +could carry your head <i>so</i>—and no other way; so that, looking at you, I +can promise myself you never did a mean thing, and never consciously an +unjust thing except to yourself. I can just fancy that fault in you. +But, whatever—I love you for it more and more, and am proud knowing you +and finding that we are to become friends. For it is that, and no less +than that, now.</p> + +<p>I love you; and me you like cordially: and that is enough. I need not +look behind it, for already I have no way to repay you for the happiness +this brings me.</p> + + +<h3>I.</h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">Oh,</span> I think greatly of you, my dear; and it takes long +thinking. Not merely such a quantity of thought, but such a quality, +makes so hard a day's work that by the end of it I am quite drowsy. +Bless me, dearest; all to-day has belonged to you; and to-morrow, I +know, waits to become yours without the asking: just as without the +asking I too am yours. I wish it were more possible for us to give +service to those we love. I am most glad because I see you so often: but +I come and go in your life empty-handed, though I have so much to give +away. Thoughts, the best I have, I give you: I cannot <a name="Page_84" id="Page_84"></a>empty my brain of +them. Some day you shall think well of me.—That is a vow, dear +friend,—you whom I love so much!</p> + + +<h3>J.</h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">I have</span> not had to alter any thought ever formed about you, +Beloved; I have only had to deepen it—that is all. You grow, but you +remain. I have heard people talk about you, generally kindly; but what +they think of you is often wrong. I do not say anything, but I am glad, +and so sure that I know you better. If my mind is so clear about you, it +shows that you are good for me. Now for nearly three months I may not +see you again; but all that time you will be growing in my heart; and at +the end without another word from you I shall find that I know you +better than before. Is that strange? It is because I love you: love is +knowledge—blind knowledge, not wanting eyes. I only hope that I shall +keep in your memory the kind place you have given me. You are almost my +friend now, and I know it. You do not know that I love you.</p> + + +<h3>K.</h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> You love me! I know it now, and bless the sun and the +moon and the stars for the dear certainty of it. And I ask you now,<a name="Page_85" id="Page_85"></a> O +heart that has opened to me, have I once been unhappy or impatient while +this good thing has been withheld from me? Indeed my love for you has +occupied me too completely: I have been so glad to find how much there +is to learn in a good heart deeply unconscious of its own goodness. You +have employed me as I wish I may be employed all the days of my life: +and now my beloved employer has given me the wages I did not ask.</p> + +<p>You love me! Is it a question of little or much? Is it not rather an +entire new thought of me that has entered your life, as the thought of +you entered mine months that seem years ago? It was the seed then, and +seemed small; but the whole life was there; and it has grown and grown +till now it is I who have become small, and have hardly room in me for +the roots: and it seems to have gone so far up over my head that I +wonder if the stars know of my happiness.</p> + +<p>They must know of yours too, then, my Beloved: they are no company for +me without you. Oh, to-day, to-day of all days! how in my heart I shall +go on kissing it till I die! You love me: that is wonderful! You love +me: and already it is not wonderful in the least! but belongs to Noah +and the ark and all the animals saved up for an earth washed clean and +dried, and the new beginnings of time which have ever since been +<a name="Page_86" id="Page_86"></a>twisting and turning with us in safe keeping through all the history of +the world.</p> + +<p>"We came over at the Norman conquest," my dear, as people say trailing +their pedigree: but there was no ancestral pride about us—it was all +for the love of the thing we did it: how clear it seems now! In the hall +hangs a portrait in a big wig, but otherwise the image of my father, of +a man who flouted the authority of James II. merely because he was so +like my father in character that he could do nothing else. I shall look +for you now in the Bayeux tapestries with a prong from your helmet down +the middle of your face—of which that line on your forehead is the +remainder. And you love me! I wonder what the line has to do with that?</p> + +<p>By such little things do great things seem to come about: not really. I +know it was not because I said just what I did say, and did what I did +yesterday, that your heart was bound to come for mine. But it was those +small things that brought you consciousness: and when we parted I knew +that I had all the world at my feet—or all heaven over my head!</p> + +<p>Ah, at last I may let the spirit of a kiss go to you from me, and not be +ashamed or think myself forward since I have your love. All this time +you are thinking of me: a certainty lying far outside what I can see.</p><p><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87"></a></p> + +<p>Beloved, if great happiness may be set to any words, it is here! If +silence goes better with it,—speak, silence, for me when I end now!</p> + +<p>Good-night, and think greatly of me! I shall wake early.</p> + + +<h3>L.</h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> Was my heart at all my own,—was it my own to give, +till you came and made me aware of how much it contains? Truly, dear, it +contained nothing before, since now it contains you and nothing else. So +I have a brand-new heart to give away: and you, you want it and can't +see that there it is staring you in the face like a rose with all its +petals ready to drop.</p> + +<p>I am quite sure that if I had not met you, I could have loved nobody as +I love you. Yet it is very likely that I should have +loved—sufficiently, as the way of the world goes. It is not a romantic +confession, but it is true to life: I do so genuinely like most of my +fellow-creatures, and am not happy except where shoulders rub +socially:—that is to say, have not until now been happy, except +dependently on the company and smiles of others. Now, Beloved, I have +none of your company, and have had but few of your smiles (I could count +them all); yet I have become more happy filling up my solitude with <a name="Page_88" id="Page_88"></a>the +understanding of you which has made me wise, than all the rest of fate +or fortune could make me. Down comes autumn's sad heart and finds me +gay; and the asters, which used to chill me at their appearing, have +come out like crocuses this year because it is the beginning of a new +world.</p> + +<p>And all the winter will carry more than a suspicion of summer with it, +just as the longest days carry round light from northwest to northeast, +because so near the horizon, but out of sight, lies their sun. So you, +Beloved, so near to me now at last, though out of sight.</p> + + +<h3>M.</h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> Whether I have sorry or glad things to think about, +they are accompanied and changed by thoughts of you. You are my +diary:—all goes to you now. That you love me is the very light by which +I see everything. Also I learn so much through having you in my +thoughts: I cannot say how it is, for I have no more knowledge of life +than I had before:—yet I am wiser, I believe, knowing much more what +lives at the root of things and what men have meant and felt in all they +have done:—because I love you, dearest. Also I am quicker in my +apprehensions, and have more joy and more fear <a name="Page_89" id="Page_89"></a>in me than I had before. +And if this seems to be all about myself, it is all about you really, +Beloved!</p> + +<p>Last week one of my dearest old friends, our Rector, died: a character +you too would have loved. He was a father to the whole village, rather +stern of speech, and no respecter of persons. Yet he made a very +generous allowance for those who did not go through the church door to +find their salvation. I often went only because I loved him: and he knew +it.</p> + +<p>I went for that reason alone last Sunday. The whole village was full of +closed blinds: and of all things over him Chopin's Funeral March was +played!—a thing utterly unchristian in its meaning: wild pagan grief, +desolate over lost beauty. "Balder the beautiful is dead, is dead!" it +cried: and I thought of you suddenly; you, who are not Balder at all. +Too many thorns have been in your life, but not the mistletoe stroke +dealt by a blind god ignorantly. Yet in all great joy there is the +Balder element: and I feared lest something might slay it for me, and my +life become a cry like Chopin's march over mown-down unripened grass, +and youth slain in its high places.</p> + +<p>After service a sort of processional instinct drew people up to the +house: they waited about till permission was given, and went in to look +at their <a name="Page_90" id="Page_90"></a>old man, lying in high state among his books. I did not go. +Beloved, I have never yet seen death: you have, I know. Do you, I +wonder, remember your father better than I mine:—or your brother? Are +they more living because you saw them once not living? I think death +might open our eyes to those we lived on ill terms with, but not to the +familiar and dear. I do not need you dead, to be certain that your heart +has mine for its true inmate and mine yours.</p> + +<p>I love you, I love you: so let good-night bring you good-morning!</p> + + +<h3>N.</h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">At</span> long intervals, dearest, I write to you a secret all about +yourself for my eyes to see: because, chiefly because, I have not you to +look at. Thus I bless myself with you.</p> + +<p>Away over the world west of this and a little bit north is the city of +spires where you are now. Never having seen it I am the more free to +picture it as I like: and to me it is quite full of you:—quite greedily +full, Beloved, when elsewhere you are so much wanted! I send my thoughts +there to pick up crumbs for me.</p> + +<p>It is a strange blend of notions—wisdom and ignorance combined: for +<i>you</i> I seem to know <a name="Page_91" id="Page_91"></a>perfectly; but of your life nothing at all. And +yet nobody there knows so much about you as I. What you <i>do</i> matters so +much less than what you are. You, who are the clearest heart in all the +world, do what you will, you are so still to me, Beloved.</p> + +<p>I take a happy armful of thoughts about you into all my dreams: and when +I wake they are there still, and have done nothing but remain true. What +better can I ask of them?</p> + +<p>You do love me: you have not changed? Without change I remain yours so +long as I live.</p> + + +<h3>O.</h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">And</span> you, Beloved, what are you thinking of me all this while? +Think well of me, I beg you: I deserve so much, loving you as truly as I +do!</p> + +<p>So often, dearest, I sit thinking my hands into yours again as when we +were saying good-by the last time. Then it was, under our laughter and +light words, that I saw suddenly how the thing too great to name had +become true, that from friends we were changed into lovers. It seemed +the most natural thing to be, and yet was wonderful—for it was I who +loved you first: a thing I could never be ashamed of, and am now proud +to own—for has it not proved me wise? My love for you is the best +wisdom that I have.<a name="Page_92" id="Page_92"></a> Good-night, dearest! Sleep as well as I love you, +and nobody in the world will sleep so soundly.</p> + + +<h3>P.</h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">A few</span> times in my life, Beloved, I have had the +Blue-moon-hunger for something which seemed too impossible and good ever +to come true: prosaic people call it being "in the blues"; I comfort +myself with a prettier word for it. To-day, not the Blue-moon itself, +but the Man of it came down and ate plum-porridge with me! Also, I do +believe that it burnt his mouth, and am quite reasonably happy thinking +so, since it makes me know that you love me as much as ever.</p> + +<p>If I have had doubts, dearest, they have been of myself, lest I might be +unworthy of your friendship or love. Suspicions of you I never had.</p> + +<p>Who wrote that suspicions among thoughts are like bats among birds, +flying only by twilight?</p> + +<p>But even my doubts have been thoughts, Beloved,—sure of you if not +always of myself. And if I have looked for you only with doubtful +vision, yet I have always seen you in as strong a light as my eyes could +bear:—blue-moonlight.<a name="Page_93" id="Page_93"></a> Beloved, is not twilight: and blue-moonlight has +been the light I saw you by: it is you alone who can make sunlight of +it.</p> + +<p>This I read yesterday has lain on my mind since as true and altogether +beautiful, with the beauty of major, not of minor poetry, though it was +a minor poet who wrote it. It is of a wood where Apollo has gone in +quest of his Beloved, and she is not yet to be found:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"Here each branch<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sway'd with a glitter all its crowded leaves,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And brushed the soft divine hair touching them<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In ruffled clusters....<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Suddenly the moon<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Smoothed herself out of vapor-drift and made<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The deep night full of pleasure in the eye<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of her sweet motion. Not alone she came<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leading the starlight with her like a song:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And not a bud of all that undergrowth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But crisped and tingled out an ardent edge<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the light steeped it: over whose massed leaves<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The portals of illimitable sleep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Faded in heaven."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>That is love in its moonrise, not its sunrise stage: yet you see. +Beloved, how it takes possession of its dark world, quite as fully as +the brighter sunlight could do. And if I speak of doubts, I mean no +twilight and no suspicions: nor by darkness do I mean any unhappiness.</p> + +<p>My blue-moon has come, leading the starlight <a name="Page_94" id="Page_94"></a>with her like a song. Am I +not happy enough to be patiently yours before you know it? Good things +which are to be, before they happen are already true. Nothing is so true +as you are, except my love for you and yours for me. Good-night, +good-night.</p> + +<p>Sleep well, Beloved, and wake.</p> + + +<h3>Q.</h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> I heard somebody yesterday speak of you as "charming"; +and I began wondering to myself was that the word which could ever have +covered my thoughts of you? I do not know whether you ever charmed me, +except in the sense of charming which means magic and spell-binding. +<i>That</i> you did from the beginning, dearest. But I think I held you at +first in too much awe to discover charm in you: and at last knew you too +much to the depths to name you by a word so lightly used for the surface +of things. Yet now a charm in you, which is not <i>all</i> you, but just a +part of you, comes to light, when I see you wondering whether you are +really loved, or whether, Beloved, I only <i>like</i> you rather well!</p> + +<p>Well, if you will be so "charming," I am helpless: and can do nothing, +nothing, but pray for the blue-moon to rise, and love you a little +better <a name="Page_95" id="Page_95"></a>because you have some of that divine foolishness which strikes +the very wise ones of earth, and makes them kin to weaker mortals who +otherwise might miss their "charm" altogether.</p> + +<p>Truly, Beloved, if I am happy, it is because I am also your most +patiently loving.</p> + + +<h3>R.</h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> The certainty which I have now that you love me so +fills all my thoughts, I cannot understand you being in any doubt on +your side. What must I do that I do not do, to show gladness when we +meet and sorrow when we have to part? I am sure that I make no pretense +or disguise, except that I do not stand and wring my hands before all +the world, and cry "Don't go!"—which has sometimes been in my mind, to +be kept <i>not</i> said!</p> + +<p>Indeed, I think so much of you, my dear, that I believe some day, if you +do your part, you will only have to look up from your books to find me +standing. If you did, would you still be in doubt whether I loved you?</p> + +<p>Oh, if any apparition of me ever goes to you, all my thoughts will +surely look truthfully out of its eyes; and even you will read what is +there at last!</p> + +<p>Beloved, I kiss your blind eyes, and love them <a name="Page_96" id="Page_96"></a>the better for all their +unreadiness to see that I am already their slave. Not a day now but I +think I may see you again: I am in a golden uncertainty from hour to +hour.</p> + +<p>I love you: you love me: a mist of blessing swims over my eyes as I +write the words, till they become one and the same thing: I can no +longer divide their meaning in my mind. Amen: there is no need that I +should.</p> + + +<h3>S.</h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> I have not written to you for quite a long time: ah, I +could not. I have nothing now to say! I think I could very easily die of +this great happiness, so certainly do you love me! Just a breath more of +it and I should be gone.</p> + +<p>Good-by, dearest, and good-by, and good-by! If you want letters from me +now, you must ask for them! That the earth contains us both, and that we +love each other, is about all that I have mind enough to take in. I do +not think I can love you more than I do: you are no longer my dream but +my great waking thought. I am waiting for no blue-moonrise now: my heart +has not a wish which you do not fulfill. I owe you my whole life, and +for any good to you must pay it out to the last farthing, and still feel +myself your debtor.</p><p><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97"></a></p> + +<p>Oh, Beloved, I am most poor and most rich when I think of your love. +Good-night; I can never let thought of you go!</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> These are almost all of them, but not quite; a few +here and there have cried to be taken out, saying they were still too +shy to be looked at. I can't argue with them: they know their own minds +best; and you know mine.</p> + +<p>See what a dignified historic name I have given this letter-box, or +chatterbox, or whatever you like to call it. But "Resurrection Pie" is +<i>my</i> name for it. Don't eat too much of it, prays your loving.</p><p><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XXIII" id="LETTER_XXIII"></a>LETTER XXIII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Saving</span> your presence, dearest, I would rather have Prince Otto, +a very lovable character for second affections to cling to. Richard +Feverel would never marry again, so I don't ask for him: as for the +rest, they are all too excellent for me. They give me the impression of +having worn copy-books under their coats, when they were boys, to cheat +punishment: and the copy-books got beaten into their systems.</p> + +<p>You must find me somebody who was a "gallous young hound" in the days of +his youth—Crossjay, for instance:—there! I have found the very man for +me!</p> + +<p>But really and truly, are you better? It will not hurt your foot to come +to me, since I am not to come to you? How I long to see you again, +dearest! it is an age! As a matter of fact, it is a fortnight: but I +dread lest you will find some change in me. I have kept a real white +hair to show you, I drew it out of my comb the other morning: wound up +into a curl it becomes quite visible, and it is ivory-white:<a name="Page_99" id="Page_99"></a> you are +not to think it flaxen, and take away its one wee sentiment! And I make +you an offer:—you shall have it if, honestly, you can find in your own +head a white one to exchange.</p> + +<p>Dearest, I am not <i>hurt</i>, nor do I take seriously to heart your mother's +present coldness. How much more I could forgive her when I put myself in +her place! She may well feel a struggle and some resentment at having to +give up in any degree her place with you. All my selfishness would come +to the front if that were demanded of me.</p> + +<p>Do not think, because I leave her alone, that I am repaying her coldness +in the same coin. I know that for the present anything I do must offend. +Have I demanded your coming too soon? Then stay away another day—or +two: every day only piles up the joy it will be to have your arms round +me once more. I can keep for a little longer: and the gray hair will +keep, and many to-morrows will come bringing good things for us, when +perhaps your mother's "share of the world" will be over.</p> + +<p>Don't say it, but when you next kiss her, kiss her for me also: I am +sorry for all old people: their love of things they are losing is so far +more to be reverenced and made room for than ours of the things which +will come to us in good time abundantly.</p><p><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100"></a></p> + +<p>To-night I feel selfish at having too much of your love: and not a bit +of it can I let go! I hope, Beloved, we shall live to see each other's +gray hairs in earnest: gray hairs that we shall not laugh at, as at this +one I pulled. How dark your dear eyes will look with a white setting! My +heart's heart, every day you grow larger round me, and I so much +stronger depending upon you!</p> + +<p>I won't say—come for certain, to-morrow: but come if, and as soon as, +you can. I seem to see a mile further when I am on the lookout for you: +and I shall be long-sighted every day until you come. It is only +<i>doubtful</i> hope deferred which maketh the heart sick. I am as happy as +the day is long waiting for you: but the day <i>is</i> long, dearest, none +the less when I don't see you.</p> + +<p>All this space on the page below is love. I have no time left to put it +into words, or words into it. You bless my thoughts constantly.—Believe +me, never your thoughtless.</p><p><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XXIV" id="LETTER_XXIV"></a>LETTER XXIV.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> How, when, and where is there any use wrangling as to +which of us loves the other the best ("the better," I believe, would be +the more grammatical phrase in incompetent Queen's English), and why in +that of all things should we pretend to be rivals? For this at least +seems certain to me, that, being created male and female, no two lovers +since the world began ever loved each other quite in the <i>same</i> way: it +is not in nature for it to be so. They cannot compare: only to the best +that is in them they <i>do</i> love each after their kind,—as do we for +certain!</p> + +<p>Be sure, then, that I am utterly contented with what I get (and you, +Beloved, and you?): nay, I wonder forever at the love you have given me: +and if I will to lay mine at your feet, and feel yours crowning my +life,—why, so it is, you know; you cannot alter it! And if you insist +that your love is at <i>my</i> feet, I have only to turn Irish and reply that +it is because I am heels over head in love with you:—and, mark you, +that is <a name="Page_102" id="Page_102"></a>no pretty attitude for a lady that you have driven me into in +order that I may stick to my "crown"!</p> + +<p>Go to, dearest! There is one thing in which I can beat you, and that is +in the bandying of words and all verbal conjurings: take this as the +last proof of it and rest quiet. I know you love me a great great deal +more than I have wit or power to love you: and that is just the little +reason why your love mounts till, as I tell you, it crowns me (head or +heels): while mine, insufficient and groveling, lies at your feet, and +will till they become amputated. And I can give you, but won't, sixty +other reasons why things are as I say, and are to be left as I say. And +oh, my world, my world, it is with you I go round sunwards, and you make +my evenings and mornings, and will, till Time shuts his wings over us! +And now it is doleful business I have to write to you....</p> + +<p>I have dropped to sleep over all this writing of things, and my cheek +down on the page has made the paper unwilling to take the ink again:— +what a pretty compliment to me: and, if you prefer it, what an easy way +of writing to you! I can send you such any day and be as idle as I like. +And you will decide about all the above exactly as you and I think best +(or should it be "better" again, being only between us two?).<a name="Page_103" id="Page_103"></a> When you +get this, blow your beloved self a kiss in the glass for me,—a great +big shattering blow that shall astonish Mercury behind his window-pane. +Good-night, my best—or "better," for that is what I most want you to +be.</p><p><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XXV" id="LETTER_XXV"></a>LETTER XXV.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">My Own Beloved:</span> And I never thanked you yesterday for your dear +words about the resurrection pie; that comes of quarreling! Well, you +must prove them and come quickly that I may see this restoration of +health and spirits that you assure me of. You avoid saying that they +sent you to sleep; but I suppose that is what you mean.</p> + +<p>Fate meant me only to light upon gay things this morning: listen to this +and guess where it comes from:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"When March with variant winds was past,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And April had with her silver showers<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Ta'en leif at life with an orient blast;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And lusty May, that mother of flowers,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Had made the birds to begin their hours,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Among the odours ruddy and white,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Whose harmony was the ear's delight:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"In bed at morrow I sleeping lay;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Methought Aurora, with crystal een,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In at the window looked by day,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And gave me her visage pale and green;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And on her hand sang a lark from the splene,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">'Awake ye lovers from slumbering!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">See how the lusty morrow doth spring!'"<br /></span> +</div></div><p><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105"></a></p> + +<p>Ah, but you are no scholar of the things in your own tongue! That is +Dunbar, a Scots poet contemporary of Henry VII., just a little bit +altered by me to make him soundable to your ears. If I had not had to +leave an archaic word here and there, would you ever have guessed he lay +outside this century? That shows the permanent element in all good +poetry, and in all good joy in things also. In the four centuries since +that was written we have only succeeded in worsening the meaning of +certain words, as for instance "spleen," which now means irritation and +vexation, but stood then for quite the opposite—what we should call, I +suppose, "a full heart." It is what I am always saying—a good digestion +is the root of nearly all the good living and high thinking we are +capable of: and the spleen was then the root of the happy emotions as it +is now of the miserable ones. Your pre-Reformation lark sang from "a +full stomach," and thanked God it had a constitution to carry it off +without affectation: and your nineteenth century lark applying the same +code of life, his plain-song is mere happy everyday prose, and not +poetry at all as we try to make it out to be.</p> + +<p>I have no news for you at all of anyone: all inside the house is a +simmer of peace and quiet, with blinds drawn down against the heat the +whole day long. No callers; and as for me, I <a name="Page_106" id="Page_106"></a>never call elsewhere. The +gossips about here eke out a precarious existence by washing each +other's dirty linen in public: and the process never seems to result in +any satisfactory cleansing.</p> + +<p>I avoid saying what news I trust to-morrow's post-bag may contain for +me. Every wish I send you comes "from the spleen," which means I am very +healthy, and, conditionally, as happy as is good for me. Pray God bless +my dear Share of the world, and make him get well for his own and my +sake! Amen.</p> + +<p>This catches the noon post, an event which always shows I am jubilant, +with a lot of the opposite to a "little death" feeling running over my +nerves. I feel the grass growing <i>under</i> me: the reverse of poor Keats' +complaint. Good-by, Beloved, till I find my way into the provender of +to-morrow's post-bag.</p><p><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XXVI" id="LETTER_XXVI"></a>LETTER XXVI.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Oh,</span> wings of the morning, here you come! I have been looking +out for you ever since post came. Roberts is carrying orders into town, +and will bring you this with a touch of the hat and an amused grin under +it. I saw you right on the top Sallis Hill: this is to wager that my +eyes have told me correctly. Look out for me from far away, I am at my +corner window: wave to me! Dearest, this is to kiss you before I can.</p><p><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XXVII" id="LETTER_XXVII"></a>LETTER XXVII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> I have made a bad beginning of the week: I wonder how +it will end? it all comes of my not seeing enough of you. Time hangs +heavy on my hands, and the Devil finds me the mischief!</p> + +<p>I prevailed upon myself to go on Sunday and listen to our new lately +appointed vicar: for I thought it not fair to condemn him on the +strength of Mrs. P——'s terrible reporting powers and her sensuous +worship of his full-blown flowers of speech—"pulpit-pot-plants" is what +I call them.</p> + +<p>It was not worse and not otherwise than I had expected. I find there are +only two kinds of clerics as generally necessary to salvation in a +country parish—one leads his parishioners to the altar and the other to +the pulpit: and the latter is vastly the more popular among the +articulate and gad-about members of his flock. This one sways himself +over the edge of his frame, making signals of distress in all +directions, and with that and his windy flights of oratory <a name="Page_109" id="Page_109"></a>suggests +twenty minutes in a balloon-car, till he comes down to earth at the +finish with the Doxology for a parachute. His shepherd's crook is one +long note of interrogation, with which he tries to hook down the heavens +to the understanding of his hearers, and his hearers up to an +understanding of himself. All his arguments are put interrogatively, and +few of them are worth answering. Well, well, I shall be all the freer +for your visit when you come next Sunday, and any Sunday after that you +will: and he shall come in to tea if you like and talk to you in quite a +cultured and agreeable manner, as he can when his favorite beverage is +before him.</p> + +<p>I discover that I get "the snaps" on a Monday morning, if I get them at +all. The M.-A. gets them on the Sunday itself, softly but regularly: +they distress no one, and we all know the cause: her fingers are itching +for the knitting which she mayn't do. Your Protestant ignores Lent as a +Popish device, a fond thing vainly invented: but spreads it instead over +fifty-two days in the year. Why, I want to know, cannot I change the +subject?</p> + +<p>Sunday we get no post (and no collection except in church) unless we +send down to the town for it, so Monday is all the more welcome: but +this I have been up and writing before it arrives—therefore the +"snaps."</p><p><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110"></a></p> + +<p>Our postman is a lovely sight. I watched him walking up the drive the +other morning, and he seemed quite perfection, for I guessed he was +bringing me the thing which would make me happy all day. I only hope the +Government pays him properly.</p> + +<p>I think this is the least pleasant letter I have ever sent you: shall I +tell you why? It was not the sermon: he is quite a forgivable good man +in his way. But in the afternoon that same Mrs. P—— came, got me in a +corner, and wanted to unburden herself of invective against your mother, +believing that I should be glad, because her coldness to me has become +known! What mean things some people can think about one! I heard +nothing: but I am ruffled in all my plumage and want stroking. And my +love to your mother, please, if she will have it. It is only through her +that I get you.—Ever your very own.</p><p><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XXVIII" id="LETTER_XXVIII"></a>LETTER XXVIII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> Here comes a letter to you from me flying in the +opposite direction. I won't say I am not wishing to go; but oh, to be a +bird in two places at once! Give this letter, then, a special +nesting-place, because I am so much on the wing elsewhere.</p> + +<p>I shut my eyes most of the time through France, and opened them on a +soup-tureen full of coffee which presented itself at the frontier: and +then realized that only a little way ahead lay Berne, with baths, buns, +bears, breakfast, and other nice things beginning with B, waiting to +make us clean, comfortable, contented, and other nice things beginning +with C.</p> + +<p>Through France I loved you sleepy fashion, with many dreams in between +not all about you. But now I am breathing thoughts of you out of a new +atmosphere—a great gulp of you, all clean-living and high-thinking +between these Alpine royal highnesses with snow-white crowns to their +heads: and no time for a word more about anything except you: you, and +double-you,—<a name="Page_112" id="Page_112"></a>and treble-you if the alphabet only had grace to contain +so beautiful a symbol! Good-by: we meet next, perhaps, out of Lucerne: +if not,—Italy.</p> + +<p>What a lot I have to go through before we meet again visibly! You will +find me world-worn, my Beloved! Write often.</p><p><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XXIX" id="LETTER_XXIX"></a>LETTER XXIX.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> You know of the method for making a cat settle down in +a strange place by buttering her all over: the theory being that by the +time she has polished off the butter she feels herself at home? My +morning's work has been the buttering of the Mother-Aunt with such +things as will Lucerne her the most. When her instincts are appeased I +am the more free to indulge my own.</p> + +<p>So after breakfast we went round the cloisters, very thick set with +tablets and family vaults, and crowded graves inclosed. It proved quite +"the best butter." To me the penance turned out interesting after a +period of natural repulsion. A most unpleasant addition to sepulchral +sentiment is here the fashion: photographs of the departed set into the +stone. You see an elegant and genteel marble cross: there on the +pedestal above the name is the photo:—a smug man with bourgeois +whiskers,—a militiaman with waxed mustaches well turned up,—a woman +well attired and conscious of it: you cannot think how indecent <a name="Page_114" id="Page_114"></a>looked +the pretension of such types to the dignity of death and immortality.</p> + +<p>But just one or two faces stood the test, and were justified: a young +man oppressed with the burden of youth; a sweet, toothless grandmother +in a bonnet, wearing old age like a flower; a woman not beautiful but +for her neck which carried indignation; her face had a thwarted look. +"Dead and rotten" one did not say of these in disgust and involuntarily +as one did of the others. And yet I don't suppose the eye picks out the +faces that kindled most kindness round them when living, or that one can +see well at all where one sees without sympathy. I think the +Mother-Aunt's face would not look dear to most people as it does to +me,—yet my sight of her is the truer: only I would not put it up on a +tombstone in order that it might look nothing to those that pass by.</p> + +<p>I wrote this much, and then, leaving the M.-A. to glory in her +innumerable correspondence, Arthur and I went off to the lake, where we +have been for about seven hours. On it, I found it become infinitely +more beautiful, for everything was mystified by a lovely bloomy haze, +out of which the white peaks floated like dreams: and the mountains +change and change, and seem not all the same as going when returning. +Don't ask me to write landscape to you: one breathes <a name="Page_115" id="Page_115"></a>it in, and it is +there ever after, but remains unset to words.</p> + +<p>The T——s whittle themselves out of our company just to the right +amount: come back at the right time (which is more than Arthur and I are +likely to do when our legs get on the spin), and are duly welcome with a +diversity of doings to talk about. Their tastes are more the M.-A.'s, +and their activities about halfway between hers and ours, so we make +rather a fortunate quintette. The M—— trio join us the day after +to-morrow, when the majority of us will head away at once to Florence. +Arthur growls and threatens he means to be left behind for a week: and +it suits the funny little jealousy of the M.-A. well enough to see us +parted for a time, quite apart from the fact that I shall then be more +dependent on her company. She will then glory in overworking +herself,—say it is me; and I shall feel a fiend. No letter at all, +dearest, this; merely talky-talky.—Yours without words.</p><p><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XXX" id="LETTER_XXX"></a>LETTER XXX.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> I cannot say I have seen Pisa, for the majority had +their way, and we simply skipped into it, got ourselves bumped down at +the Duomo and Campo Santo for two hours, fell exhausted to bed, and +skipped out again by the first train next morning. Over the walls of the +Campo Santo are some divine crumbs of Benozzo Gozzoli (don't expect me +ever to spell the names of dead painters correctly: it is a politeness +one owes to the living, but the famous dead are exalted by being spelt +phonetically as the heart dictates, and become all the better company +for that greatest of unspelled and spread-about names—Shakspere, +Shakspeare, Shakespeare—his mark, not himself). Such a long parenthesis +requires stepping-stones to carry you over it: "crumbs" was the last +(wasn't a whole loaf of bread a stepping-stone in one of Andersen's +fairy-tales?): but, indeed, I hadn't time to digest them properly. Let +me come back to them before I die, and bury me in that inclosure if you +love me as much then as I think you do now.</p><p><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117"></a></p> + +<p>The Baptistry has a roof of echoes that is wonderful,—a mirror of sound +hung over the head of an official who opens his mouth for centimes to +drop there. You sing notes up into it (or rather you don't, for that is +his perquisite), and they fly circling, and flock, and become a single +chord stretching two octaves: till you feel that you are living inside +what in the days of our youth would have been called "the sound of a +grand Amen."</p> + +<p>The cathedral has fine points, or more than points—aspects: but the +Italian version of Gothic, with its bands of flat marbles instead of +moldings, was a shock to me at first. I only begin to understand it now +that I have seen the outside of the Duomo at Florence. Curiously enough, +it doesn't strike me as in the least Christian, only civic and splendid, +reminding me of what Ruskin says about church architecture being really +a dependant on the feudal or domestic. The Strozzi Palace is a beautiful +piece of street-architecture; its effect is of an iron hand which gives +you a buffet in the face when you look up and wonder—how shall I climb +in? I will tell you more about insides when I write next.</p> + +<p>I fear my last letter to you from Lucerne may either have strayed, or +not even have begun straying: for in the hurry of coming away I left it, +addressed, I <i>think</i>, but unstamped; and I am <a name="Page_118" id="Page_118"></a>not sure that that +particular hotel will be Christian enough to spare the postage out of +the bill, which had a galaxy of small extras running into centimes, and +suggesting a red-tape rectitude that would not show blind +twenty-five-centime gratitude to the backs of departed guests. So be +patient and forgiving if I seem to have written little. I found two of +yours waiting for me, and cannot choose between them which I find most +dear. I will say, for a fancy, the shorter, that you may ever be +encouraged to write your shortest rather than none at all. One word from +you gives me almost as much pleasure as twenty, for it contains all your +sincerity and truth; and what more do I want? Yon bless me quite. How +many perfectly happy days I owe to you, and seldom dare dream that I +have made any beginning of a return! If I could take one unhappy day out +of your life, dearest, the secret would be mine, and no such thing +should be left in it. Be happy, beloved! oh, happy, happy,—with me for +a partial reason—that is what I wish!</p><p><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XXXI" id="LETTER_XXXI"></a>LETTER XXXI.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> The Italian paper-money paralyzes my brain: I cannot +calculate in it; and were I left to myself an unscrupulous shopman could +empty me of pounds without my becoming conscious of it till I beheld +vacuum. But the T——s have been wonderful caretakers to me: and +to-morrow Arthur rejoins us, so that I shall be able to resume my full +activities under his safe-conduct.</p> + +<p>The ways of the Italian cabbies and porters fill me with terror for the +time when I may have to fall alive and unassisted into their hands: they +have neither conscience nor gratitude, and regard thievish demands when +satisfied merely as stepping-stones to higher things.</p> + +<p>Many of the outsides of Florence I seemed to know by heart—the Palazzo +Vecchio for instance. But close by it Cellini's two statues, the Judith +and the Perseus, brought my heart up to my mouth unexpectedly. The +Perseus is so out of proportion as to be ludicrous from one point <a name="Page_120" id="Page_120"></a>of +view: but another is magnificent enough to make me forgive the scamp his +autobiography from now to the day of judgment (when we shall all begin +forgiving each other in great haste, I suppose, for fear of the devil +taking the hindmost!), and I registered a vow on the spot to that +effect:—so no more of him here, henceforth, but good!</p> + +<p>There is not so much color about as I had expected: and austerity rather +than richness is the note of most of the exteriors.</p> + +<p>I have not been allowed into the Uffizi yet, so to-day consoled myself +with the Pitti. Titian's "Duke of Norfolk" is there, and I loved him, +seeing a certain likeness there to somebody whom I—like. A photo of him +will be coming to you. Also there is a very fine Lely-Vandyck of Charles +I. and Henrietta Maria, a quite moral painting, making a triumphant +assertion of that martyr's bad character. I imagine he got into heaven +through having his head cut off and cast from him: otherwise all of him +would have perished along with his mouth.</p> + +<p>Somewhere too high up was hanging a ravishing Botticelli—a Madonna and +Child bending over like a wind-blown tree to be kissed by St. John:—a +composition that takes you up in its arms and rocks you as you look at +it. Andrea del Sarto is to me only a big mediocrity: there <a name="Page_121" id="Page_121"></a>is nothing +here to touch his chortling child-Christ in our National Gallery.</p> + +<p>At Pisa I slept in a mosquito-net, and felt like a bride at the altar +under a tulle veil which was too large for her. Here, for lack of that +luxury, being assured that there were no mosquitoes to be had, I have +been sadly ravaged. The creatures pick out all foreigners, I think, and +only when they have exhausted the supply do they pass on to the natives. +Mrs. T—— left one foot unveiled when in Pisa, and only this morning +did the irritation in the part bitten begin to come out.</p> + +<p>I can now ask for a bath in Italian, and order the necessary things for +myself in the hotel: also say "come in" and "thank you." But just the +few days of that very German <i>table d'hôte</i> at Lucerne, where I talked +gladly to polish myself up, have given my tongue a hybrid way of talking +without thinking: and I say "<i>ja, ja</i>," and "<i>nein</i>," and "<i>der, die, +das</i>," as often as not before such Italian nouns as I have yet captured. +To fall upon a chambermaid who knows French is like coming upon my +native tongue suddenly.</p> + +<p>Give me good news of your foot and all that is above it: I am so +doubtful of its being really strong yet; and its willing spirits will +overcome it some day and do it an injury, and hurt my feelings +dreadfully at the same time.</p><p><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122"></a></p> + +<p>Walk only on one leg whenever you think of me! I tell you truly I am +wonderfully little lonely: and yet my thoughts are constantly away with +you, wishing, wishing,—what no word on paper can ever carry to you. It +shall be at our next meeting!—All yours.</p><p><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XXXII" id="LETTER_XXXII"></a>LETTER XXXII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">My Dearest:</span> Florence is still eating up all my time and +energies: I promised you there should be austerity and self-denial in +the matter of letter-writing: and I know you are unselfish enough to +expect even less than I send you.</p> + +<p>Girls in the street address compliments to Arthur's +complexion:—"beautiful brown boy" they call him: and he simmers over +with vanity, and wishes he could show them his boating arms, brown up to +the shoulder, as well. Have you noticed that combination in some of the +dearest specimens of young English manhood,—great physical vanity and +great mental modesty? and each as transparently sincere as the other.</p> + +<p>The Bargello is an ideal museum for the storage of the best things out +of the Middle Ages. It opens out of splendid courtyards and staircases, +and ranges through rooms which have quite a feudal gloom about them; +most of these are hung with bad late tapestries (too late at least for +my taste), so that the gloom is welcome and charming, making even +"Gobelins" quite <a name="Page_124" id="Page_124"></a>bearable. I find quite a new man here to +admire—Pollaiolo, both painter and sculptor, one of the school of +"passionate anatomists," as I call them, about the time of Botticelli, I +fancy. He has one bust of a young Florentine which equals Verocchio on +the same ground, and charms me even more. Some of his subjects are done +twice over, in paint and bronze: but he is more really a sculptor, I +think, and merely paints his piece into a picture from its best point of +view.</p> + +<p>Verocchio's idea of David is charming: he is a saucy fellow who has gone +in for it for the fun of the thing—knew he could bring down a hawk with +his catapult, and therefore why not a Goliath also? If he failed, he +need but cut and run, and everybody would laugh and call him plucky for +doing even that much. So he does it, brings down his big game by good +luck, and stands posing with a sort of irresistible stateliness to suit +the result. He has a laugh something like "little Dick's," only more +full of bubbles, and is saying to himself, "What a hero they all think +me!" He is the merriest of sly-dog hypocrites, and has thin, wiry arms +and a craney neck. He is a bit like Tom Sawyer in character, more ornate +and dramatic than Huckleberry Finn, but quite as much a liar, given a +good cause.</p><p><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125"></a></p> + +<p>Another thing that has seized me, more for its idea than actual carrying +out, is an unnamed terra-cotta Madonna and Child. He is crushing himself +up against her neck, open-mouthed and terrified, and she spreading long +fingers all over his head and face. My notion of it is that it is the +Godhead taking his first look at life from the human point of view; and +he realizes himself "caught in his own trap," discovering it to be ever +so much worse than it had seemed from an outside view. It is a fine +modern <i>zeit-geist</i> piece of declamation to come out of the rather +over-sweet della Robbia period of art.</p> + +<p>There seems to have been a rage at one period for commissioning statues +of David: so Donatello and others just turned to and did what they liked +most in the way of budding youth, stuck a Goliath's head at its feet, +and called it "David." Verocchio is the exception.</p> + +<p>We are going to get outside Florence for a week or ten days; it is too +hot to be borne at night after a day of tiring activity. So we go to the +D——s' villa, which they offered us in their absence; it lies about +four miles out, and is on much higher ground: address only your very +immediately next letter there, or it may miss me.</p> + +<p>There are hills out there with vineyards among them which draw me into +wishing to be away from towns altogether. Much as I love <a name="Page_126" id="Page_126"></a>what is to be +found in this one, I think Heaven meant me to be "truly rural"; which +all falls in, dearest, with what <i>I</i> mean to be! Beloved, how little I +sometimes can say to you! Sometimes my heart can put only silence into +the end of a letter; and with that I let this one go.—Yours, and so +lovingly.</p><p><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XXXIII" id="LETTER_XXXIII"></a>LETTER XXXIII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> I had your last letter on Friday: all your letters +have come in their right numbers. I have lost count of mine; but I think +seven and two postcards is the total, which is the same as the numbers +of clean and unclean beasts proportionately represented in the ark.</p> + +<p>Up here we are out of the deadliness of the heat, and are thankful for +it. Vineyards and olives brush the eyes between the hard, upright bars +of the cypresses: and Florence below is like a hot bath which we dip +into and come out again. At the Riccardi chapel I found Benozzo Gozzoli, +not in crumbs, but perfectly preserved: a procession of early Florentine +youths, turning into angels when they get to the bay of the window where +the altar once stood. The more I see of them, the greater these early +men seem to me: I shall be afraid to go to Venice soon; Titian will only +half satisfy me, and Tintoretto, I know, will be actively annoying: I +shall stay in my gondola, as your American lady did on her don<a name="Page_128" id="Page_128"></a>key after +riding twenty miles to visit the ruins, of—Carnac, was it not? It is +well to have the courage of one's likings and dislikings, that is the +only true culture (the state obtained by use of a "coulter" or +cutter)—I cut many things severely which, no doubt, are good for other +people.</p> + +<p>Botticelli I was shy of, because of the craze about him among people who +know nothing: he is far more wonderful than I had hoped, both at the +Uffizi and the Academia: but he is quite pagan. I don't know why I say +"but"; he is quite typical of the world's art-training: Christianity may +get hold of the names and dictate the subjects, but the artist-breed +carries a fairly level head through it all, and, like Pater's Mona Lisa, +draws Christianity and Paganism into one: at least, wherever it reaches +perfect expression it has done so. Some of the distinctly primitives are +different; their works inclose a charm which is not artistic. Fra +Angelico, after being a great disappointment to me in some of his large +set pictures in the Academia and elsewhere, shows himself lovely in +fresco (though I think the "crumb" element helps him). His great +Crucifixion is big altogether, and has so permanent a force in its +aloofness from mere drama and mere life. In San Marco, the cells of the +monks are quite charming, a row of little square band<a name="Page_129" id="Page_129"></a>boxes under a +broad raftered corridor, and in every cell is a beautiful little fresco +for the monks to live up to. But they no longer live there now: all that +part of San Marco has become a peep-show.</p> + +<p>I liked being in Savonarola's room, and was more susceptible to the +remains of his presence than I have been to Michel Angelo or anyone +else's. Michel Angelo I feel most when he has left a thing unfinished; +then one can put one's finger into the print of the chisel, and believe +anything of the beauty that might have come out of the great stone +chrysalis lying cased and rough, waiting to be raised up to life.</p> + +<p>Yesterday Arthur and I walked from here to Fiesole, which we had +neglected while in Florence—six miles going, and more like twelve +coming back, all because of Arthur's absurd cross-country instinct, +which, after hours of river-bends, bare mountain tracks, and tottering +precipices, brought us out again half a mile nearer Florence than when +we started.</p> + +<p>At Fiesole is the only church about here whose interior architecture I +have greatly admired, austere but at the same time gracious—like a +Madonna of the best period of painting. We also went to look at the +Roman baths and theater: the theater is charming enough, because it is +still there: but for the baths—oblongs of stone don't <a name="Page_130" id="Page_130"></a>interest me just +because they are old. All stone is old: and these didn't even hold water +to give one the real look of the thing. Too tired, and even more too +lazy, to write other things, except love, most dear Beloved.</p><p><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XXXIV" id="LETTER_XXXIV"></a>LETTER XXXIV.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> We were to have gone down with the rest into Florence +yesterday: but soft miles of Italy gleamed too invitingly away on our +right, and I saw Arthur's eyes hungry with the same far-away wish. So I +said "Prato," and he ran up to the fattore's and secured a wondrous +shandry-dan with just space enough between its horns to toss the two of +us in the direction where we would go. Its gaunt framework was painted +of a bright red, and our feet had only netting to rest on: so +constructed, the creature was most vital and light of limb, taking every +rut on the road with flea-like agility. Oh, but it was worth it!</p> + +<p>We had a drive of fourteen miles through hills and villages, and +castellated villas with gardens shut in by formidably high +walls—always, a charm: a garden should always have something of the +jealous seclusion of a harem. I am getting Italian landscape into my +system, and enjoy it more and more.</p> + +<p>Prato is a little cathedral town, very like the <a name="Page_132" id="Page_132"></a>narrow and tumble-down +parts of Florence, only more so. The streets were a seething caldron of +cattle-market when we entered, which made us feel like a tea-cup in a +bull-ring (or is it thunderstorm?) as we drove through needle's-eye ways +bristling with agitated horns.</p> + +<p>The cathedral is little and good: damaged, of course, wherever the last +three centuries have laid hands on it. At the corner of the west front +is an out-door pulpit beautifully put on with a mushroom hood over its +head. The main lines of the interior are finely severe, either quite +round or quite flat, and proportions good always. An upholstered priest +coming out to say mass is generally a sickening sight, so wicked and +ugly in look and costume. The best-behaved people are the low-down +beggars, who are most decoratively devotional.</p> + +<p>We tried to model our exit on a brigand-beggar who came in to ask +permission to murder one of his enemies. He got his request granted at +one of the side-altars (some strictly local Madonna, I imagine), and his +gratitude as he departed was quite touching. Having studiously copied +his exit, we want to know whom we shall murder to pay ourselves for our +trouble.</p> + +<p>It amuses me to have my share of driving over these free and easy and +very narrow highroads. But A. has to do the collision-shouting and the +<a name="Page_133" id="Page_133"></a>cries of "Via!"—the horse only smiles when he hears me do it.</p> + +<p>Also did I tell you that on Saturday we two walked from here over to +Fiesole—six miles there, and ten back: for why?—because we chose to go +what Arthur calls "a bee-line across country," having thought we had +sighted a route from the top of Fiesole. But in the valley we lost it, +and after breaking our necks over precipices and our hearts down +cul-de-sacs that led nowhere, and losing all the ways that were pointed +out to us, for lack of a knowledge of the language, we came out again +into view of Florence about half a mile nearer than when we started and +proportionately far away from home. When he had got me thoroughly +foot-sore, Arthur remarked complacently, "The right way to see a country +is to lose yourself in it!" I didn't feel the truth of it then: but +applied to other things I perceive its wisdom. Dear heart, where I have +lost myself, what in all the world do I know so well as you?</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Your most lost and loving.<br /></span> +</div></div><p><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XXXV" id="LETTER_XXXV"></a>LETTER XXXV.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> Rain swooped down on us from on high during the night, +and the country is cut into islands: the river from a rocky wriggling +stream has risen into a tawny, opaque torrent that roars with a voice a +mile long and is become quite unfordable. The little mill-stream just +below has broken its banks and poured itself away over the lower +vineyards into the river; a lot of the vines look sadly upset, generally +unhinged and unstrung, yet I am told the damage is really small. I hope +so, for I enjoyed a real lash-out of weather, after the changelessness +of the long heat.</p> + +<p>I have been down in Florence beginning to make my farewells to the many +things I have seen too little of. We start away for Venice about the end +of the week. At the Uffizi I seem to have found out all my future +favorites the first day, and very little new has come to me; but most of +them go on growing. The Raphael lady is quite wonderful; I think she was +in love with him, and her soul went into the painting though <a name="Page_135" id="Page_135"></a>he himself +did not care for her; and she looks at you and says, "See a miracle: he +was able to paint this, and never knew that I loved him!" It is +wonderful that; but I suppose it can be done,—a soul pass into a work +and haunt it without its creator knowing anything about how it came +there. Always when I come across anything like that which has something +inner and rather mysterious, I tremble and want to get back to you. You +are the touchstone by which I must test everything that is a little new +and unfamiliar.</p> + +<p>From now onwards, dearest, you must expect only cards for a time: it is +not settled yet whether we stop at Padua on our way in or our way out. I +am clamoring for Verona also; but that will be off our route, so Arthur +and I may go there alone for a couple of greedy days, which I fear will +only leave me dissatisfied and wishing I had had patience to depend on +coming again—perhaps with you!</p> + +<p>Uncle N. has written of your numerous visits to him, and I understand +you have been very good in his direction. He does not speak of +loneliness; and with Anna and her brood next week or now, he will be as +happy as his temperament allows him to be when he has nothing to worry +over.</p> + +<p>I am proud to say I have gone brown without <a name="Page_136" id="Page_136"></a>freckles. And are you +really as cheerful as you write yourself to be? Dearest and best, when +is your holiday to begin; and is it to be with me? Does anywhere on +earth hold that happiness for us both in the near future? I kiss you +well, Beloved.</p><p><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XXXVI" id="LETTER_XXXVI"></a>LETTER XXXVI.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> Venice is round me as I write! Well, I will not waste +my Baedeker knowledge on you,—you too can get a copy; and it is not the +panoramic view of things you will be wanting from me: it is my own +particular Venice I am to find out and send you. So first of all from +the heart of it I send you mine: when I have kissed you I will go on. My +eyes have been seeing so much that is new, I shall want a fresh +vocabulary for it all. But mainly I want to say, let us be here again +together quickly, before we lose any more of our youth or our two-handed +hold on life. I get short of breath thinking of it!</p> + +<p>So let it be here, Beloved, that some of our soon-to-be happiness opens +and shuts its eyes: for truly Venice is a sleepy place. I am wanting, +and taking, nine hours' sleep after all I do!</p> + +<p>Outside coming over the flats from Padua, she looked something like a +manufacturing town at <a name="Page_138" id="Page_138"></a>its ablutions,—a smoky chimney well to the fore: +but get near to her and you find her standing on turquoise, her feet set +about with jaspers, and with one of her eyes she ravishes you: and all +her campanile are like the "thin flames" of "souls mounting up to God."</p> + +<p>That is from without: within she becomes too sensuous and civic in her +splendor to let me think much of souls. "Rest and be indolent" is the +motto for the life she teaches. The architecture is the song of the +lotos-eater built into stone—were I in a more florid mood I would have +said "swan-song," for the whole stands finished with nothing more to be +added: it has sung itself out: and if there is a moral to it all, no +doubt it is in Ruskin, and I don't wont to read it just now.</p> + +<p>What I want is you close at hand looking up at all this beauty, and +smiling when I smile, which is your way, as if you had no opinions of +your own about anything in which you are not a professor. So you will +write and agree that I am to have the pleasure of this return to look +forward to? If I know that, I shall be so much more reconciled to all +the joy of the things I am seeing now for the first time: and shall see +so much better the second, Beloved, when your eyes are here helping me.</p> + +<p>Here is love, dearest! help yourself to just <a name="Page_139" id="Page_139"></a>as much as you wish for; +though all that I send is good for you! No letter from you since +Florence, but I am neither sad nor anxious: only all the more your +loving.</p><p><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XXXVII" id="LETTER_XXXVII"></a>LETTER XXXVII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> The weather is as gray as England to-day, and much +rainier. To feel it on my cheeks and be back north with that and warmer +things, I would go out in it in the face of protests, and had to go +alone—not Arthur even being in the mood just then for a patriotic quest +of the uncomfortable. I had myself oared into the lagoons across a +racing current and a driving head-wind which made my gondolier bend like +a distressed poplar over his oar; patience on a monument smiling at +backsheesh—"all comes to him who knows."</p> + +<p>Of course, for comfort and pleasure, and everything but economy, we have +picked up a gondolier to pet: we making much of him, and he much out of +us. He takes Arthur to a place where he can bathe—to use his own +expression—"cleanly," that is to say, unconventionally; and this +appropriately enough is on the borders of a land called "the Garden of +Eden" (being named so after its owners). He—"Charon," I call him—is +large and of ruddy countenance, and <a name="Page_141" id="Page_141"></a>talks English in blinkers—that is +to say, gondola English—out of which he could not find words to summon +me a cab even if it were not opposed to his interests. Still there are +no cabs to be called in Venice, and he is teaching us that the shortest +way is always by water. If Arthur is not punctually in his gondola by 7 +A.M., I hear a call for the "Signore Inglese" go up to his window; and +it is hungry Charon waiting to ferry him.</p> + +<p>Yesterday your friend Mr. C—— called and took me over to Murano in a +beautiful pair-oared boat that simply flew. There I saw a wonderful apse +filled with mosaic of dull gold, wherein is set a blue-black figure of +the Madonna, ten heads high and ten centuries old, which almost made me +become a Mariolatrist on the spot. She stands leaning up the bend with +two pale hands lifted in ghostly blessing. Underfoot the floor is all +mosaic, mountainous with age and earthquakes; the architecture classic +in the grip of Byzantine Christianity, which is like the spirit of God +moving on the face of the waters, or Ezekiel prophesying to the dry +bones.</p> + +<p>The Colleoni is quite as much more beautiful in fact and seen full-size +as I had hoped from all smaller reproductions. A fine equestrian figure +always strikes one as enthroned, and not merely riding; if I can't get +that, I consider a <a name="Page_142" id="Page_142"></a>centaur the nobler creature with its human body set +down into the socket of the brute, and all fire—a candle burning at +both ends: which, in a way, is what the centaur means, I imagine?</p> + +<p>Bellini goes on being wonderful, and for me beats Raphael's Blenheim +Madonna period on its own ground. I hear now that the Raphael lady I +raved over in Florence is no Raphael at all,—which accounts for it +being so beautiful and interesting—to <i>me</i>, I hasten to add. Raphael's +studied calmness, his soul of "invisible soap and imperceptible water," +may charm some; me it only chills or leaves unmoved.</p> + +<p>Is this more about art than you care to hear? I have nothing to say +about myself, except that I am as happy as a cut-in-half thing can be. +Is it any use sending kind messages to your mother? If so, my heart is +full of them. Bless you, dearest, and good-night.</p><p><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XXXVIII" id="LETTER_XXXVIII"></a>LETTER XXXVIII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> St. Mark's inside is entirely different from anything +I had imagined. I had expected a grove of pillars instead of these +wonderful breadths of wall; and the marble overlay I had not understood +at all till I saw it. My admiration mounts every time I enter: it has a +different gloom from any I have ever been in, more joyous and +satisfying, not in the least moody as our own Gothic seems sometimes to +be; and saints instead of devils look at you solemn-eyed from every +corner of shade.</p> + +<p>A heavy rain turns the Piazza into a lake: this morning Arthur had to +carry me across. Other foolish Englishwomen were shocked at such means, +and paddled their own leaky canoes, or stood on the brink and looked +miserable. The effect of rain-pool reflections on the inside of St. +Mark's is noticeable, causing it to bloom unexpectedly into fresh +subtleties and glories. The gold takes so sympathetically to any least +tint of color that is in the air, and counts up the altar candles even +unto its furthest recesses and cupolas.</p><p><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144"></a></p> + +<p>I think before I leave Venice I shall find about ten Tintorettos which I +really like. Best of all is that Bacchus and Ariadne in the Ducal +Palace, of which you gave me the engraving. His "Marriage of St. +Catherine," which is there also, has all Veronese's charm of color and +what I call his "breeding"; and in the ceiling of the Council Chamber is +one splendid figure of a sea-youth striding a dolphin.</p> + +<p>Last evening we climbed the San Giorgio campanile for a sunset view of +Venice; it is a much better point of view than the St. Mark's one, and +we were lucky in our sunset. Venice again looked like a beautified +factory town, blue and blue with smoke and evening mists. Down below in +the church I met a delightful Capuchin priest who could talk French, and +a poor, very young lay-brother who had the holy custody of the eyes +heavily upon his conscience when I spoke to him. I was so sorry for him!</p> + +<p>The Mother-Aunt is ill in bed; but as she is at the present moment +receiving three visitors, you will understand about how ill. The fact +is, she is worn to death with sight-seeing. I can't stop her; while she +is on her legs it is her duty, and she will. The consequence is I get +rushed through things I want to let soak into me, and have to go again. +My only way of getting her to rest has been by deserting her; and then I +<a name="Page_145" id="Page_145"></a>come back and receive reproaches with a meek countenance.</p> + +<p>Mr. C—— has been good to us and cordial, and brings his gondola often +to our service. A gondola and pair has quite a different motion from a +one-oared gondola; it is like riding a seahorse instead of a +sea-camel—almost exciting, only it is so soft in its prancings.</p> + +<p>He took A. and myself into the procession which welcomed the crowned +heads last Wednesday; the hurly-burly of it was splendid. We tore down +the Grand Canal from end to end, almost cheek by jowl with the +royalties; the M.-A. was quite jubilant when she heard we had had such +"good places." Hundreds of gondolas swarmed round; many of them in the +old Carpaccio rig-outs, very gorgeous though a little tawdry when taken +out of the canvas. Hut the rush and the collisions, and the sound of +many waters walloping under the bellies of the gondolas, and the blows +of fighting oars—regular underwater wrestling matches—made it as vivid +and amusing as a prolonged Oxford and Cambridge boat-race in fancy +costume. Our gondoliers streamed with the exertion, and looked like men +fighting a real battle, and yet enjoyed it thoroughly. Violent +altercations with police-boats don't ruffle them at all; at one moment +it looks daggers drawn; at the next it is shrugs <a name="Page_146" id="Page_146"></a>and smiles. Often, +from not knowing enough of Italian and Italian ways, I get hot all over +when an ordinary discussion is going on, thinking that blows are about +to be exchanged. The Mother-Aunt had hung a wonderful satin skirt out of +window for decoration; and when she leaned over it in a bodice of the +same color, it looked as if she were sitting with her legs out as well! +I suppose it was this peculiar effect that, when the King and Queen came +by earlier in the morning, won for her a special bow and smile.</p> + +<p>I must hurry or I shall miss the post that I wish to catch. There seems +little chance now of my getting you in Venice; but elsewhere perhaps you +will drop to me out of the clouds.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Your own and most loving.<br /></span> +</div></div><p><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XXXIX" id="LETTER_XXXIX"></a>LETTER XXXIX.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">My Own, Own Beloved:</span> Say that my being away does not seem too +long? I have not had a letter yet, and that makes me somehow not anxious +but compunctious; only writing to you of all I do helps to keep me in +good conscience. Not the other foot gone to the mender's, I hope, with +the same obstructive accompaniments as went to the setting-up again of +the last? If I don't hear soon, you will have me dancing on wires, which +cost as much by the word as a gondola by the hour.</p> + +<p>Yesterday we went to see Carpaccio at his best in San Giorgio di +Schiavone: two are St. George pictures, three St. Jeromes, and two of +some other saint unknown to me. The St. Jerome series is really a homily +on the love and pathos of animals. First is St. Jerome in his study with +a sort of unclipped white poodle in the pictorial place of honor, all +alone on a floor beautifully swept and garnished, looking up wistfully +to his master busy at writing (a Benjy saying, "Come and take me for a +walk, there's a <a name="Page_148" id="Page_148"></a>good saint!"). Scattered among the adornments of the +room are small bronzes of horses and, I think, birds. So, of course, +these being his tastes, when St. Jerome goes into the wilderness, a lion +takes to him, and accompanies him when he pays a call on the monks in a +neighboring monastery. Thereupon, holy men of little faith, the entire +fraternity take to their heels and rush upstairs, the hindermost +clinging to the skirts of the formermost to be hauled the quicker out of +harm's way. And all the while the lion stands incorrectly offering the +left paw, and Jerome with shrugs tries to explain that even the best +butter wouldn't melt in his dear lion's mouth. After that comes the +tragedy. St. Jerome lies dying in excessive odor of sanctity, and all +the monks crowd round him with prayers and viaticums, and the ordinary +stuffy pieties of a "happy death," while Jerome wonders feebly what it +is he misses in all this to-do for which he cares so little. And there, +elbowed far out into the cold, the lion lies and lifts his poor head and +howls because he knows his master is being taken from him. Quite near to +him, fastened to a tree, a queer, nondescript, crocodile-shaped dog runs +out the length of its tether to comfort the disconsolate beast: but <i>la +bête humaine</i> has got the whip-hand of the situation. In another picture +is a parrot that has just mimicked a dog, <a name="Page_149" id="Page_149"></a>or called "Carlo!" and then +laughed: the dog turns his head away with a sleek, sheepish, shy look, +exactly as a sensitive dog does when you make fun of him.</p> + +<p>These are, perhaps, mere undercurrents of pictures which are quite +glorious in color and design, but they help me to love Carpaccio to +distraction; and when the others lose me, they hunt through all the +Carpaccios in Venice till they find me!</p> + +<p>Love me a little more if possible while I am so long absent from you! +What I do and what I think go so much together now, that you will take +what I write as the most of me that it is possible to cram in, coming +back to you to share everything.</p> + +<p>Under such an Italian sky as to-day how I would like to see your face! +Here, dearest, among these palaces you would be in your peerage, for I +think you have some southern blood in you.</p> + +<p>Curious that, with all my fairness, somebody said to me to-day, "But you +are not quite English, are you?" And I swore by the nine gods of my +ancestry that I was nothing else. But the look is in us: my father had a +foreign air, but made up for it by so violent a patriotism that Uncle N. +used to call him "John Bull let loose."</p> + +<p>My love to England. Is it showing much <a name="Page_150" id="Page_150"></a>autumn yet? My eyes long for +green fields again. Since I have been in Italy I had not seen one until +the other day from the top of St. Giorgio Maggiore, where one lies in +hiding under the monastery walls.</p> + +<p>All that I see now quickens me to fresh thoughts of you. Yet do not +expect me to come back wiser: my last effort at wisdom was to fall in +love with you, and there I stopped for good and all. There I am still, +everything included: what do you want more? My letter and my heart both +threaten to be over-weight, so no more of them this time. Most dearly do +I love you.</p><p><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XL" id="LETTER_XL"></a>LETTER XL.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> If two days slip by, I don't know where I am when I +come to write; things get so crowded in such a short space of time. +Where I left off I know not: I will begin where I am most awake—your +letter which I have just received.</p> + +<p>That is well, dearest, that is well indeed: a truce till February! And +since the struggle then must needs be a sharp one—with only one end, as +we know,—do not vex her now by any overt signs of preparation as if you +assumed already that her final arguments were to be as so much chaff +before the wind. You do not tell me <i>what</i> she argues, and I do not ask. +She does not say I shall not love you enough!</p> + +<p>To answer businesslike to your questions first: with your forgiveness we +stay here till the 25th, and get back to England with the last of the +month. Does that seem a very cruel, far-off date? Others have the wish +to stay even longer, and it would be no fairness to hurry them beyond a +certain degree of reasonableness with my <a name="Page_152" id="Page_152"></a>particular reason for +impatience, seeing, moreover, that in your love I have every help for +remaining patient. It is too much to hope, I suppose, that the "truce" +sets you free now, and that you could meet us here after all, and +prolong our stay indefinitely? I know one besides myself who would be +glad, and would welcome an outside excuse dearly.</p> + +<p>For, oh, the funniness of near and dear things! Arthur's heart is laid +up with a small love affair, and it is the comicalest of internal +maladies. He is screwing up courage to tell me all about it, and I write +in haste before my mouth is sealed by his confidences. I fancy I know +the party, an energetic little mortal whom we met at Lucerne, where +Arthur lingered while we came on to Florence. She talked vaguely of +being in Venice some time this autumn; and the vagueness continues. +Arthur, in consequence, roams round disconsolately with no interest but +in hotel books. And for fear lest we should gird up his loins and drag +him away with us out of Paradisal possibilities, he is forever praising +Venice as a resting-place, and saying he wants to be nowhere else. The +bathing just keeps him alive; but when put to it to explain what charms +him since pictures do not, and architecture only slightly, he says in +exemplary brotherly fashion that he likes to see me completing my +educa<a name="Page_153" id="Page_153"></a>tion and enthusiasms,—and does not realize with how foreign an +air that explanation sits upon his shoulders.</p> + +<p>I saw to-day a remnant of your patron saint, and for your sake +transferred a kiss to it, Italian fashion, with my thumb and the sign of +the cross. I hope it will do you good. Also, I have been up among the +galleries of St. Mark's, and about the roof and the west front where +somebody or another painted his picture of the bronze horses.</p> + +<p>The pigeons get to recognize people personally, and grow more intimate +every time we come. I even conceive they make favorites, for I had three +pecking food out of my mouth to-day and refusing to take it in any other +fashion, and they coo and say thank you before and after every seed they +take or spill. They are quite the pleasantest of all the Italian +beggars—and the cleanest.</p> + +<p>Your friend pressed us in to tea yesterday: I think less for the sake of +giving us tea than that we should see his palace, or rather his first +floor, in which alone he seems to lose himself. I have no idea for +measurements, but I imagine his big sala is about eighty feet long and +perhaps twenty-five feet across, with a flat-beamed roof, windows at +each end, and portières along the walls of old blue Venetian linen: a +place in which it seems one could only live and think nobly.<a name="Page_154" id="Page_154"></a> His face +seems to respond to its teachings. What more might not an environment +like that bring out in you? Come and let me see! I have hopes springing +as I think of things that you may be coming after all; and that that is +what lay concealed under the gayety of your last paragraph. Then I am +more blessed even than I knew. What, you are coming? So well I do love +you, my Beloved!</p><p><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XLI" id="LETTER_XLI"></a>LETTER XLI.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> This letter will travel with me: we leave to-day. Our +movements are to be too restless and uncomfortable for the next few days +for me to have a chance of quiet seeing or quiet writing anywhere. At +Riva we shall rest, I hope.</p> + +<p>Yesterday a storm began coming over towards evening, and I thought to +myself that if it passed in time there should be a splendid sunset of +smolder and glitter to be seen from the Campanile, and perhaps by good +chance a rainbow.</p> + +<p>I went alone: when I got to the top the rain was pelting hard; so there +I stayed happily weather-bound for an hour looking over Venice "silvered +with slants of rain," and watching umbrellas scuttering below with toes +beneath them. The golden smolder was very slow in coming: it lay over +the mainland and came creeping along the railway track. Then came the +glitter and the sun, and I turned round and found my rainbow. But it +wasn't a bow, it was a circle: the<a name="Page_156" id="Page_156"></a> Campanile stood up as it were a +spoke in the middle,—the lower curve of the rainbow lay on the ground +of the Piazzetta, cut off sharp by the shadow of the Campanile. It was +worth waiting an hour to see. The islands shone mellow and bright in the +clearance with the storm going off black behind them. Good-by, Venice!</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Verona began by seeming dull to me; but it improves and unfolds +beautiful corners of itself to be looked at: only I am given so little +time. The Tombs of the Della Scalas and the Renaissance façade of the +Consiglio are what chiefly delight me. I had some quiet hours in the +Museo, where I fell in love with a little picture by an unknown painter, +of Orpheus charming the beasts in a wandering green landscape, with a +dance of fauns in the distance, and here and there Eurydice +running;—and Orpheus in Hades, and the Thracian women killing him, and +a crocodile fishing out his head, and mermaids and ducks sitting above +their reflections reflecting.</p> + +<p>Also there is one beautiful Tobias and the Angel there by a painter +whose name I most ungratefully forget. I saw a man yesterday carrying +fishes in the market, each strung through the gills on a twig of myrtle: +that is how Tobias ought to carry his fish: when a native custom +<a name="Page_157" id="Page_157"></a>suggests old paintings, how charming it always is!</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="smcap"><span class="i0">Riva.<br /></span></span> +</div></div> + +<p>We have just got here from Verona. In the matter of the garden at least +it is a Paradise of a place. A great sill of honeysuckle leans out from +my window: beyond is a court grown round with creepers, and beyond that +the garden—such a garden! The first thing one sees is an arcade of +vines upon stone pillars, between which peep stacks of roses, going off +a little from their glory now, and right away stretches an alley of +green, that shows at the end, a furlong off, the blue glitter of water. +It is a beautifully wild garden: grass and vegetables and trees and +roses all grow in a jungle together. There are little groves of bamboo +and chestnut and willow; and a runnel of water is somewhere—I can hear +it. It suggests rest, which I want; and so, for all its difference, +suggests you, whom also I want,—more, I own it now, than I have said! +But that went without saying, Beloved, as it always must if it is to be +the truth and nothing short of the truth.</p> + +<p>While this has been waiting to go, your letter has been put into my +hands. I am too happy to say words about it, and can afford now to let +this go as it is. The little time of waiting for you will be perfect +happiness now; and your com<a name="Page_158" id="Page_158"></a>ing seems to color all that is behind as +well. I have had a good time indeed, and was only wearying with the +plethora of my enjoyment: but the better time has been kept till now. We +shall be together day after day and all day long for at least a month, I +hope: a joy that has never happened to us yet.</p> + +<p>Never mind about the lost letter now, dearest, dearest: Venice was a +little empty just one week because of it. I still hope it will come; but +what matter?—I know <i>you</i> will. All my heart waits for you.—Your most +glad and most loving.</p><p><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XLII" id="LETTER_XLII"></a>LETTER XLII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> I saw an old woman riding a horse astride: and I was +convinced on the spot that this is the rightest way of riding, and that +the sidesaddle was a foolish and affected invention. The horse was fine, +and so was the young man leading it: the old woman was upright and +stately, with a wide hat and full petticoats like a Maximilian soldier.</p> + +<p>This was at Bozen, where we stayed for two nights, and from which I have +brought a cold with me: it seems such an English thing to have, that I +feel quite at home in the discomfort of it. It had been such wonderful +weather that we were sitting out of doors every evening up to 9.30 P.M. +without wraps, and on our heads only our "widows' caps." (The M.-A. +persists in a style which suggests that Uncle N. has gone to a better +world.) Mine was too flimsy a work of fiction, and a day before I had +been for a climb and got wet through, so a chill laid its benediction on +my head, and here I am,—not seriously incommoded by the malady, but by +the remedy, <a name="Page_160" id="Page_160"></a>which is the M.-A. full of kind quackings and fierce +tyranny if I do but put my head out of window to admire the view, whose +best is a little round the corner.</p> + +<p>I had no idea Innsbruck was so high up among the mountains: snows are on +the peaks all around. Behind the house-tops, so close and near, lies a +quarter circle of white crests. You are told that in winter creatures +come down and look in at the windows: sometimes they are called wolves, +sometimes bears—any way the feeling is mediæval.</p> + +<p>Hereabouts the wayside shrines nearly always contain a crucifix, whereas +in Italy that was rare—the Virgin and Child being the most common. I +remarked on this, which I suppose gave rise to a subsequent observation +of the M.-A.'s: "I think the Tyrolese are a <i>good</i> people: they are not +given over to Mariolatry like those poor priest-ridden Italians." I +think, however, that they merely have that fundamental grace, religious +simplicity, worshiping—just what they can get, for yesterday I saw two +dear old bodies going round and telling their beads before the bronze +statues of the Maximilian tomb—King Arthur, Charles the Bold, etc. I +suppose, by mere association, a statue helps them to pray.</p> + +<p>The national costume does look so nice, though not exactly beautiful. I +like the flat, <a name="Page_161" id="Page_161"></a>black hats with long streamers behind and a gold tassel, +and the spacious apron. Blue satin is a favorite style, always silk or +satin for Sunday best: one I saw of pearl-white brocade.</p> + +<p>Since we came north we have had lovely weather, except the one day of +which I am still the filterings: and morning along the Brenner Pass was +perfect. I think the mountains look most beautiful quite early, at +sunrise, when they are all pearly and mysterious.</p> + +<p>We go on to Zurich on Thursday, and then, Beloved, and then!—so this +must be my last letter, since I shall have nowhere to write to with you +rushing all across Europe and resting nowhere because of my impatience +to have you. The Mother-Aunt concedes a whole month, but Arthur will +have to leave earlier for the beginning of term. How little my two +dearest men have yet seen of each other! Barely a week lies between us: +this will scarcely catch you. Dearest of dearests, my heart waits on +yours.</p><p><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XLIII" id="LETTER_XLIII"></a>LETTER XLIII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">My Dearest:</span> See what an effect your "gallous young hound" +episode has had on me. I send it back to you roughtly done into rhyme. I +don't know whether it will carry; for, outside your telling of it, +"Johnnie Kigarrow" is not a name of heroic sound. What touches me as so +strangely complete about it is that you should have got that impression +and momentary romantic delusion as a child, and now hear, years after, +of his disappearing out of life thus fittingly and mysteriously, so that +his name will fix its legend to the countryside for many a long day. I +would like to go there some day with you, and standing on Twloch Hill +imagine all the country round as the burial-place of the strong man on +whose knees my beloved used to play when a child.</p> + +<p>It must have been soon after this that your brother died: truly, +dearest, from now, and strangely, this Johnnie Kigarrow will seem more +to me than him; touching a more heroic strain of idea, and stiffening +fibers in your nature that brotherhood, as a rule, has no bearing on.</p><p><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163"></a></p> + +<p>A short letter to-day, Beloved, because what goes with it is so long. +This is the first time I have come before your eyes as anything but a +letter-writer, and I am doubtful whether you will care to have so much +all about yourself. Yet for that very reason think how much I loved +doing it! I am jealous of those days before I knew you, and want to have +all their wild-honey flavor for myself. Do remember more, and tell me! +Dearest heart, it was to me you were coming through all your scampers +and ramblings; no wonder, with that unknown good running parallel, that +my childhood was a happy one. May long life bless you, Beloved!</p> + +<p>(<i>Inclosure.</i>)</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My brother and I were down in Wales,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And listened by night to the Welshman's tales;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He was eleven and I was ten.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We sat on the knees of the farmer's men<br /></span> +<span class="i0">After the whole day's work was done:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I was friends with the farmer's son.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His hands were rough as his arms were strong,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His mouth was merry and loud for song;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each night when set by the ingle-wall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He was the merriest man of them all.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I would catch at his beard and say<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All the things I had done in the day—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tumbled bowlders over the force,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Swum in the river and fired the gorse—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Half the side of the hill!" quoth I:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Ah!" cried he, "and didn't you die?"<br /></span><p><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164"></a></p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Chut!" said he, "but the squeak was narrow!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Didn't you meet with Johnnie Kigarrow?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"No!" said I, "and who will he be?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And what will be Johnnie Kigarrow to me?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The farmer's son said under his breath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Johnnie Kigarrow may be your death<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Listen you here, and keep you still—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Johnnie Kigarrow bides under the hill;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Twloch barrow stands over his head;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He shallows the river to make his bed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bowlders roll when he stirs a limb;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the gorse on the hills belongs to him!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And if so be one fires his gorse,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He's out of his bed, and he mounts his horse.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Off he sets: with the first long stride<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He is halfway over the mountain side:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With his second stride he has crossed the barrow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he has you fast, has Johnnie Kigarrow!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Half I laughed and half I feared;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I clutched and tugged at the strong man's beard,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bragged as brave as a boy could be—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"So? but, you see, he didn't catch me!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Fear caught hold of me: what had I done?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">High as the roof rose the farmer's son:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How the sight of him froze my marrow!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"I," he cried, "am Johnnie Kigarrow!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Well, you wonder, what was the end?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Never forget;—he had called me "friend"!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mighty of limb, and hard, and blown;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quickly he laughed and set me down.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Heh!" said, he, "but the squeak was narrow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not to be caught by Johnnie Kigarrow!"<br /></span><p><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165"></a></p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now, I hear, after years gone by,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nobody knows how he came to die.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He strode out one night of storm:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Get you to bed, and keep you warm!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out into darkness so went he:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nobody knows where his bones may be.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Only I think—if his tongue let go<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Truth that once,—how perhaps <i>I</i> know.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Twloch river, and Twloch barrow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Do you cover my Johnnie Kigarrow?<br /></span> +</div></div><p><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166"></a></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XLIV" id="LETTER_XLIV"></a>LETTER XLIV.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> I have been doing something so wise and foolish: +mentally wise, I mean, and physically foolish. Do you guess?—Disobeying +your parting injunction, and sitting up to see eclipses.</p> + +<p>It was such a luxury to do as I was <i>not</i> told just for once; to feel +there was an independent me still capable of asserting itself. My belief +is that, waking, you hold me subjugated: but, once your godhead has put +on its spiritual nightcap, and begun nodding, your mesmeric influence +relaxes. Up starts resolution and independence, and I breathe desolately +for a time, feeling myself once more a free woman.</p> + +<p>'Twas a tremulous experience, Beloved; but I loved it all the more for +that. How we love playing at grief and death—the two things that must +come—before it is their due time! I took a look at my world for three +most mortal hours last night, trying to see you <i>out</i> of it. And oh, how +close it kept bringing me! I almost heard <a name="Page_167" id="Page_167"></a>you breathe, and was forever +wondering—Can we ever be nearer, or love each other more than we do? +For <i>that</i> we should each want a sixth sense, and a second soul: and it +would still be only the same spread out over larger territory. I prefer +to keep it nesting close in its present limitations, where it feels like +a "growing pain"; children have it in their legs, we in our hearts.</p> + +<p>I am growing sleepy as I write, and feel I am sending you a dull +letter,—my penalty for doing as you forbade.</p> + +<p>I sat up from half-past one to a quarter to five to see our shadow go +over heaven. I didn't see much, the sky was too piebald: but I was not +disappointed, as I had never watched the darkness into dawn like that +before: and it was interesting to hear all the persons awaking:—cocks +at half-past four, frogs immediately after, then pheasants and various +others following. I was cuddled close up against my window, throned in a +big arm-chair with many pillows, a spirit-lamp, cocoa, bread and butter, +and buns; so I fared well. Just after the pheasants and the first +querulous fidgetings of hungry blackbirds comes a soft pattering along +the path below: and Benjy, secretive and important, is fussing his way +to the shrubbery, when instinct or real sentiment prompts him to look up +at my window; he gives <a name="Page_168" id="Page_168"></a>a whimper and a wag, and goes on. I try to +persuade myself that he didn't see me, and that he does this, other +mornings, when I am not thus perversely bolstered up in rebellion, and +peering through blinds at wrong hours. Isn't there something pathetic in +the very idea that a dog may have a behind-your-back attachment of that +sort?—that every morning he looks up at an unresponsive blank, and +wags, and goes by?</p> + +<p>I heard him very happy in the shrubs a moment after: he and a pheasant, +I fancy, disputing over a question of boundaries. And he comes in for +breakfast, three hours later, looking positively <i>fresh,</i> and wants to +know why I am yawning.</p> + +<p>Most mornings he brings your letter up to my room in his mouth. It is +old Nan-nan's joke: she only sends up <i>yours</i> so, and pretends it is +Benjy's own clever selection. I pretend that, too, to him; and he thinks +he is doing something wonderful. The other morning I was—well, Benjy +hears splashing: and tires of waiting—or his mouth waters. An extra can +of hot water happens to stand at the door; and therein he deposits his +treasure (mine, I mean), and retires saying nothing. The consequence is, +when I open three minutes after his scratch, I find you all ungummed and +swimming, your beautiful handwriting bleared and smeared, so that no eye +<a name="Page_169" id="Page_169"></a>but mine could have read it. Benjy's shame when I showed him what he +had done was wonderful.</p> + +<p>How it rejoices me to write quite foolish things to you!—that I <i>can</i> +helps to explain a great deal in the up-above order of things, which I +never took in when I was merely young and frivolous. One must have +touched a grave side of life before one can take in that Heaven is not +opposed to laughter.</p> + +<p>My eye has just caught back at what I have written; and the "little +death" runs through me, just because I wrote "grave side." It shouldn't, +but loving has made me superstitious: the happiness seems too great; how +can it go on? I keep thinking—this is not life: you are too much for +me, my dearest!</p> + +<p>Oh, my Beloved, come quickly to meet me to-day: this morning! Ride over; +I am willing it. My own dearest, you must come. If you don't, what shall +I believe? That Love cannot outdo space: that when you are away I cannot +reach you by willing. But I can: come to me! You shall see my arms open +to you as never before. What is it?—you must be coming. I have more +love in me after all than I knew.</p> + +<p>Ah, I know: I wrote "grave side," and all my heart is in arms against +the treason. With us <a name="Page_170" id="Page_170"></a>it is not "till death us do part": we leap it +altogether, and are clasped on the other side.</p> + +<p>My dear, my dear, I lay my head down on your heart: I love you! I post +this to show how certain I am. At twelve to-day I shall see you.</p><p><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XLV" id="LETTER_XLV"></a>LETTER XLV.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> I look at this ridiculous little nib now, running like +a plow along the furrows! What can the poor thing do? Bury its poor +black, blunt little nose in the English language in order to tell you, +in all sorts of roundabout ways, what you know already as well as I do. +And yet, though that is all it can do, you complain of not having had a +letter! Not had a letter? Beloved, there are half a hundred I have not +had from you! Do you suppose you have ever, any one week in your life, +sent me as many as I wanted?</p> + +<p>Now, for once, I did hold off and didn't write to you: because there was +something in your last I couldn't give any answer to, and I hoped you +would come yourself before I need. Then I hoped silence would bring you: +and now—no!—instead of your dear peace-giving face I get this +complaint!</p> + +<p>Ah, Beloved, have you in reality any complaint, or sorrow that I can set +at rest? Or has that little, little silence made you anxious? I <a name="Page_172" id="Page_172"></a>do come +to think so, for you never flourish your words about as I do: so, +believing that, I would like to write again differently; only it is +truer to let what I have written stand, and make amends for it in all +haste. I love you so infinitely well, how could even a year's silence +give you any doubt or anxiety, so long as you knew I was not ill?</p> + +<p>"Should one not make great concessions to great grief even when it is +unreasonable?" I cannot answer, dearest: I am in the dark. Great grief +cannot be great without reasons: it should give them, and you should +judge by them:—you, not I. I imagine you have again been face to face +with fierce, unexplained opposition. Dearest, if it would give you +happiness, I would say, make five, ten, twenty years' "concession," as +you call it. But the only time you ever spoke to me clearly about your +mother's mind toward me, you said she wanted an absolute surrender from +you, not covered only by her lifetime. Then though I pitied her, I had +to smile. A twenty years' concession even would not give rest to her +perturbed spirit. I pray truly—having so much reason for your sake to +pray it—"God rest her soul! and give her a saner mind toward both of +us."</p> + +<p>Why has this come about at all? It is not February yet: and <i>our</i> plans +have been putting <a name="Page_173" id="Page_173"></a>forth no buds before their time. When the day comes, +and you have said the inevitable word, I think more calm will follow +than you expect. <i>You</i>, dearest, I do understand: and the instinct of +tenderness you have toward a claim which yet fills you with the sense of +its injustice. I know that you can laugh at her threat to make you poor; +but not at hurting her affections. Did your asking for an "answer" mean +that I was to write so openly? Bless you, my own dearest.</p><p><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XLVI" id="LETTER_XLVI"></a>LETTER XLVI.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> To-day I came upon a strange spectacle: poor old +Nan-nan weeping for wounded pride in me. I found her stitching at +raiment of needlework that is to be mine (piles of it have been through +her fingers since the word first went out; for her love asserts that I +am to go all home-made from my old home to my new one—wherever that may +be!). And she was weeping because, as I slowly got to understand, from +one particular quarter too little attention had been paid to me:—the +kow-tow of a ceremonious reception into my new status had not been deep +enough to make amends to her heart for its partial loss of me.</p> + +<p>Her deferential recognition of the change which is coming is pathetic +and full of etiquette; it is at once so jealous and so unselfish. +Because her sense of the proprieties will not allow her to do so much +longer, she comes up to my room and makes opportunity to scold me over +quite slight things:—and there I am, meeker under <a name="Page_175" id="Page_175"></a>her than I would be +to any relative. So to-day I had to bear a statement of your mother's +infirmities rigorously outlined in a way I could only pretend to be deaf +to until she had done. Then I said, "Nan-nan, go and say your prayers!" +And as she stuck her heels down and refused to go, there I left the poor +thing, not to prayer, I fear, but to desolate weeping, in which love and +pride will get more firmly entangled together than ever.</p> + +<p>I know when I go up to my room next I shall find fresh flowers put upon +my table: but the grievous old dear will be carrying a sore heart that I +cannot comfort by any words. I cannot convince her that I am not hiding +in myself any wounds such as she feels on my behalf.</p> + +<p>I write this, dearest, as an indirect answer to yours,—which is but +Nan-nan's woe writ large. If I could persuade your two dear and very +different heads how very slightly wounded I am by a thing which a little +waiting will bring right, I could give it even less thought than I do. +Are you keeping the truce in spirit when you disturb yourself like this? +Trust me, Beloved, always to be candid: I will complain to you when I +feel in need of comfort. Be comforted yourself, meanwhile, and don't +shape ghosts of grief which never do a goose-step over me! Ah well, +well, <a name="Page_176" id="Page_176"></a>if there is a way to love you better than I do now, only show it +me! Meantime, think of me as your most contented and happy-go-loving.</p><p><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XLVII" id="LETTER_XLVII"></a>LETTER XLVII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> I am haunted by a line of quotation, and cannot think +where it comes from:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Now sets the year in roaring gray."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Can you help me to what follows? If it is a true poem it ought now to be +able to sing itself to me at large from an outer world which at this +moment is all gray and roaring. To-day the year is bowing itself out +tempestuously, as if angry at having to go. Dear golden year! I am sorry +to see its face so changed and withering: it has held so much for us +both. Yet I am feeling vigorous and quite like spring. All the seasons +have their marches, with buffetings and border-forays: this is an autumn +march-wind; before long I shall be out into it, and up the hill to look +over at your territory and you being swept and garnished for the seven +devils of winter.</p> + +<p>"Roaring gray" suggests Tennyson, whom I do very much associate with +this sort of weather, not so much because of passages in "Maud" and<a name="Page_178" id="Page_178"></a> "In +Memoriam" as because I once went over to Swainston, on a day such as +this when rooks and leaves alike hung helpless in the wind; and heard +there the story of how Tennyson, coming over for his friend's funeral, +would not go into the house, but asked for one of Sir John's old hats, +and with that on his head sat in the garden and wrote almost the best of +his small lyrics:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Nightingales warbled without,<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">Within was weeping for thee."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The "old hat" was mentioned as something humorous: yet an old glove is +the most accepted symbol of faithful absence: and why should head rank +lower than hand? What creatures of convention we are!</p> + +<p>There is an old notion, quite likely to be true, that a nightcap carries +in it the dreams of its first owner, or that anything laid over a +sleeper's head will bring away the dream. One of the stories which used +to put a lump in my throat as a child was of an old backwoodsman who by +that means found out that his dog stole hams from the storeroom. The dog +was given away in disgrace, and came to England to die of a broken heart +at the sight of a cargo of hams, which, at their unpacking, seemed like +a monstrous day of judgment—the bones of his misdeeds rising again +reclothed with flesh to re<a name="Page_179" id="Page_179"></a>proach him with the thing he had never +forgotten.</p> + +<p>I wonder how long it was before I left off definitely choosing out a +story for the pleasure of making myself cry! When one begins to avoid +that luxury of the fledgling emotions, the first leaf of youth is flown.</p> + +<p>To-day I look almost jovially at the decay of the best year I have ever +lived through, and am your very middle-aged faithful and true.</p><p><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XLVIII" id="LETTER_XLVIII"></a>LETTER XLVIII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> If anybody has been "calling me names" that are not +mine, they do me a fine injury, and you did well to purge the text of +their abuse. I agree with no authority, however immortal, which inquires +"What's in a name?" expecting the answer to be a snap of the fingers. I +answer with a snap of temper that the blood, boots, and bones of my +ancestors are in mine! Do you suppose I could have been the same woman +had such names as Amelia or Bella or Cinderella been clinging leechlike +to my consciousness through all the years of my training? Why, there are +names I can think of which would have made me break down into +side-ringlets had I been forced to wear them audibly.</p> + +<p>The effect is not so absolute when it is a second name that can be +tucked away if unpresentable, but even then it is a misfortune. There is +C——, now, who won't marry, I believe, chiefly because of the insane +"Annie" with which she was smitten at the baptismal font by an +afterthought. She regards it as a taint in her constitution which orders +her to a lonely life lest <a name="Page_181" id="Page_181"></a>worse might follow. And apply the +consideration more publicly: do you imagine the Prince of Wales will be +the same sort of king if, when he comes to the throne, he calls himself +King Albert Edward in florid Continental fashion, instead of "Edward the +Seventh," with a right hope that an Edward the Eighth may follow after +him, to make a neck-and-neck race of it with the Henries? I don't know +anything that would do more to knit up the English constitution: but +whenever I pass the Albert Memorial I tremble lest filial piety will not +allow the thing to be done.</p> + +<p>Now of all this I had an instance in the village the day before +yesterday. At the corner house by the post-office, as I went by, a bird +opened his bill and sang a note, and down, down, down, down he went over +a golden scale: pitched afresh, and dropped down another; and then up, +up, up, over the range of both. Then he flung back his shaggy head and +laughed. "In all my father's realm there are no such bells as these!" It +was the laughing jackass. "Who gave you your name?" "My godfathers and +my godmothers in my baptism." Well, <i>his</i> will have <i>that</i> to answer +for, however safely for the rest he may have eschewed the world, the +flesh, and the devil. Poor bird, to be set to sing to us under such a +burden:—of which, unconscious failure, he knows nothing.</p><p><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182"></a></p> + +<p>Here I have remembered for you a bit of a poem that took hold of me some +while ago and touched on the same unkindness: only here the flower is +conscious of the wrong done to it, and looks forward to a day of juster +judgment:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"What have I done?—Man came<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">(There's nothing that sticks like dirt),<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">Looked at me with eyes of blame,<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">And called me 'Squinancy-wort!'<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">What have I done? I linger<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">(I cannot say that I live)<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">In the happy lands of my birth;<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">Passers-by point with the finger:<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">For me the light of the sun<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">Is darkened. Oh, what would I give<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">To creep away, and hide my shame in the earth!<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">What have I done?<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">Yet there is hope. I have seen<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">Many changes since I began.<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">The web-footed beasts have been<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">(Dear beasts!)—and gone, being part of some wider plan.<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">Perhaps in His infinite mercy God will remove this man!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Now I am on sentiment and unjust judgments: here is another instance, +where evidently in life I did not love well enough a character nobler +than this capering and accommodating boy Benjy, who toadies to all my +moods. Calling at the lower farm, I missed him whom I used to nickname +"Manger," because his dog-jaws always refused to smile on me. His old +mistress gave me a pa<a name="Page_183" id="Page_183"></a>thetic account of his last days. It was the +muzzling order that broke his poor old heart. He took it as an +accusation on a point where, though of a melancholy disposition, his +reputation had been spotless. He never lifted his head nor smiled again. +And not all his mistress' love could explain to him that he was not in +fault. She wept as she told it me.</p> + +<p>Good-by, dearest, and for this letter so full of such little worth call +me what names you like; and I will go to Jemima, Keziah, and +Kerenhappuch for the patience in which they must have taken after their +father when he so named them, I suppose for a discipline.</p> + +<p>My Beloved, let my heart come where it wants to be. Twilight has been on +me to-day, I don't know why; and I have not written it off as I hoped to +do.—All yours and nothing left.</p><p><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_XLIX" id="LETTER_XLIX"></a>LETTER XLIX.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> I suppose your mother's continued absence, and her +unexplanation of her further stay, must be taken for unyielding +disapproval, and tells us what to expect of February. It is not a +cordial form of "truce": but since it lets me see just twice as much of +you as I should otherwise, I will not complain so long as it does not +make you unhappy. You write to her often and kindly, do you not?</p> + +<p>Well, if this last letter of hers frees you sufficiently, it is quite +settled at this end that you are to be with us for Christmas:—read into +that the warmest corners of a heart already fully occupied. I do not +think of it too much, till I am assured it is to be.</p> + +<p>Did you go over to Pembury for the day? Your letter does not say +anything: but your letters have a wonderful way with them of leaving out +things of outside importance. I shall hear from the rattle of returning +fire-engines some day that Hatterling has been burned down: and <a name="Page_185" id="Page_185"></a>you +will arrive cool the next day and say, "Oh yes, it is so!"</p> + +<p>I am sure you have been right to secure this pledge of independence to +yourself: but it hurts me to think what a deadly offense it may be both +to her tenderness for you and her pride and stern love of power. To +realize suddenly that Hatterling does not mean to you so much as the +power to be your own master and happy in your own way, which is +altogether opposite to <i>her</i> way, will be so much of a blow that at +first you will be able to do nothing to soften it.</p> + +<p>February fill-dyke is likely to be true to its name, this coming one, in +all that concerns us and our fortunes. Meanwhile, if at Pembury you +brought things any nearer settlement, and are not coming so soon as +to-morrow, let me know: for some things of "outside importance" do +affect me unfavorably while in suspense. I have not your serene +determination to abide the workings of Kismet when once all that can be +done is done.</p> + +<p>The sun sets now, when it does so visibly, just where Pembury <i>is</i>. I +take it as an omen. In your diary to-morrow you may write down in the +business column that you have had a business letter from <i>me</i>, or as +near to one as I can go:—chiefly for that it requires an answer on this +matter of "outside importance," which otherwise <a name="Page_186" id="Page_186"></a>you will altogether +leave out. But you will do better still to come. My whole heart goes out +to fetch you: my dearest dear, ever your own.</p><p><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_L" id="LETTER_L"></a>LETTER L.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> No, not Browning but Tennyson was in my thoughts at +our last ride together: and I found myself shy, as I have been for a +long time wishing to say things I could not. What has never entered your +head to ask becomes difficult when I wish to get it spoken. So I bring +Tennyson to tell you what I mean:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaäy?<br /></span> +<span class="ihalf">Proputty, proputty, proputty—that's what I 'ears 'em saäy"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The tune of this kept me silent all the while we galloped: this and +Pembury, a name that glows to me now like the New Jerusalem.</p> + +<p>And do you understand, Beloved? or must I say more? My freedom has made +its nest under my uncle's roof: but I <i>am</i> a quite independent person in +other ways besides character.</p> + +<p>Well, Pembury was settled on your own initiative: and I looked on proud +and glad. Now I have my own little word to add, merely a tail that wags +and makes merry over a thing decided and done. Do you forgive me for +this: and for <a name="Page_188" id="Page_188"></a>the greater offense of being quite shy at having to write +it?</p> + +<p>My Aunt thanks you for the game: for my part I cannot own that it will +taste sweeter to me for being your own shooting. And please, whatever +else you do big and grand and dangerous, respect my superstitions and +don't shoot any larks this winter. In the spring I would like to think +that here or there an extra lark bubbles over because I and my whims +find occasional favor in your sight. When I ask great favors you always +grant them; and so, Ahasuerus, grant this little one to your beautifully +loving.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Give me the credit of being conscious of it, Beloved: postscripts I +never <i>do</i> write. I am glad you noticed it. If I find anything left out +I start another letter: <i>this</i> is that other letter: it goes into the +same envelope merely for company, and signs itself yours in all state.</p><p><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LI" id="LETTER_LI"></a>LETTER LI.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> It was so nice and comedy to see the Mother-Aunt this +morning importantly opening a letter from you all to herself with the +pleasure quite unmixed by any inclosure for me, or any other letter in +the house <i>to</i> me so far as she was aware. I listened to you with new +ears, discovering that you write quite beautifully in the style which I +never get from you. Don't, because I admire you in your more formal +form, alter in your style to me. I prefer you much, for my own part, +formless: and feel nearer to your heart in an unfinished sentence than +in one that is perfectly balanced. Still I want you to know that your +cordial warmed her dear old heart and makes her not think now that she +has let me see too much of you. She was just beginning to worry herself +jealously into that belief the last two days: and Arthur's taking to you +helped to the same end. Very well; I seem to understand everybody's +oddities now,—having made a complete study of yours.</p> + +<p>Best Beloved, I have your little letter lying <a name="Page_190" id="Page_190"></a>close, and feel dumb when +I try to answer. You with your few words make me feel a small thing with +all my unpenned rabble about me. Only you do know so very well that I +love you better than I can ever write. This is my first letter of the +new year: will our letter-writing go on all this year, or will it, as we +dearly dream, die a divine death somewhere before autumn?</p> + +<p>In any case, I am, dearest, your most happy and loving.</p><p><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LII" id="LETTER_LII"></a>LETTER LII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">My Dearest:</span> Arthur and the friend went off together yesterday. +I am glad the latter stayed just long enough after you left for me to +have leisure to find him out human. Here is the whole story: he came and +unbosomed to me three days ago: and he said nothing about not telling, +so I tell you. As water goes from a duck's back, so go all things worth +hearing from me to you.</p> + +<p>Arthur had said to him, "Come down for a week," and he had answered, +"Can't, because of clothes!" explaining that beyond evening-dress he had +only those he stood in. "Well," said Arthur, "stand in them, then; you +look all right." "The question is," said his friend, "can I sit down?" +However, he came; and was appalled to find that a man unpacked his +trunk, and would in all probability be carrying away his clothes each +night to brush them. He, conscious of interiors, a lining hanging in +rags, and even a patching somewhere, had not the heart to let his one +and only day-jacket go down to the servants' hall to be sniffed over: +and so every evening when <a name="Page_192" id="Page_192"></a>he dressed for dinner he hid his jacket +laboriously under the permanent layers of a linen wardrobe which stood +in his room.</p> + +<p>I had all this in the frankest manner from him in the hour when he +became human: and my fancy fired at the vision. Graves with a fierce eye +set on duty probing hither and thither in search after the missing coat; +and each night the search becoming' more strenuous and the mystery more +baffling than ever. It had a funny likeness to the Jack Raikes episode +in "Evan Harrington," and pleased me the more thus cropping up in real +life.</p> + +<p>Well, I demanded there and then to be shown the subject of so much +romance and adventure: and had the satisfaction of mending it, he +sitting by in his shirt-sleeves the while, and watching delighted and +without craven apologies.</p> + +<p>I notice it is not his own set he is ashamed of, but only the moneyed, +high-sniffing servant-class who have no understanding for honorable +poverty: and to be misunderstood pricks him in the thinnest of thin +places.</p> + +<p>He told me also that he brought only three white ties to last him for +seven days: and that Graves placed them out in order of freshness and +cleanliness night after night:—first three new ones consecutively, then +three once worn. After that, on the seventh day, Graves resigned all +fur<a name="Page_193" id="Page_193"></a>ther responsibility, and laid out all three of them for him to +choose from. On the last three days of his stay he did me the honor to +leave his coat out, declaring that my mendings had made it presentable +before an emperor. Out of this dates the whole of his character, and I +understand, what I did not, why Arthur and he get on together.</p> + +<p>Now the house is empty, and your comings will be—I cannot say more +welcome: but there will be more room for them to be after my own heart.</p> + +<p>Heaven be over us both. Faithfully your most loving.</p><p><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LIII" id="LETTER_LIII"></a>LETTER LIII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> I wish you could have been with me to look out into +this garden last night when the spirit moved me there. I had started for +bed, but became sensitive of something outside not normal. Whether my +ear missed the usual echoes and so guessed a muffled world I do not +know. To open the door was like slicing into a wedding-cake; +then,—where was I to put a foot into that new-laid carpet of +ankle-deepness? I hobbled out in a pair of my uncle's. I suppose it is +because I know every tree and shrub in its true form that snow seems to +pile itself nowhere as it does here: it becomes a garden of entombments. +Now and then some heap would shuffle feebly under its shroud, but +resurrection was not to be: the Lawson cypress held out great +boxing-glove hands for me to shake and set free; and the silence was +wonderful. I padded about till I froze: this morning I can see my big +hoof-marks all over the place, and Benjy has been scampering about in +them as if he found some flavor of me there. The trees are already +be<a name="Page_195" id="Page_195"></a>ginning to shake themselves loose, and the spell is over: but it had +a wonderful hold while it lasted. I take a breath back into last night, +and feel myself again full of a romance without words that I cannot +explain. If you had been there, even, I think I could have forgotten I +had you by me, the place was so weighed down with its sense of solitude. +It struck eleven while I was outside, and in that, too, I could hear a +muffle as if snow choked all the belfry lattices and lay even on the +outer edge of the bell itself. Across the park there are dead boughs +cracking down under the weight of snow; and it would be very like you to +tramp over just because the roads will be so impossible.</p> + +<p>I heard yesterday a thing which made me just a little more free and easy +in mind, though I had nothing sensibly on my conscience. Such a good +youth who two years ago believed I was his only possible future +happiness, is now quite happy with a totally different sort of person. I +had a little letter from him, shy and stately, announcing the event. I +thought it such a friendly act, for some have never the grace to unsay +their grievances, however much actually blessed as a consequence of +them.</p> + +<p>With that off my mind I can come to you swearing that there have been no +accidents on anybody's line of life through a mistake in sig<a name="Page_196" id="Page_196"></a>nals, or a +flying in the face of them, where I have had any responsibility. As for +you, and as you know well by now, my signals were ready and waiting +before you sought for them. "Oh, whistle, and I'll come to you!" was +their giveaway attitude.</p> + +<p>I am going down to play snowballs with Benjy. Good-by. If you come you +will find this letter on the hall table, and me you will probably hear +barking behind the rhododendrons.—So much your most loving.</p><p><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LIV" id="LETTER_LIV"></a>LETTER LIV.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> We have been having a great day of tidyings out, +rummaging through years and years of accumulations—things quite useless +but which I have not liked to throw away. My soul has been getting such +dusty answers to all sorts of doubtful inquiries as to where on earth +this, that, and the other lay hidden. And there were other things, the +memory of which had lain quite dead or slept, till under the light of +day they sprouted hack into life like corn from the grave of an Egyptian +mummy.</p> + +<p>Very deep in one box I found a stealthy little collection of secret +playthings which it used to be my fond belief that nobody knew of but +myself. It may have been Anna's graspingness, when four years of +seniority gave her double my age, or Arthur's genial instinct for +destructiveness, which drove me into such deep concealment of my dearest +idols. But, whether for those or more mystic reasons, I know I had dolls +which I nursed only in the strictest privacy and lavished my firmest +love upon. It was because of them <a name="Page_198" id="Page_198"></a>that I bore the reproach of being but +a lukewarm mother of dolls and careless of their toilets; the truth +being that my motherly passion expended itself in secret on certain +outcasts of society whom others despised or had forgotten. They, on +their limp and dissolute bodies, wore all the finery I could find to +pile on them: and one shady transaction done on their behalf I remember +now without pangs. There was one creature of state whom an inconsiderate +relative had presented to Anna and myself in equal shares. Of course +Anna's became more and more lionlike. I had very little love for the +bone of contention myself, but the sense of injustice rankled in me. So +one day, at an unclothing, Anna discovered that certain undergarments +were gone altogether away. She sat aghast, questioned me, and, when I +refused to disgorge, screamed down vengeance from the authorities. I was +morally certain I had taken no more than my just share, and resolution +sat on my lips under all threats. For a punishment the whole ownership +of the big doll was made over to Anna: I was no worse off, and was very +contented with my obstinacy. To-day I found the beautifully wrought +bodice, which I had carried beyond reach of even the supreme court of +appeal, clothing with ridiculous looseness a rag-doll whose head +tottered on its stem like an over-ripe plum, and whose legs had no +<a name="Page_199" id="Page_199"></a>deportment at all: and am sending it off in charitable surrender to +Anna to be given, bag and rag, to whichever one of the children she +likes to select.</p> + +<p>Also I found:—would you care to have a lock of hair taken from the head +of a child then two years old, which, bright golden, does not match what +I have on now in the least? I can just remember her: but she is much of +a stranger to both of us. Why I value it is that the name and date on +the envelope inclosing it are in my mother's handwriting: and I suppose +<i>she</i> loved very much the curly treasure she then put away. Some of the +other things, quite funny, I will show you the next time you come over. +How I wish that vanished mite had mixed some of her play-hours with +yours:—you only six miles away all the time: had one but known!—Now +grown very old and loving, always your own.</p><p><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LV" id="LETTER_LV"></a>LETTER LV.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> I am getting quite out of letter-writing, and it is +your doing, not mine. No sooner do I get a line from you than you rush +over in person and take the answer to it out of my mouth!</p> + +<p>I have had six from you in the last week, and believe I have only +exchanged you one: all the rest have been nipped in the bud by your +arrivals. My pen turns up a cross nose whenever it hears you coming now, +and declares life so dull as not to be worth living. Poor dinky little +Othello! it shall have its occupation again to-day, and say just what it +likes.</p> + +<p>It likes you while you keep away: so that's said! When I make it write +"come," it kicks and tries to say "don't." For it is an industrious +minion, loves to have work to do, and never complains of overhours. It +is a sentimental fact that I keep all its used-up brethren in an +inclosure together, and throw none of them <a name="Page_201" id="Page_201"></a>away. If once they have +ridden over paper to you, I turn them to grass in their old age. I let +this out because I think it is time you had another laugh at me.</p> + +<p>Laugh, dearest, and tell me that you have done so if you want to make me +a little more happy than I have been this last day or two. There has +been too much thinking in the heads of both of us. Be empty-headed for +once when you write next: whether you write little or much, I am sure +always of your full heart: but I cannot trust your brain to the same +pressure: it is such a Martha to headaches and careful about so many +things, and you don't bring it here to be soothed as often as you +should—not at its most needy moments, I mean.</p> + +<p>Have you made the announcement? or does it not go till to-day? I am not +sorry, since the move comes from her, that we have not to wait now till +February. You will feel better when the storm is up than when it is only +looming. This is the headachy period.</p> + +<p>Well. Say "well" with me, dearest! It is going to be well: waiting has +not suited us—not any of us, I think. Your mother is one in a thousand, +I say that and mean it:—worth conquering as all good things are. I +would not wish great fortune to come by too primrosy a way. "Canst thou +draw out Leviathan with a <a name="Page_202" id="Page_202"></a>hook?" Even so, for size, is the share of the +world which we lay claim to, and for that we must be toilers of the +deep.—Always, Beloved, your truest and most loving.</p><p><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LVI" id="LETTER_LVI"></a>LETTER LVI.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">My Own Own Love:</span> You have given me a spring day before the buds +begin,—the weather I have been longing for! I had been quite sad at +heart these cold wet days, really <i>down</i>;—a treasonable sadness with +you still anywhere in the world (though where in the world have you +been?). Spring seemed such a long way off over the bend of it, with you +unable to come; and it seems now another letter of yours has got lost. +(Write it again, dearest,—all that was in it, with any blots that +happened to come:—there was a dear smudge in to-day's, with the +whirlpool mark of your thumb quite clear on it,—delicious to rest my +face against and feel <i>you</i> there.)</p> + +<p>And so back to my spring weather: all in a moment you gave me a whole +week of the weather I had longed after. For you say the sun has been +shining on you: and I would rather have it there than here if it refuses +to be in two places at once. Also my letters have pleased you. When they +do, I feel such a proud mother to them! Here they fly quick out of the +nest; but I think <a name="Page_204" id="Page_204"></a>sometimes they must come to you broken-winged, with +so much meant and all so badly put.</p> + +<p>How can we ever, with our poor handful of senses, contrive to express +ourselves perfectly? Perhaps,—I don't know:—dearest, I love you! I +kiss you a hundred times to the minute. If everything in the world were +dark round us, could not kisses tell us quite well all that we wish to +know of each other?—me that you were true and brave and so beautiful +that a woman must be afraid looking at you:—and you that I was just my +very self,—loving and—no! just loving: I have no room for anything +more! You have swallowed up all my moral qualities, I have none left: I +am a beggar, where it is so sweet to beg.—Give me back crumbs of +myself! I am so hungry, I cannot show it, only by kissing you a hundred +times.</p> + +<p>Dear share of the world, what a wonderful large helping of it you are to +me! I alter Portia's complaint and swear that "my little body is +bursting with this great world." And now it is written and I look at it, +it seems a Budge and Toddy sort of complaint. I do thank Heaven that the +Godhead who rules in it for us does not forbid the recognition of the +ludicrous! C—— was telling me how long ago, in her own dull Protestant +household, she heard a riddle propounded by some indiscreet soul who did +not un<a name="Page_205" id="Page_205"></a>derstand the prudish piety which reigned there: and saw such +shocked eyes opening all round on the sound of it. "What is it," was +asked, "that a common man can see every day but that God never sees?" +"His equal" is the correct answer: but even so demure and proper a +support to thistly theology was to the ears that heard it as the hand of +Uzzah stretched out intrusively and deserving to be smitten. As for +C——, a twinkle of wickedness seized her, she hazarded "A joke" to be +the true answer, and was ordered into banishment by the head of that +God-fearing household for having so successfully diagnosed the family +skeleton.</p> + +<p>As for skeletons, why your letter makes me so happy is that the one +which has been rubbing its ribs against you for so long seems to have +given itself a day off, or crumbled to dissolution. And you are yourself +again, as you have not been for many a long day. I suppose there has +been thunder, and the air is cleared: and I am not to know any of that +side of your discomforts?</p> + +<p>Still I <i>do</i> know. You have been writing your letters with pressed lips +for a month past: and I have been a mere toy-thing, and no helpmate to +you at all at all. Oh, why will she not love me? I know I am lovable +except to a very hard heart, and hers is not: it is only like yours, +reserved in its expression. It is strange what pain <a name="Page_206" id="Page_206"></a>her prejudice has +been able to drop into my cup of happiness; and into yours, dearest, I +fear, even more.</p> + +<p>Oh, I love you, I love you! I am crying with it, having no words to +declare to you what I feel. My tears have wings in them: first +semi-detached, then detached. See, dearest, there is a rain-stain to +make this letter fruitful of meaning!</p> + +<p>It is sheer convention—and we, creatures of habit—that tears don't +come kindly and easily to express where laughter leaves off and a +something better begins. Which is all very ungrammatical and entirely +me, as I am when I get off my hinges too suddenly.</p> + +<p>Amen, amen! When we are both a hundred we shall remember all this very +peaceably; and the "sanguine flower" will not look back at us less +beautifully because in just one spot it was inscribed with woe. And if +we with all our aids cannot have patience, where in this midge-bitten +world is that virtue to find a standing?</p> + +<p>I kiss you—how? as if it were for the first or the last time? No, but +for all time, Beloved! every time I see you or think of you sums up my +world. Love me a little, too, and I will be as contented as I am your +loving.</p><p><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LVII" id="LETTER_LVII"></a>LETTER LVII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Come</span> to me! I will not understand a word you have written till +you come. Who has been using your hand to strike me like this, and why +do you lend it? Oh, if it is she, you do not owe her <i>that</i> duty! Never +write such things:—speak! have you ever found me not listen to you, or +hard to convince? Dearest, dearest!—take what I mean: I cannot write +over this gulf. Come to me,—I will believe anything you can <i>say</i>, but +I can believe nothing of this written. I must see you and hear what it +is you mean. Dear heart, I am blind till I set eyes on you again! +Beloved, I have nothing, nothing in me but love for you: except for that +I am empty! Believe me and give me time; I will not be unworthy of the +joy of holding you. I am nothing if not <i>yours</i>! Tell this to whoever is +deceiving you.</p> + +<p>Oh, my dearest, why did you stay away from me to write so? Come and put +an end to a thing which means nothing to either of us. You love me: how +can it have a meaning?</p> + +<p>Can you not hear my heart crying?—I love <a name="Page_208" id="Page_208"></a>nobody but you—do not know +what love is without you! How can I be more yours than I am? Tell me, +and I will be!</p> + +<p>Here are kisses. Do not believe yourself till you have seen me. Oh, the +pain of having to <i>write</i>, of not having your arms round me in my +misery! I kiss your dear blind eyes with all my heart.—My Love's most +loved and loving.</p><p><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LVIII" id="LETTER_LVIII"></a>LETTER LVIII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">No,</span> no, I cannot read it! What have I done that you will not +come to me? They are mad here, telling me to be calm, that I am not to +go to you. I too am out of my mind—except that I love you. I know +nothing except that. Beloved, only on my lips will I take my dismissal +from yours: not God himself can claim you from me till you have done me +that justice. Kiss me once more, and then, if you can, say we must part. +You cannot!—Ah, come here where my heart is, and you cannot!</p> + +<p>Have I never told you enough how I love you? Dearest, I have no words +for all my love: I have no pride in me. Does not this alone tell +you?—You are sending me away, and I cry to you to spare me. Can I love +you more than that? What will you have of me that I have not given? Oh, +you, the sun in my dear heavens—if I lose you, what is left of me? +Could you break so to pieces even a woman you did not love? And me you +<i>do</i> love,—you <i>do</i>. Between all this denial of me, and all this +<a name="Page_210" id="Page_210"></a>silence of words that you have put your name to, I see clearly that you +are still my lover.—Your writing breaks with trying not to say it: you +say again and again that there is no fault in me. I swear to you, +dearest, there is none, unless it be loving you: and how can you mean +that? For what are you and I made for unless for each other? With all +our difference people tell us we are alike. We were shaped for each +other from our very birth. Have we not proved it in a hundred days of +happiness, which have lifted us up to the blue of a heaven higher than +any birds ever sang? And now you say—taking on you the blame for the +very life-blood in us both—that the fault is yours, and that your fault +is to have allowed me to love you and yourself to love me!</p> + +<p>Who has suddenly turned our love into a crime? Beloved, is it a sin that +here on earth I have been seeing God through you? Go away from me, and +He is gone also. Ah, sweetheart, let me see you before all my world +turns into a wilderness! Let me know better why,—if my senses are to be +emptied of you. My heart can never let you go. Do you wish that it +should?</p> + +<p>Bring your own here, and see if it can tell me that! Come and listen to +mine! Oh, dearest heart that ever beat, mine beats so like yours that +once together you shall not divide their sound!</p><p><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211"></a></p> + +<p>Beloved, I will be patient, believe me, to any words you can say: but I +cannot be patient away from you. If I have seemed to reproach you, do +not think that now. For you are to give me a greater joy than I ever had +before when you take me in your arms again after a week that has spelled +dreadful separation. And I shall bless you for it—for this present pain +even—because the joy will be so much greater.</p> + +<p>Only come: I do not live till you have kissed me again. Oh, my beloved, +how cruel love may seem if we do not trust it enough! My trust in you +has come back in a great rush of warmth, like a spring day after frost. +I almost laugh as I let this go. It brings you,—perhaps before I wake: +I shall be so tired to-night. Call under my window, make me hear in my +sleep. I will wake up to you, and it shall be all over before the rest +of the world wakes. There is no dream so deep that I shall not hear you +out of the midst of it. Come and be my morning-glory to-morrow without +fail. I will rewrite nothing that I have written—let it go! See me out +of deep waters again, because I have thought so much of you! I have come +through clouds and thick darkness. I press your name to my lips a +thousand times. As sure as sunrise I say to myself that you will come: +the sun is not truer to his rising than you to me.</p><p><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212"></a></p> + +<p>Love will go flying after this till I sleep. God bless you!—and me +also; it is all one and the same wish.—Your most true, loving, and dear +faithful one.</p><p><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LIX" id="LETTER_LIX"></a>LETTER LIX.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">I have</span> to own that I know your will now, at last. Without +seeing you I am convinced: you have a strong power in you to have done +that! You have told me the word I am to say to you: it is your bidding, +so I say it—Good-by. But it is a word whose meaning I cannot share.</p> + +<p>Yet I have something to tell you which I could not have dreamed if it +had not somehow been true: which has made it possible for me to believe, +without hearing you speak it, that I am to be dismissed out of your +heart.—May the doing of it cost you far less pain than I am fearing!</p> + +<p>You did not come, though I promised myself so certainly that you would: +instead came your last very brief note which this is to obey. Still I +watched for you to come, believing it still and trusting to silence on +my part to bring you more certainly than any more words could do. And +<a name="Page_214" id="Page_214"></a>at last either you came to me, or I came to you: a bitter last meeting. +Perhaps your mind too holds what happened, if so I have got truly at +what your will is. I must accept it as true, since I am not to see you +again. I cannot tell you whether I thought it or dreamed it, but it +seems still quite real, and has turned all my past life into a mockery.</p> + +<p>When I came I was behind you; then you turned and I could see your +face—you too were in pain: in that we seemed one. But when I touched +you and would have kissed you, you shuddered at me and drew back your +head. I tell you this as I would tell you anything unbelievable that I +had heard told of you behind your back. You see I am obeying you at +last.</p> + +<p>For all the love which you gave me when I seemed worthy of it I thank +you a thousand times. Could you ever return to the same mind, I should +be yours once more as I still am; never ceasing on my side to be your +lover and servant till death, and—if there be anything more—after as +well.</p> + +<p>My lips say amen now: but my heart cannot say it till breath goes out of +my body. Good-by: that means—God be with you. I mean it; but He seems +to have ceased to be with me altogether. Good-by, dearest. I kiss your +heart with writing for the last time, and your eyes, that <a name="Page_215" id="Page_215"></a>will see +nothing more from me after this. Good-by.</p> + +<div><br /></div> +<blockquote><p><span class="smcap">Note.</span>—All the letters which follow were found lying loosely +together. They only went to their destination after the writer's death.</p></blockquote><p><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LX" id="LETTER_LX"></a>LETTER LX.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">To-day,</span> dearest, a letter from you reached me: a fallen star +which had lost its way. It lies dead in my bosom. It was the letter that +lost itself in the post while I was traveling: it comes now with half a +dozen postmarks, and signs of long waiting in one place. In it you say, +"We have been engaged now for two whole months; I never dreamed that two +moons could contain so much happiness." Nor I, dearest! We have now been +separated for three; and till now I had not dreamed that time could so +creep, to such infinitely small purpose, as it has in carrying me from +the moment when I last saw you.</p> + +<p>You were so dear to me, Beloved; <i>that</i> you ever are! Time changes +nothing in you as you seemed to me then. Oh, I am sick to touch your +hands: all my thoughts run to your service: they seem to hear you call, +only to find locked doors.</p> + +<p>If you could see me now I think you would open the door for a little +while.</p> + +<p>If they came and told me—"You are to see him just for five minutes, and +then part again"—what should I be wanting most to say to you?<a name="Page_217" id="Page_217"></a> +Nothing—only "Speak, speak!" I would have you fill my heart with your +voice the whole time: five minutes more of you to fold my life round. It +would matter very little what you said, barring the one thing that +remains never to be said.</p> + +<p>Oh, could all this silence teach me the one thing I am longing to +know!—why am I unworthy of you? If I cannot be your wife, why cannot I +see you still,—serve you if possible? I would be grateful.</p> + +<p>You meant to be generous; and wishing not to wound me, you said that +"there was no fault" in me. I realize now that you would not have said +that to the woman you still loved. And now I am never to know what part +in me is hateful to you. I must live with it because you would not tell +me the truth!</p> + +<p>Every day tells me I am different from the thing I wish to be—your +love, the woman you approve.</p> + +<p>I love you, I love you! Can I get no nearer to you ever for all this +straining? If I love you so much, I must be moving toward what you would +have me be. In our happiest days my heart had its growing +pains,—growing to be as you wished it.</p> + +<p>Dear, even the wisest make mistakes, and the tenderest may be hard +without knowing: I do not think I am unworthy of you, if you knew all.</p><p><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218"></a></p> + +<p>Writing to you now seems weakness: yet it seemed peace to come in here +and cry to you. And when I go about I have still strength left, and try +to be cheerful. Nobody knows, I think nobody knows. No one in the house +is made downcast because of me. How dear they are, and how little I can +thank them! Except to you, dearest, I have not shown myself selfish.</p> + +<p>I love you too much, too much: I cannot write it.</p><p><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXI" id="LETTER_LXI"></a>LETTER LXI.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">You</span> are very ill, they tell me. Beloved, it is such kindness in +them to have regard for the wish they disapprove and to let me know. +Knowledge is the one thing needful whose lack has deprived me of my +happiness: the express image of sorrow is not so terrible as the +foreboding doubt of it. Not because you are ill, but because I know +something definitely about you, I am happier to-day: a little nearer to +a semblance of service to you in my helplessness. How much I wish you +well, even though that might again carry you out of my knowledge! And, +though death might bring you nearer than life now makes possible, I pray +to you, dearest, not to die. It is not right that you should die yet, +with a mistake in your heart which a little more life might clear away.</p> + +<p>Praying for your dear eyes to remain open, I realize suddenly how much +hope still remains in me, where I thought none was left. Even your +illness I take as a good omen; and the thought of you weak as a child +and somewhat like one in your present state with no brain for deep +think<a name="Page_220" id="Page_220"></a>ing, comes to my heart to be cherished endlessly: there you lie, +Beloved, brought home to my imagination as never since the day we +parted. And the thought comes to the rescue of my helpless longing—that +it is as little children that men get brought into the kingdom of +Heaven. Let that be the medicine and outcome of your sickness, my own +Beloved! I hold my breath with hope that I shall have word of you when +your hand has strength again to write. For I know that in sleepless +nights and in pain you will be unable not to think of me. If you made +resolutions against that when you were well, they will go now that you +are laid weak; and so some power will come back to me, and my heart will +never be asleep for thinking that yours lies awake wanting it:—nor ever +be at rest for devising ways by which to be at the service of your +conscious longing.</p> + +<p>Ah, my own one Beloved, whom I have loved so openly and so secretly, if +you were as I think some other men are, I could believe that I had given +you so much of my love that you had tired of me because I had made no +favor of it but had let you see that I was your faithful subject and +servant till death: so that after twenty years you, chancing upon an +empty day in your life, might come back and find me still yours;—as +to-morrow, if you came, you would.</p><p><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221"></a></p> + +<p>My pride died when I saw love looking out of your eyes at me; and it has +not come back to me now that I see you no more. I have no wish that it +should. In all ways possible I would wish to be as I was when you loved +me; and seek to change nothing except as you bid me.</p><p><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXII" id="LETTER_LXII"></a>LETTER LXII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">So</span> I have seen you, Beloved, again, after fearing that I never +should. A day's absence from home has given me this great fortune.</p> + +<p>The pain of it was less than it might have been, since our looks did not +meet. To have seen your eyes shut out their recognition of me would have +hurt me too much: I must have cried out against such a judgment. But you +passed by the window without knowing, your face not raised: so little +changed, yet you have been ill. Arthur tells me everything: he knows I +must have any word of you that goes begging.</p> + +<p>Oh, I hope you are altogether better, happier! An illness helps some +people: the worst of their sorrow goes with the health that breaks down +under it; and they come out purged into a clearer air, and are made +whole for a fresh trial of life.</p> + +<p>I hear that you are going quite away; and my eyes bless this chance to +have embraced you once again. Your face is the kindest I have ever +seen:<a name="Page_223" id="Page_223"></a> even your silence, while I looked at you, seemed a grace instead +of a cruelty. What kindness, I say to myself, even if it be mistaken +kindness, must have sealed those dear lips not to tell me of my unworth!</p> + +<p>Oh, if I could see once into the brain of it all! No one but myself +knows how good you are: how can I, then, be so unworthy of you? Did you +think I would not surrender to anything you fixed, that you severed us +so completely, not even allowing us to meet, and giving me no way to +come back to you though I might come to be all that you wished? Ah, dear +face, how hungry you have made me!—the more that I think you are not +yet so happy as I could wish,—as I could make you,—I say it +foolishly:—yet if you would trust me, I am sure.</p> + +<p>Oh, how tired loving you now makes me! physically I grow weary with the +ache to have you in my arms. And I dream, I dream always, the shadows of +former kindness that never grow warm enough to clasp me before I +wake.—Yours, dearest, waking or sleeping.</p><p><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXIII" id="LETTER_LXIII"></a>LETTER LXIII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Do</span> you remember, Beloved, when you came on your birthday, you +said I was to give you another birthday present of your own choosing, +and I promised? And it was that we were to do for the whole day what <i>I</i> +wished: you were not to be asked to choose.</p> + +<p>You said then that it was the first time I had ever let you have your +way, which was to see me be myself independently of you:—as if such a +self existed.</p> + +<p>You will never see what I write now; and I did not do then any of the +things I most wished: for first I wished to kneel down and kiss your +hands and feet; and you would not have liked that. Even now that you +love me no more, you would not like me to do such a thing. A woman can +never do as she likes when she loves—there is no such thing until he +shows it her or she divines it. I loved you, I <a name="Page_225" id="Page_225"></a>loved you!—that was all +I could do, and all I wanted to do.</p> + +<p>You have kept my letters? Do you read them ever, I wonder? and do they +tell you differently about me, now that you see me with new eyes? Ah no, +you dare not look at them: they tell too much truth! How can +love-letters ever cease to be the winged things they were when they +first came? I fancy mine sick to death for want of your heart to rest +on; but never less loving.</p> + +<p>If you would read them again, you would come back to me. Those little +throats of happiness would be too strong for you. And so you lay them in +a cruel grave of lavender,—"Lavender for forgetfulness" might be +another song for Ophelia to sing.</p> + +<p>I am weak with writing to you, I have written too long: this is twice +to-day.</p> + +<p>I do not write to make myself more miserable: only to fill up my time.</p> + +<p>When I go about something definite, I can do it:—to ride, or read aloud +to the old people, or sit down at meals with them is very easy; but I +cannot make employment for myself—that requires too much effort of +invention and will: and I have only will for one thing in life—to get +through it: and no invention to the purpose. Oh, Beloved, in the grave I +shall lie forever with a <a name="Page_226" id="Page_226"></a>lock of your hair in my hand. I wonder if, +beyond there, one sees anything? My eyes ache to-day from the brain, +which is always at blind groping for you, and the point where I missed +you.</p><p><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXIV" id="LETTER_LXIV"></a>LETTER LXIV.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> It is dreadful to own that I was glad at first to know +that you and your mother were no longer together, glad of something that +must mean pain to you! I am not now. When you were ill I did a wrong +thing: from her something came to me which I returned. I would do much +to undo that act now; but this has fixed it forever. With it were a few +kind words. I could not bear to accept praise from her: all went back to +her! Oh, poor thing, poor thing! if I ever had an enemy I thought it was +she! I do not think so now. Those who seem cold seldom are. I hope you +were with her at the last: she loved you beyond any word that was in her +nature to utter, and the young are hard on the old without knowing it. +We were two people, she and I, whose love clashed jealously over the +same object, and we both failed. She is the first to get rest.</p><p><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXV" id="LETTER_LXV"></a>LETTER LXV.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">My Dear:</span> I dream of you now every night, and you are always +kind, always just as I knew you: the same without a shadow of change.</p> + +<p>I cannot picture you anyhow else, though my life is full of the silence +you have made. My heart seems to have stopped on the last beat the sight +of your handwriting gave it.</p> + +<p>I dare not bid you come back now: sorrow has made me a stranger to +myself. I could not look at you and say "I am your Star":—I could not +believe it if I said it. Two women have inhabited me, and the one here +now is not the one you knew and loved: their one likeness is that they +both have loved the same man, the one certain that her love was +returned, and the other certain of nothing. What a world of difference +lies in that!</p> + +<p>I lay hands on myself, half doubting, and feel my skeleton pushing to +the front: my glass shows it me. Thus we are all built up: bones are at +the foundations of our happiness, and when the hap<a name="Page_229" id="Page_229"></a>piness wears thin, +they show through, the true architecture of humanity.</p> + +<p>I have to realize now that I have become the greatest possible failure +in life,—a woman who has lost her "share of the world": I try to shape +myself to it.</p> + +<p>It is deadly when a woman's sex, what was once her glory, reveals itself +to her as an all-containing loss. I realized myself fully only when I +was with you; and now I can't undo it.—You gone, I lean against a +shadow, and feel myself forever falling, drifting to no end, a Francesca +without a Paolo. Well, it must be some comfort that I do not drag you +with me. I never believed myself a "strong" woman; your lightest wish +shaped me to its liking. Now you have molded me with your own image and +superscription, and have cast me away.</p> + +<p>Are not the die and the coin that comes from it only two sides of the +same form?—there is not a hair's breadth anywhere between their +surfaces where they lie, the one inclosing the other. Yet part them, and +the light strikes on them how differently! That is a mere condition of +light: join them in darkness, where the light cannot strike, and they +are the same—two faces of a single form. So you and I, dear, when we +are dead, shall come together again, I trust. Or are we to come back to +each other defaced and warped out <a name="Page_230" id="Page_230"></a>of our true conjunction? I think not: +for if you have changed, if soul can ever change, I shall be melted +again by your touch, and flow to meet all the change that is in you, +since my true self is to be you.</p> + +<p>Oh, you, my Beloved, do you wake happy, either with or without thoughts +of me? I cannot understand, but I trust that it may be so. If I could +have a reason why I have so passed out of your life, I could endure it +better. What was in me that you did not wish? What was in you that I +must not wish for evermore? If the root of this separation was in you, +if in God's will it was ordered that we were to love, and, without +loving less, afterwards be parted, I could acquiesce so willingly. But +it is this knowing nothing that overwhelms me:—I strain my eyes for +sight and can't see; I reach out my hands for the sunlight and am given +great handfuls of darkness. I said to you the sun had dropped out of my +heaven.—My dear, my dear, is this darkness indeed you? Am I in the mold +with my face to yours, receiving the close impression of a misery in +which we are at one? Are you, dearest, hungering and thirsting for me, +as I now for you?</p> + +<p>I wonder what, to the starving and drought-stricken, the taste of death +can be like! Do all the rivers of the world run together to the lips +then, and all its fruits strike suddenly to the taste <a name="Page_231" id="Page_231"></a>when the long +deprivation ceases to be a want? Or is it simply a ceasing of hunger and +thirst—an antidote to it all?</p> + +<p>I may know soon. How very strange if at the last I forget to think of +you!</p><p><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXVI" id="LETTER_LXVI"></a>LETTER LXVI.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> Every day I am giving myself a little more pain than I +need—for the sake of you. I am giving myself your letters to read again +day by day as I received them. Only one a day, so that I have still +something left to look forward to to-morrow: and oh, dearest, what +<i>unanswerable</i> things they have now become, those letters which I used +to answer so easily! There is hardly a word but the light of to-day +stands before it like a drawn sword, between the heart that then felt +and wrote so, and mine as it now feels and waits.</p> + +<p>All your tenderness then seems to be cruelty now: only <i>seems</i>, dearest, +for I still say, I <i>do</i> say that it is not so. I know it is not so: I, +who know nothing else, know that! So I look every day at one of these +monstrous contradictions, and press it to my heart till it becomes +reconciled with the pain that is there always.</p> + +<p>Indeed you loved me: that I see now. Words which I took so much for +granted then have a strange force now that I look back at them. You did +love: and I who did not realize it enough then, realize it now when you +no longer do.</p><p><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233"></a></p> + +<p>And the commentary on all this is that one letter of yours which I say +over and over to myself sometimes when I cannot pray: "There is no fault +in you: the fault is elsewhere; I can no longer love you as I did. All +that was between us must be at an end; for your good and mine the only +right thing is to say good-by without meeting. I know you will not +forget me, but you will forgive me, even because of the great pain I +cause you. You are the most generous woman I have known. If it would +comfort you to blame me for this I would beg you to do it: but I know +you better, and ask you to believe that it is my deep misfortune rather +than my fault that I can be no longer your lover, as, God knows, I was +once, I dare not say how short a time ago. To me you remain, what I +always found you, the best and most true-hearted woman a man could pray +to meet."</p> + +<p>This, dearest, I say and say: and write down now lest you have forgotten +it. For your writing of it, and all the rest of you that I have, goes +with me to my grave. How superstitious we are of our own bodies after +death!—I, as if I believed that I should ever rise or open my ears to +any sound again! I do not, yet it comforts me to make sure that certain +things shall go with me to dissolution.</p> + +<p>Truly, dearest, I believe grief is a great de<a name="Page_234" id="Page_234"></a>ceiver, and that no one +quite quite wishes not to exist. I have no belief in future existence; +yet I wish it so much—to exist again outside all this failure of my +life. For at present I have done you no good at all, only evil.</p> + +<p>And I hope now and then, that writing thus to you I am not writing +altogether in vain. If I can see sufficiently at the last to say—Send +him these, it will be almost like living again: for surely you will love +me again when you see how much I have suffered,—and suffered because I +would not let thought of you go.</p> + +<p>Could you dream, Beloved, reading <i>this</i> that there is bright sunlight +streaming over my paper as I write?</p><p><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXVII" id="LETTER_LXVII"></a>LETTER LXVII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Do</span> you forgive me for coming into your life, Beloved? I do not +know in what way I can have hurt you, but I know that I have. Perhaps +without knowing it we exchange salves for the wounds we have given and +received? Dearest, I trust those I send reach you: I send them, wishing +till I grow weak. My arms strain and become tired trying to be wings to +carry them to you: and I am glad of that weariness—it seems to be some +virtue that has gone out of me. If all my body could go out in the +effort, I think I should get a glimpse of your face, and the meaning of +everything then at last.</p> + +<p>I have brought in a wild rose to lay here in love's cenotaph, among all +my thoughts of you. It comes from a graveyard full of "little deaths." I +remember once sending you a flower from the same place when love was +still fortunate with us. I must have been reckless in my happiness to do +that!</p> + +<p>Beloved, if I could speak or write out all my thoughts, till I had +emptied myself of them, I <a name="Page_236" id="Page_236"></a>feel that I should rest. But there is no +<i>emptying</i> the brain by thinking. Things thought come to be thought +again over and over, and more and fresh come in their train: children +and grandchildren, generations of them, sprung from the old stock. I +have many thoughts now, born of my love for you, that never came when we +were together,—grandchildren of our days of courtship. Some of them are +set down here, but others escape and will never see your face!</p> + +<p>If (poor word, it has the sound but no hope of a future life): still, +<span class="smcap">if</span> you should ever come back to me and want, as you would want, +to know something of the life in between,—I could put these letters +that I keep into your hands and trust them to say for me that no day +have I been truly, that is to say <i>willingly</i>, out of your heart. When +Richard Feverel comes back to his wife, do you remember how she takes +him to see their child, which till then he had never seen—and its +likeness to him as it lies asleep? Dearest, have I not been as true to +you in all that I leave here written?</p> + +<p>If, when I come to my finish, I get any truer glimpse of your mind, and +am sure of what you would wish, I will leave word that these shall be +sent to you. If not, I must suppose knowledge is still delayed, not that +it will not reach you.</p> + +<p>Sometimes I try still not to wish to die. For <a name="Page_237" id="Page_237"></a>my poor body's sake I +wish Well to have its last chance of coming to pass. It is the unhappy +unfulfilled clay of life, I think, which robbed of its share of things +set ghosts to walk: mists which rise out of a ground that has not worked +out its fruitfulness, to take the shape of old desires. If I leave a +ghost, it will take <i>your</i> shape, not mine, dearest: for it will be "as +trees walking" that the "lovers of trees" will come back to earth. +Browning did not know that. Someone else, not Browning, has worded it +for us: a lover of trees far away sends his soul back to the country +that has lost him, and there "the traveler, marveling why, halts on the +bridge to hearken how soft the poplars sigh," not knowing that it is the +lover himself who sighs in the trees all night. That is how the ghosts +of real love come back into the world. The ghosts of love and the ghosts +of hatred must be quite different: these bring fear, and those none. +Come to me, dearest, in the blackest night, and I will not be afraid.</p> + +<p>How strange that when one has suffered most, it is the poets (those who +are supposed to <i>sing</i>) who best express things for us. Yet singing is +the thing I feel least like. If ever a heart once woke up to find itself +full of tune, it was mine; now you have drawn all the song out of it, +emptied it dry: and I go to the poets to read epitaphs.<a name="Page_238" id="Page_238"></a> I think it is +their cruelty that appeals to me:—they can sing of grief! O hard +hearts!</p> + +<p>Sitting here thinking of you, my ears have suddenly become wide open to +the night-sounds outside. A night-jar is making its beautiful burr in +the stillness, and there are things going away and away, telling me the +whereabouts of life like points on a map made for the ear. You, too, are +<i>somewhere</i> outside, making no sound: and listening for you I heard +these. It seemed as if my brain had all at once opened and caught a new +sense. Are you there? This is one of those things which drop to us with +no present meaning: yet I know I am not to forget it as long as I live.</p> + +<p>Good-night! At your head, at your feet, is there any room for me +to-night, Beloved?</p><p><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXVIII" id="LETTER_LXVIII"></a>LETTER LXVIII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> The thought keeps troubling me how to give myself to +you most, if you should ever come back for me when I am no longer here. +These poor letters are all that I can leave: will they tell you enough +of my heart?</p> + +<p>Oh, into that, wish any wish that you like, and it is there already! My +heart, dearest, only moves in the wish to be what you desire.</p> + +<p>Yet I am conscious that I cannot give, unless you shall choose to take: +and though I write myself down each day your willing slave, I cry my +wares in a market where there is no bidder to hear me.</p> + +<p>Dearest, though my whole life is yours, it is little you know of it. My +wish would be to have every year of my life blessed by your +consciousness of it. Barely a year of me is all that you have, truly, to +remember: though I think five summers at least came to flower, and +withered in that one.</p> + +<p>I wish you knew my whole life: I cannot tell it: it was too full of +infinitely small things. Yet <a name="Page_240" id="Page_240"></a>what I can remember I would like to tell +now: so that some day, perhaps, perhaps, my childhood may here and there +be warmed long after its death by your knowledge coming to it and +discovering in it more than you knew before.</p> + +<p>How I long, dearest, that what I write may look up some day and meet +your eye! Beloved, <i>then</i>, however faded the ink may have grown, I think +the spirit of my love will remain fresh in it:—I kiss you on the lips +with every word. The thought of "good-by" is never to enter here: it is +<i>A reviderci</i> for ever and ever:—"Love, love," and "meet again!"—the +words we put into the thrush's song on a day you will remember, when all +the world for us was a garden.</p> + +<p>Dearest, what I can tell you of older days,—little things they must +be—I will: and I know that if you ever come to value them at all, their +littleness will make them doubly welcome:—just as to know that you were +once called a "gallous young hound" by people whom you plagued when a +boy, was to me a darling discovery: all at once I caught my childhood's +imaginary comrade to my young spirit's heart and kissed him, brow and +eyes.</p> + +<p>Good-night, good-night! To-morrow I will find you some earliest memory: +the dew of Hermon be on it when you come to it—if ever!</p><p><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241"></a></p> + +<p>Oh, Beloved, could you see into my heart now, or I into yours, time +would grow to nothing for us; and my childhood would stay unwritten!</p> + +<p>From far and near I gather my thoughts of you for the kiss I cannot +give. Good-night, dearest.</p><p><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXIX" id="LETTER_LXIX"></a>LETTER LXIX.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> I remember my second birthday. I am quite sure of it, +because my third I remember so infinitely well.—Then I was taken in to +see Arthur lying in baby bridal array of lace fringes and gauze, and +received in my arms held up for me by Nan-nan the awful weight and +imperial importance of his small body.</p> + +<p>I think from the first I was told of him as my "brother": cousin I have +never been able to think him. But all this belongs to my third: on my +second, I remember being on a floor of roses; and they told me if I +would go across to a clipboard and pull it open there would be something +there waiting for me. And it was on all-fours that I went all eagerness +across great patches of rose-pattern, till I had butted my way through a +door left ajar, and found in a cardboard box of bright tinsel and +flowers two little wax babes in the wood lying.</p> + +<p>I think they gave me my first sense of color, except, perhaps, the +rose-carpet which came earlier, and they remained for quite a long time +the <a name="Page_243" id="Page_243"></a>most beautiful thing I knew. It is strange that I cannot remember +what became of them, for I am sure I neither broke nor lost +them,—perhaps it was done for me: Arthur came afterward, the tomb of +many of my early joys, and the maker of so many new ones. He, dearest, +is the one, the only one, who has seen the tears that belong truly to +you: and he blesses me with such wonderful patience when I speak your +name, allowing that perhaps I know better than he. And after the wax +babies I had him for my third birthday.</p><p><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXX" id="LETTER_LXX"></a>LETTER LXX.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> I think that small children see very much as animals +must do: just the parts of things which have a direct influence on their +lives, and no memory outside that. I remember the kindness or frowns of +faces in early days far more than the faces themselves: and it is quite +a distinct and later memory that I have of standing within a doorway and +watching my mother pass downstairs unconscious of my being there,—and +<i>then</i>, for the first time, studying her features and seeing in them a +certain solitude and distance which I had never before noticed:—I +suppose because I had never before thought of looking at her when she +was not concerned with me.</p> + +<p>It was this unobservance of actual features, I imagine, which made me +think all gray-haired people alike, and find a difficulty in recognizing +those who called, except generically as callers—people who kissed me, +and whom therefore I liked to see.</p> + +<p>One, I remember, for no reason unless because she had a brown face, I +mistook from a distance <a name="Page_245" id="Page_245"></a>for my Aunt Dolly, and bounded into the room +where she was sitting, with a cry of rapture. And it was my earliest +conscious test of politeness, when I found out my mistake, not to cry +over it in the kind but very inferior presence to that one I had hoped +for.</p> + +<p>I suppose, also, that many sights which have no meaning to children go, +happily, quite out of memory; and that what our early years leave for us +in the mind's lavender are just the tit-bits of life, or the first blows +to our intelligence—things which did matter and mean much.</p> + +<p>Corduroys come early into my life,—their color and the queer earthy +smell of those which particularly concerned me: because I was picked up +from a fall and tenderly handled by a rough working-man so clothed, whom +I regarded for a long time afterward as an adorable object. He and I +lived to my recognition of him as a wizened, scrubby, middle-aged man, +but remained good friends after the romance was over. I don't know when +the change in my sense of beauty took place as regards him.</p> + +<p>Anything unusual that appealed to my senses left exaggerated marks. My +father once in full uniform appeared to me as a giant, so that I +screamed and ran, and required much of his kindest voice to coax me back +to him.</p> + +<p>Also once in the street a dancer in fancy cos<a name="Page_246" id="Page_246"></a>tume struck me in the same +way, and seemed in his red tunic twice the size of the people who +crowded round him.</p> + +<p>I think as a child the small ground-flowers of spring took a larger hold +upon me than any others:—I was so close to them. Roses I don't remember +till I was four or five; but crocus and snowdrop seem to have been in my +blood from the very beginning of things; and I remember likening the +green inner petals of the snowdrop to the skirts of some ballet-dancing +dolls, which danced themselves out of sight before I was four years old.</p> + +<p>Snapdragons, too, I remember as if with my first summer: I used to feed +them with bits of their own green leaves, believing faithfully that +those mouths must need food of some sort. When I became more thoughtful +I ceased to make cannibals of them: but I think I was less convinced +then of the digestive process. I don't know when I left off feeding +snapdragons: I think calceolarias helped to break me off the habit, for +I found they had no throats to swallow with.</p> + +<p>In much the same way as sights that have no meaning leave no traces, so +I suppose do words and sounds. It was many years before I overheard, in +the sense of taking in, a conversation by elders not meant for me: +though once, in my <a name="Page_247" id="Page_247"></a>innocence, I hid under the table during the elders' +late dinner, and came out at dessert, to which we were always allowed to +come down, hoping to be an amusing surprise to them. And I could not at +all understand why I was scolded; for, indeed, I had <i>heard</i> nothing at +all, though no doubt plenty that was unsuitable for a child's ears had +been said, and was on the elders' minds when they upbraided me.</p> + +<p>Dearest, such a long-ago! and all these smallest of small things I +remember again, to lay them up for you: all the child-parentage of me +whom you loved once, and will again if ever these come to you.</p> + +<p>Bless my childhood, dearest: it did not know it was lonely of you, as I +know of myself now! And yet I have known you, and know you still, so am +the more blest.—Good-night.</p><p><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXXI" id="LETTER_LXXI"></a>LETTER LXXI.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">I used</span> to stand at the foot of the stairs a long time, when by +myself, before daring to start up: and then it was always the right foot +that went first. And a fearful feeling used to accompany me that I was +going to meet the "evil chance" when I got to the corner. Sometimes when +I felt it was there very badly, I used at the last moment to shut my +eyes and walk through it: and feel, on the other side, like a pilgrim +who had come through the waters of Jordan.</p> + +<p>My eyes were always the timidest things about me: and to shut my eyes +tight against the dark was the only way I had of meeting the solitude of +the first hour of bed when Nan-nan had left me, and before I could get +to sleep.</p> + +<p>I have an idea that one listens better with one's eyes shut, and that +this and other things are a remnant of our primitive existence when +perhaps the ears of our arboreal ancestors kept a lookout while the rest +of their senses slept. I think, also, that the instinct I found in +myself, and have since in other children, to conceal a <a name="Page_249" id="Page_249"></a>wound is a +similar survival. At one time, I suppose, in the human herd the damaged +were quickly put out of existence; and it was the self-preservation +instinct which gave me so keen a wish to get into hiding when one day I +cut my finger badly—something more than a mere scratch, which I would +have cried over and had bandaged quite in the correct way. I remember I +sat in a corner and pretended to be nursing a rag doll which I had +knotted round my hand, till Nan-nan noticed, perhaps, that I looked +white, and found blood flowing into my lap. And I can recall still the +overcoming comfort which fell upon me as I let resolution go, and sobbed +in her arms full of pity for myself and scolding the "naughty knife" +that had done the deed. The rest of that day is lost to me.</p> + +<p>Yet it is not only occasions of happiness and pain which impress +themselves. When the mind takes a sudden stride in consciousness,—that, +also, fixes itself. I remember the agony of shyness which came on me +when strange hands did my undressing for me once in Nan-nan's absence: +the first time I had felt such a thing. And another day I remember, +after contemplating the head of Judas in a pictorial puzzle for a long +time, that I seized a brick and pounded him with it beyond +recognition:—these were the first vengeful beginnings of Christianity +in me. All <a name="Page_250" id="Page_250"></a>my history, Bible and English, came to me through +picture-books. I wept tenderly over the endangered eyes of Prince +Arthur, yet I put out the eyes of many kings, princes, and governors who +incurred my displeasure, scratching them with pins till only a white +blur remained on the paper.</p> + +<p>All this comes to me quite seriously now: I used to laugh thinking it +over. But can a single thing we do be called trivial, since out of it we +grow up minute by minute into a whole being charged with capacity for +gladness or suffering?</p> + +<p>Now, as I look back, all these atoms of memory are dust and ashes that I +have walked through in order to get to present things. How I suffer, how +I suffer! If you could have dreamed that a human body could contain so +much suffering, I think you would have chosen a less dreadful way of +showing me your will: you would have given me a reason why I have to +suffer so.</p> + +<p>Dearest, I am broken off every habit I ever had, except my love of you. +If you would come back to me you could shape me into whatever you +wished. I will be different in all but just that one thing.</p><p><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXXII" id="LETTER_LXXII"></a>LETTER LXXII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Here</span> in my pain, Beloved, I remember keenly now the one or two +occasions when as a small child I was consciously a cause of pain to +others. What an irony of life that once of the two times when I remember +to have been cruel, it was to Arthur, with his small astonished +baby-face remaining a reproach to me ever after! I was hardly five then, +and going up to the nursery from downstairs had my supper-cake in my +hand, only a few mouthfuls left. He had been having his bath, and was +sitting up on Nan-nan's knee being got into his bed clothes; when spying +me with my cake he piped to have a share of it. I dare say it would not +have been good for him, but of that I thought nothing at all: the cruel +impulse took me to make one mouthful of all that was left. He watched it +go without crying; but his eyes opened at me in a strange way, wondering +at this sudden lesson of the hardness of a human heart. "All gone!" was +what he said, turning his head from me up to Nan-nan, to see perhaps if +she too had a like surprise for <a name="Page_252" id="Page_252"></a>his wee intelligence. I think I have +never forgiven myself that, though Arthur has no memory of it left in +him: the judging remembrance of it would, I believe, win forgiveness to +him for any wrong he might now do me, if that and not the contrary were +his way with me: so unreasonably is my brain scarred where the thought +of it still lies. God may forgive us our trespasses by marvelous slow +ways; but we cannot always forgive them ourselves.</p> + +<p>The other thing came out of a less personal greed, and was years later: +Arthur and I were collecting eggs, and in the loft over one of the +out-houses there was a swallow's nest too high up to be reached by any +ladder we could get up there. I was intent on getting the <i>eggs</i>, and +thought of no other thing that might chance: so I spread a soft fall +below, and with a long pole I broke the floor of the nest. Then with a +sudden stir of horror I saw soft things falling along with the clay, +tiny and feathery. Two were killed by the breakage that fell with them, +but one was quite alive and unhurt. I gathered up the remnants of the +nest and set it with the young one in it by the loft window where the +parent-birds might see, making clumsy strivings of pity to quiet my +conscience. The parent-birds did see, soon enough: they returned, first +up to the rafters, then darting round and round <a name="Page_253" id="Page_253"></a>and crying; then to +where their little one lay helpless and exposed, hung over it with a +nibbling movement of their beaks for a moment, making my miserable heart +bound up with hope: then away, away, shrieking into the July sunshine. +Once they came back, and shrieked at the horror of it all, and fled away +not to return.</p> + +<p>I remained for hours and did whatever silly pity could dictate: but of +course the young one died: and I—<i>cleared away all remains that nobody +might see</i>! And that I gave up egg-collecting after that was no penance, +but choice. Since then the poignancy of my regret when I think of it has +never softened. The question which pride of life and love of +make-believe till then had not raised in me, "Am I a god to kill and to +make alive?" was answered all at once by an emphatic "No," which I never +afterward forgot. But the grief remained all the same, that life, to +teach me that blunt truth, should have had to make sacrifice in the +mote-hung loft of three frail lives on a clay-altar, and bring to +nothing but pain and a last miserable dart away into the bright sunshine +the spring work of two swift-winged intelligences. Is man, we are told +to think, not worth many sparrows? Oh, Beloved, sometimes I doubt it! +and would in thought give my life that those swallows in their +generations might live again.</p><p><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254"></a></p> + +<p>Beloved, I am letting what I have tried to tell you of my childhood end +in a sad way. For it is no use, no use: I have not to-day a glimmer of +hope left that your eyes will ever rest on what I have been at such deep +trouble to write.</p> + +<p>If I were being punished for these two childish things I did, I should +see a side of justice in it all. But it is for loving you I am being +punished: and not God himself shall make me let you go! Beloved, +Beloved, all my days are at your feet, and among them days when you held +me to your heart. Good-night; good-night always now!</p><p><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXXIII" id="LETTER_LXXIII"></a>LETTER LXXIII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> I could never have made any appeal <i>from</i> you to +anybody: all my appeal has been <i>to</i> you alone. I have wished to hear +reason from no other lips but yours; and had you but really and deeply +confided in me, I believe I could have submitted almost with a light +heart to what you thought best:—though in no way and by no stretch of +the imagination can I see you coming to me for the last time and +<i>saying</i>, as you only wrote, that it was best we should never see each +other again.</p> + +<p>You could not have said that with any sound of truth; and how can it +look truer frozen into writing? I have kissed the words, because you +wrote them; not believing them. It is a suspense of unbelief that you +have left me in, oh, still dearest! Yet never was sad heart truer to the +fountain of all its joy than mine to yours. You had only to see me to +know that.</p> + +<p>Some day, I dream, we shall come suddenly together, and you will see, +before a word, before I have time to gather my mind back to the bodily +<a name="Page_256" id="Page_256"></a>comfort of your presence, a face filled with thoughts of you that have +never left it, and never been bitter:—I believe never once bitter. For +even when I think, and convince myself that you have wronged +yourself—and so, me also,—even then: oh, then most of all, my heart +seems to break with tenderness, and my spirit grow more famished than +ever for the want of you! For if you have done right, wisely, then you +have no longer any need of me: but if you have done wrong, then you must +need me. Oh, dear heart, let that need overwhelm you like a sea, and +bring you toward me on its strong tide! And come when you will I shall +be waiting.</p><p><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXXIV" id="LETTER_LXXIV"></a>LETTER LXXIV.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest and Dearest:</span> So long as you are still this to my heart +I trust to have strength to write it; though it is but a ghost of old +happiness that comes to me in the act. I have no hope now left in me: +but I love you not less, only more, if that be possible: or is it the +same love with just a weaker body to contain it all? I find that to have +definitely laid off all hope gives me a certain relief: for now that I +am so hopeless it becomes less hard not to misjudge you—not to say and +think impatiently about you things which would explain why I had to die +like this.</p> + +<p>Dearest, nothing but love shall explain anything of you to me. When I +think of your dear face, it is only love that can give it its meaning. +If love would teach me the meaning of this silence, I would accept all +the rest, and not ask for any joy in life besides. For if I had the +meaning, however dark, it would be by love speaking to me again at last; +and I should have your hand holding mine in the darkness forever.</p><p><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258"></a></p> + +<p>Your face, Beloved, I can remember so well that it would be enough if I +had your hand:—the meaning, just the meaning, why I have to sit blind.</p><p><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXXV" id="LETTER_LXXV"></a>LETTER LXXV.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> There is always one possibility which I try to +remember in all I write: even where there is no hope a thing remains +<i>possible</i>:—that your eye may some day come to rest upon what I leave +here. And I would have nothing so dark as to make it seem that I were +better dead than to have come to such a pass through loving you. If I +felt that, dearest, I should not be writing my heart out to you, as I +do: when I cease doing that I shall indeed have become dead and not want +you any more, I suppose. How far I am from dying, then, now!</p> + +<p>So be quite sure that if now, even now,—for to-day of all days has +seemed most dark—if now I were given my choice—to have known you or +not to have known you,—Beloved, a thousand times I would claim to keep +what I have, rather than have it taken away from me. I cannot forget +that for a few months I was the happiest woman I ever knew: and that +happiness is perhaps only by present conditions removed from me. If I +have a soul, I believe good will come <a name="Page_260" id="Page_260"></a>back to it: because I have done +nothing to deserve this darkness unless by loving you: and if <i>by</i> +loving you, I am glad that the darkness came.</p> + +<p>Beloved, you have the yes and no to all this: <i>I</i> have not, and cannot +have. Something that you have not chosen for me to know, you know: it +should be a burden on your conscience, surely, not to have shared it +with me. Maybe there is something I know that you do not. In the way of +sorrow, I think and wish—yes. In the way of love, I wish to think—no.</p> + +<p>Any more thinking wearies me. Perhaps we have loved too much, and have +lost our way out of our poor five senses, without having strength to +take over the new world which is waiting beyond them. Well, I would +rather, Beloved, suffer through loving too much, than through loving too +little. It is a good fault as faults go. And it is <i>my</i> fault, Beloved: +so some day you may have to be tender to it.</p><p><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXXVI" id="LETTER_LXXVI"></a>LETTER LXXVI.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> I feel constantly that we are together still: I cannot +explain. When I am most miserable, even so that I feel a longing to fly +out of reach of the dear household voices which say shy things to keep +me cheerful,—I feel that I have you in here waiting for me. Heart's +heart, in my darkest, it is you who speak to me!</p> + +<p>As I write I have my cheek pressed against yours. None of it is true: +not a word, not a day that has separated us! I am yours: it is only the +poor five senses part of us that spells absence. Some day, some day you +will answer this letter which has to stay locked in my desk. Some day, +I mean, an answer will reach me:—without your reading this, your answer +will come. Is not your heart at this moment answering me?</p> + +<p>Dearest, I trust you: I could not have dreamed you to myself, therefore +you must be true, quite independently of me. You as I saw you once with +open eyes remain so forever. You cannot make yourself, Beloved, not to +be what you are: you have called my soul to life if for no other <a name="Page_262" id="Page_262"></a>reason +than to bear witness of you, come what may. No length of silence can +make a truth once sounded ever cease to be: borne away out of our +hearing it makes its way to the stars: dispersed or removed it cannot be +lost. I too, for truth's sake, may have to be dispersed out of my +present self which shuts me from you: but I shall find you some +day,—you who made me, you who every day make me! A part of you cut off, +I suffer pain because I <i>am</i> still part of you. If I had no part in you +I should suffer nothing. But I do, I do. One is told how, when a man has +lost a limb, he still feels it,—not the pleasure of it but the pain. +Dearest, are you aware of me now?</p> + +<p>Because I am suffering, you shall not think I am entirely miserable. But +here and now I am all unfinished ends. Desperately I need faith at times +to tell me that each shoot of pain has a point at which it assuages +itself and becomes healing: that pain is not endurance wasted; but that +I and my weary body have a goal which will give a meaning to all this, +somehow, somewhere: never, I begin to fear, here, while this body has +charge of me.</p> + +<p>Dearest, I lay my heart down on yours and cry: and having worn myself +out with it and ended, I kiss your lips and bless God that I have known +you.</p><p><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263"></a></p> + +<p>I have not said—I never could say it—"Let the day perish wherein Love +was born!" I forget nothing of you: you are clear to me,—all but one +thing: why we have become as we are now, one whole, parted and sent +different ways. And yet so near! On my most sleepless nights my pillow +is yours: I wet your face with my tears and cry, "Sleep well."</p> + +<p>To-night also, Beloved, sleep well! Night and morning I make you my +prayer.</p><p><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXXVII" id="LETTER_LXXVII"></a>LETTER LXXVII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">My</span> own one beloved, my dearest dear! Want me, please want me! I +will keep alive for you. Say you wish me to live,—not come to you: +don't say that if you can't—but just wish me to live, and I will. Yes, +I will do anything, even live, if you tell me to do it. I will be +stronger than all the world or fate, if you have any wish about me at +all. Wish well, dearest, and surely the knowledge will come to me. Wish +big things of me, or little things: wish me to sleep, and I will sleep +better because of it. Wish anything of me: only not that I should love +you better. I can't, dearest, I can't. Any more of that, and love would +go out of my body and leave it clay. If you would even wish <i>that</i>, I +would be happy at finding a way to do your will below ground more +perfectly than any I found on it. Wish, wish: only wish something for me +to do. Oh, I could rest if I had but your little finger to love. The +tyranny of love is when it makes no bidding at all. That you have no +want <a name="Page_265" id="Page_265"></a>or wish left in you as regards me is my continual despair. My own, +my beloved, my tormentor and comforter, my ever dearest dear, whom I +love so much!</p><p><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXXVIII" id="LETTER_LXXVIII"></a>LETTER LXXVIII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">To-night,</span> Beloved, the burden of things is too much for me. +Come to me somehow, dear ghost of all my happiness, and take me in your +arms! I ache and ache, not to belong to you. I do: I must. It is only +our senses that divide us; and mine are all famished servants waiting +for their master. They have nothing to do but watch for you, and pretend +that they believe you will come. Oh, it is grievous!</p> + +<p>Beloved, in the darkness do you feel my kisses? They go out of me in +sharp stabs of pain: they must go <i>somewhere</i> for me to be delivered of +them only with so much suffering. Oh, how this should make me hate you, +if that were possible: how, instead, I love you more and more, and +shall, dearest, and will till I die!</p> + +<p>I <i>will</i> die, because in no other way can I express how much I love you. +I am possessed by all the despairing words about lost happiness that the +poets have written. They go through me like ghosts: I am haunted by +them: but they are <a name="Page_267" id="Page_267"></a>bloodless things. It seems when I listen to all the +other desolate voices that have ever cried, that I alone have blood in +me. Nobody ever loved as I love since the world began.</p> + +<p>There, dearest, take this, all this bitter wine of me poured out until I +feel in myself only the dregs left: and still in them is the fire and +the suffering.</p> + +<p>No: but I will be better: it is better to have known you than not. Give +me time, dearest, to get you to heart again! I cannot leave you like +this: not with such words as these for "good-night!"</p> + +<p>Oh, dear face, dear unforgetable lost face, my soul strains up to look +for you through the blind eyes that have been left to torment me because +they can never behold you. Very often I have seen you looking grieved, +shutting away some sorrow in yourself quietly: but never once angry or +impatient at any of the small follies of men. Come, then, and look at me +patiently now! I am your blind girl: I must cry out because I cannot see +you. Only make me believe that you yet think of me as, when you so +unbelievably separated us, you said you had always found me—"the +dearest and most true-hearted woman a man could pray to meet." Beloved, +if in your heart I am still that, separation does not matter. I can +wait, I can wait.</p><p><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268"></a></p> + +<p>I kiss your feet: even to-morrow may bring the light. God bless you! I +pray it more than ever; because to me to-night has been so very dark.</p><p><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXXIX" id="LETTER_LXXIX"></a>LETTER LXXIX.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> I have not written to you for three weeks. At last I +am better again. You seem to have been waiting for me here: always +wondering when I would come back. I do come back, you see.</p> + +<p>Dear heart, how are you? I kiss your feet; you are my one only +happiness, my great one. Words are too cold and cruel to write anything +for me. Picture me: I am too weak to write more, but I have written +this, and am so much better for it.</p> + +<p>Reward me some day by reading what is here. I kiss, because of you, this +paper which I am too tired to fill any more.</p> + +<p>Love, nothing but love! Into every one of these dead words my heart has +been beating, trying to lay down its life and reach to you.</p><p><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXXX" id="LETTER_LXXX"></a>LETTER LXXX.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">A secret,</span> dearest, that will be no secret soon: before I am +done with twenty-three I shall have passed my age. Beloved, it hurts me +more than I can say that the news of it should come to you from anyone +but me: for this, though I write it, is already a dead letter, lost like +a predestined soul even in the pains that gave it birth. Yes, it does +pain me, frightens me even, that I must die all by myself, and feeling +still so young. I thought I should look forward to it, but I do not; no, +no, I would give much to put it off for a time, until I could know what +it will mean for me as regards you. Oh, if you only knew and <i>cared,</i> +what wild comfort I might have in the knowledge! It seems strange that +if I were going away from the chance of a perfect life with you I should +feel it with less pain than I feel this. The dust and the ashes of life +are all that I have to let fall: and it is bitterness itself to part +with them.</p> + +<p>How we grow to love sorrow! Joy is never so much a possession—it goes +over us, incloses us like air or sunlight; but sorrow goes into us <a name="Page_271" id="Page_271"></a>and +becomes part of our flesh and bone. So that I, holding up my hand to the +sunshine, see sorrow red and transparent like stained glass between me +and the light of day, sorrow that has become inseparably mine, and is +the very life I am wishing to keep!</p> + +<p>Dearest, will the world be more bearable to you when I am out of it? It +is selfish of me not to wish so, since I can satisfy you in this so +soon! Every day I will try to make it my wish: or wish that it may be so +when the event comes—not a day before. Till then let it be more +bearable that I am still alive: grant me, dearest, that one little grace +while I live!</p> + +<p>Bearable! My sorrow <i>is</i> bearable, I suppose, because I do bear it from +day to day: otherwise I would declare it not to be. Don't suffer as I +do, dearest, unless that will comfort you.</p> + +<p>One thing is strange, but I feel quite certain of it: when I heard that +I carried death about in me, scarcely an arm's-length away, I thought +quickly to myself that it was not the solution of the mystery. Others +might have thought that it was: that because I was to die so soon, +therefore I was not fit to be your wife. But I know it was not that. I +know that whatever hopes death in me put an end to, you would have +married me and loved me patiently till I released you, as I am to so +soon.</p><p><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272"></a></p> + +<p>It is always this same woe that crops up: nothing I can ever think can +account for what has been decreed. That too is a secret: mine comes to +meet it. When it arrives shall I know?</p> + +<p>And not a word, not a word of this can reach you ever! Its uses are +wrung out and drained dry to comfort me in my eternal solitude.</p> + +<p>Good-night; very soon it will have to be good-by.</p><p><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXXXI" id="LETTER_LXXXI"></a>LETTER LXXXI.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Beloved:</span> I woke last night and believed I had your arms round +me, and that all storms had gone over me forever. The peace of your love +had inclosed me so tremendously that when I was fully awake I began to +think that what I held was you dead, and that our reconciliation had +come at that great cost.</p> + +<p>Something remains real of it all, even now under the full light of day: +yet I know you are not dead. Only it leaves me with a hope that at the +lesser cost of my own death, when it comes, happiness may break in, and +that whichever of us has been the most in poor and needy ignorance will +know the truth at last—the truth which is an inseparable need for all +hearts that love rightly.</p> + +<p>Even now to me the thought of you is a peace passing <i>all</i> +understanding. Beloved, Beloved, Beloved, all the greetings I ever gave +you gather here, and are hungry to belong to you by a better way than I +have ever dreamed. I am yours, till something more than death swallows +me up.</p><p><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXXXII" id="LETTER_LXXXII"></a>LETTER LXXXII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> If you will believe any word of mine, you must not +believe that I have died of a broken heart should science and the +doctors bring about a fulfillment of their present prophesyings +concerning me.</p> + +<p>I think my heart has held me up for a long time, not letting me know +that I was ill: I did not notice. And now my body snaps on a stem that +has grown too thin to hold up its weight. I am at the end of twenty-two +years: they have been too many for me, and the last has seemed a useless +waste of time. It is difficult not to believe that great happiness might +have carried me over many more years and built up for me in the end a +renewed youth: I asked that quite frankly, wishing to know, and was told +not to think it.</p> + +<p>So, dearest, whatever comes, whatever I may have written to fill up my +worst loneliness, be sure, if you care to be, that though my life was +wholly yours, my death was my own, and comes at its right natural time. +Pity me, but invent no blame to yourself. My heart has sung of you <a name="Page_275" id="Page_275"></a>even +in the darkest days; in the face of everything, the blankness of +everything, I mean, it has clung to an unreasoning belief that in spite +of appearances all had some well in it, above all to a conviction +that—perhaps without knowing it—you still love me. Believing <i>that,</i> +it could not break, could not, dearest. Any other part of me, but not +that.</p> + +<p>Beloved, I kiss your face, I kiss your lips and eyes: my mind melts into +kisses when I think of you. However weak the rest of me grows, my love +shall remain strong and certain. If I could look at you again, how in a +moment you would fill up the past and the future and turn even my grief +into gold! Even my senses then would forget that they had ever been +starved. Dear "share of the world," you have been out of sight, but I +have never let you go! Ah, if only the whole of me, the double doubting +part of me as well, could only be so certain as to be able to give wings +to this and let it fly to you! Wish for it, and I think the knowledge +will come to me!</p> + +<p>Good-night! God brings you to me in my first dream: but the longing so +keeps me awake that sometimes I am a whole night sleepless.</p><p><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXXXIII" id="LETTER_LXXXIII"></a>LETTER LXXXIII.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">I am</span> frightened, dearest, I am frightened at death. Not only +for fear it should take me altogether away from you instead of to you, +but for other reasons besides,—instincts which I thought gone but am +not rid of even yet. No healthy body, or body with power of enjoyment in +it, wishes to die, I think: and no heart with any desire still living +out of the past. We know nothing at all really: we only think we +believe, and hope we know; and how thin that sort of conviction gets +when in our extremity we come face to face with the one immovable fact +of our own death waiting for us! That is what I have to go through. Yet +even the fear is a relief: I come upon something that I can meet at +last; a challenge to my courage whether it is still to be found here in +this body I have worn so weak with useless lamentations. If I had your +hand, or even a word from you, I think I should not be afraid: but +perhaps I should. It is all one. Good-by: I am beginning at last to feel +a mean<a name="Page_277" id="Page_277"></a>ing in that word which I wrote at your bidding so long-ago. Oh, +Beloved, from face to feet, good-by! God be with you wherever you go and +I do not!</p><p><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXXXIV" id="LETTER_LXXXIV"></a>LETTER LXXXIV.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> I am to have news of you. Arthur came to me last +night, and told me that, if I wished, he would bring me word of you. He +goes to-morrow. He put out the light that I might not see his face: I +felt what was there.</p> + +<p>You should know this of him: he has been the dearest possible of human +beings to me since I lost you. I am almost not unblessed when I have him +to speak to. Yet we can say so little together. I guess all he means. An +endless wish to give me comfort:—and I stay selfish. The knowledge that +he would stolidly die to serve me hardly touches me.</p> + +<p>Oh, look kindly in his eyes if you see him: mine will be looking at you +out of his!</p><p><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXXXV" id="LETTER_LXXXV"></a>LETTER LXXXV.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Good-morning,</span> Beloved; there is sun shining. I wonder if Arthur +is with you yet?</p> + +<p>If faith could still remove mountains, surely I should have seen you +long ago. But if I were to see you now, I should fear that it meant you +were dead.</p> + +<p>That the same world should hold you and me living and unseen by each +other is a great mystery. Will love ever explain it?</p> + +<p>I wish I could bid the sun stand still over your meeting with Arthur so +that I might know. We were so like each other once. Time has worn it +off: but he is like what I was. Will you remember me well enough to +recognize me in him, and to be a little pitiful to my weak longing for a +word this one last time of all? Beloved, I press my lips to yours, and +pray—speak!</p><p><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LETTER_LXXXVI" id="LETTER_LXXXVI"></a>LETTER LXXXVI.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dearest:</span> To-day Arthur came and brought me your message: I have +at my heart your "profoundly grateful remembrances." Somewhere else +unanswered lies your prayer for God to bless me. To answer that, +dearest, is not in His hands but in yours. And the form of your message +tells me it will not be,—not for this body and spirit that have been +bound together so long in truth to you.</p> + +<p>I set down for you here—if you should ever, for love's sake, send and +make claim for any message back from me—a profoundly grateful +remembrance; and so much more, so much more that has never failed.</p> + +<p>Most dear, most beloved, you were to me and are. Now I can no longer +hold together: but it is my body, not my love that has failed.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h3>Transcriber's Notes:</h3> + +<ul><li><i><small>Though this book was published anonymously, it was later revealed to be by Laurence Housman.</small></i></li> + +<li><i><small>In Letter XLIII, "roughtly" was corrected to "roughly"</small></i></li> + +<li><i><small>In Letter XXXVI, "sort" was corrected to "short"</small></i></li> + +<li><i><small>In Letter LXX, "elder's" was corrected to "elders'"</small></i></li> + +<li><i><small>In Letter LXXVIII, "unforgetable" was corrected to "unforgettable"</small></i></li></ul> + + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's An Englishwoman's Love-Letters, by Anonymous + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN ENGLISHWOMAN'S LOVE-LETTERS *** + +***** This file should be named 15941-h.htm or 15941-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/9/4/15941/ + +Produced by Bill Tozier, Barbara Tozier, Cally Soukup and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: An Englishwoman's Love-Letters + +Author: Anonymous + +Release Date: May 30, 2005 [EBook #15941] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN ENGLISHWOMAN'S LOVE-LETTERS *** + + + + +Produced by Bill Tozier, Barbara Tozier, Cally Soukup and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net. + + + + + +AN +ENGLISHWOMAN'S +LOVE-LETTERS + + + + +NEW YORK +THE MERSHON COMPANY +PUBLISHERS + + + + +AN ENGLISHWOMAN'S LOVE-LETTERS. + +EXPLANATION. + + +It need hardly be said that the woman by whom these letter were written +had no thought that they would be read by anyone but the person to whom +they were addressed. But a request, conveyed under circumstances which +the writer herself would have regarded as all-commanding, urges that +they should now be given to the world; and, so far as is possible with a +due regard to the claims of privacy, what is here printed presents the +letters as they were first written in their complete form and sequence. + +Very little has been omitted which in any way bears upon the devotion of +which they are a record. A few names of persons and localities have been +changed; and several short notes (not above twenty in all), together +with some passages bearing too intimately upon events which might be +recognized, have been left out without indication of their omission. + +It was a necessary condition to the present publication that the +authorship of these letters should remain unstated. Those who know will +keep silence; those who do not, will not find here any data likely to +guide them to the truth. + +The story which darkens these pages cannot be more fully indicated while +the feelings of some who are still living have to be consulted; nor will +the reader find the root of the tragedy explained in the letters +themselves. But one thing at least may be said as regards the principal +actors--that to the memory of neither of them does any blame belong. +They were equally the victims of circumstances, which came whole out of +the hands of fate and remained, so far as one of the two was concerned, +a mystery to the day of her death. + + + + +LETTER I. + + +Beloved: This is your first letter from me: yet it is not the first I have +written to you. There are letters to you lying at love's dead-letter +office in this same writing--so many, my memory has lost count of them! + +This is my confession: I told you I had one to make, and you laughed:--you +did not know how serious it was--for to be in love with you long before +you were in love with me--nothing can be more serious than that! + +You deny that I was: yet I know when you first really loved me. All at +once, one day something about me came upon you as a surprise: and how, +except on the road to love, can there be surprises? And in the surprise +came love. You did not _know_ me before. Before then, it was only the +other nine entanglements which take hold of the male heart and occupy it +till the tenth is ready to make one knot of them all. + +In the letter written that day, I said, "You love me." I could never +have said it before; though I had written twelve letters to my love for +you, I had not once been able to write of your love for me. Was not +_that_ serious? + +Now I have confessed! I thought to discover myself all blushes, but my +face is cool: you have kissed all my blushes away! Can I ever be ashamed +in your eyes now, or grow rosy because of anything _you_ or _I_ think? +So!--you have robbed me of one of my charms: I am brazen. Can you love +me still? + +You love me, you love me; you are wonderful! we are both wonderful, you +and I. + +Well, it is good for you to know I have waited and wished, long before +the thing came true. But to see _you_ waiting and wishing, when the +thing _was_ true all the time:--oh! that was the trial! How not suddenly +to throw my arms round you and cry, "Look, see! O blind mouth, why are +you famished?" + +And you never knew? Dearest, I love you for it, you never knew! I believe +a man, when he finds he has won, thinks he has taken the city by assault: +he does not guess how to the insiders it has been a weary siege, with +flags of surrender fluttering themselves to rags from every wall and +window! No: in love it is the women who are the strategists: and they have +at last to fall into the ambush they know of with a good grace. + +You must let me praise myself a little for the past, since I can never +praise myself again. You must do that for me now! There is not a battle +left for me to win. You and peace hold me so much a prisoner, have so +caught me from my own way of living, that I seem to hear a pin drop +twenty years ahead of me: it seems an event! Dearest, a thousand times, +I would not have it be otherwise: I am only too willing to drop out of +existence altogether and find myself in your arms instead. Giving you my +love, I can so easily give you my life. Ah, my dear, I am yours so +utterly, so gladly! Will you ever find it out, you who took so long to +discover anything? + + + + +LETTER II. + + +Dearest: Your name woke me this morning: I found my lips piping their song +before I was well back into my body out of dreams. I wonder if the rogues +babble when my spirit is nesting? Last night you were a high tree and I +was in it, the wind blowing us both; but I forget the rest,--whatever, it +was enough to make me wake happy. + +There are dreams that go out like candle-light directly one opens the +shutters: they illumine the walls no longer; the daylight is too strong +for them. So, now, I can hardly remember anything of my dreams: +daylight, with you in it, floods them out. + +Oh, how are you? Awake? Up? Have you breakfasted? I ask you a thousand +things. You are thinking of me, I know: but what are you thinking? I am +devoured by curiosity about myself--none at all about you, whom I have all +by heart! If I might only know how happy I make you, and just _which_ +thing I said yesterday is making you laugh to-day--I could cry with joy +over being the person I am. + +It is you who make me think so much about myself, trying to find myself +out. I used to be most self-possessed, and regarded it as the crowning +virtue: and now--your possession of me sweeps it away, and I stand crying +to be let into a secret that is no longer mine. Shall I ever know _why_ +you love me? It is my religious difficulty; but it never rises into a +doubt. You _do_ love me, I know. _Why_, I don't think I ever can know. + +You ask me the same question about yourself, and it becomes absurd, +because I altogether belong to you. If I hold my breath for a moment +wickedly (for I can't do it breathing), and try to look at the world +with you out of it, I seem to have fallen over a precipice; or rather, +the solid earth has slipped from under my feet, and I am off into +vacuum. Then, as I take breath again for fear, my star swims up and +clasps me, and shows me your face. O happy star this that I was born +under, that moved with me and winked quiet prophecies at me all through +my childhood, I not knowing what it meant:--the dear radiant thing +naming to me my lover! + +As a child, now and then, and for no reason, I used to be sublimely +happy: real wings took hold of me. Sometimes a field became fairyland +as I walked through it; or a tree poured out a scent that its blossoms +never had before or after. I think now that those must have been moments +when you too were in like contact with earth,--had your feet in grass +which felt a faint ripple of wind, or stood under a lilac in a drench of +fragrance that had grown double after rain. + +When I asked you about the places of your youth, I had some fear of +finding that we might once have met, and that I had not remembered it as +the summing up of my happiness in being young. Far off I see something +undiscovered waiting us, something I could not have guessed at +before--the happiness of being old. Will it not be something like the +evening before last when we were sitting together, your hand in mine, +and one by one, as the twilight drew about us, the stars came and took +up their stations overhead? They seemed to me then to be following out +some quiet train of thought in the universal mind: the heavens were +remembering the stars back into their places:--the Ancient of Days +drawing upon the infinite treasures of memory in his great lifetime. +Will not Love's old age be the same to us both--a starry place of +memories? + +Your dear letter is with me while I write: how shortly you are able to +say everything! To-morrow you will come. What more do I want--except +to-morrow itself, with more promises of the same thing? + +You are at my heart, dearest: nothing in the world can be nearer to me +than you! + + + + +LETTER III. + + +Dearest and rightly Beloved: You cannot tell how your gift has pleased me; +or rather you _can_, for it shows you have a long memory back to our first +meeting: though at the time I was the one who thought most of it. + +It is quite true; you have the most beautifully shaped memory in +Christendom: these are the very books in the very edition I have long +wanted, and have been too humble to afford myself. And now I cannot stop +to read one, for joy of looking at them all in a row. I will kiss you +for them all, and for more besides: indeed it is the "besides" which +brings you my kisses at all. + +Now that you have chosen so perfectly to my mind, I may proffer a +request which, before, I was shy of making. It seems now beneficently +anticipated. It is that you will not ever let your gifts take the form +of jewelry, not after the ring which you are bringing me: _that_, you +know, I both welcome and wish for. But, as to the rest, the world has +supplied me with a feeling against jewelry as a love-symbol. Look +abroad and you will see: it is too possessive, too much like "chains of +office"--the fair one is to wear her radiant harness before the world, +that other women may be envious and the desire of her master's eye be +satisfied! Ah, no! + +I am yours, dear, utterly; and nothing you give me would have that sense: +I know you too well to think it. But in the face of the present fashion +(and to flout it), which expects the lover to give in this sort, and the +beloved to show herself a dazzling captive, let me cherish my ritual of +opposition which would have no meaning if we were in a world of our own, +and no place in my thoughts, dearest;--as it has not now, so far as you +are concerned. But I am conscious I shall be looked at as your chosen; and +I would choose my own way of how to look back most proudly. + +And so for the books more thanks and more,--that they are what I would +most wish, and not anything else: which, had they been, they would still +have given me pleasure, since from you they could come only with a good +meaning: and--diamonds even--I could have put up with them! + +To-morrow you come for your ring, and bring me my own? Yours is here +waiting. I have it on my finger, very loose, with another standing +sentry over it to keep it from running away. + +A mouse came out of my wainscot last night, and plunged me in horrible +dilemma: for I am equally idiotic over the idea of the creature trapped +or free, and I saw sleepless nights ahead of me till I had secured a +change of locality for him. + +To startle him back into hiding would have only deferred my getting +truly rid of him, so I was most tiptoe and diplomatic in my doings. +Finally, a paper bag, put into a likely nook with some sentimentally +preserved wedding-cake crumbled into it, crackled to me of his arrival. +In a brave moment I noosed the little beast, bag and all, and lowered +him from the window by string, till the shrubs took from me the burden +of responsibility. + +I visited the bag this morning: he had eaten his way out, crumbs and +all: and has, I suppose, become a fieldmouse, for the hay smells +invitingly, and it is only a short run over the lawn and a jump over the +ha-ha to be in it. Poor morsels, I prefer them so much undomesticated! + +Now this mouse is no allegory, and the paper bag is _not_ a diamond +necklace, in spite of the wedding-cake sprinkled over it! So don't say +that this letter is too hard for your understanding, or you will +frighten me from telling you anything foolish again. Brains are like +jewels in this, difference of surface has nothing to do with the size +and value of them. Yours is a beautiful smooth round, like a pearl, and +mine all facets and flashes like cut glass. And yours so much the +bigger, and I love it so much the best! The trap which caught me was +baited with one great pearl. So the mouse comes in with a meaning tied +to its tail after all! + + + + +LETTER IV. + + +In all the world, dearest, what is more unequal than love between a man +and a woman? I have been spending an amorous morning and want to share it +with you: but lo, the task of bringing that bit of my life into your +vision is altogether beyond me. + +What have I been doing? Dear man, I have been dressmaking! and dress, +when one is in the toils, is but a love-letter writ large. You will see +and admire the finished thing, but you will take no interest in the +composition. Therefore I say your love is unequal to mine. + +For think how ravished I would be if you brought me a coat and told me +it was all your own making! One day you had thrown down a mere +tailor-made thing in the hall, and yet I kissed it as I went by. And +that was at a time when we were only at the handshaking stage, the +palsied beginnings of love:--_you_, I mean! + +But oh, to get you interested in the dress I was making to you +to-day!--the beautiful flowing opening,--not too flowing: the elaborate +central composition where the heart of me has to come, and the wind-up +of the skirt, a long reluctant tailing-off, full of commas and colons of +ribbon to make it seem longer, and insertions everywhere. I dreamed +myself in it, retiring through the door after having bidden you +good-night, and you watching the long disappearing eloquence of that +tail, still saying to you as it vanished, "Good-by, good-by. I love you +so! see me, how slowly I am going!" + +Well, that is a bit of my dress-making, a very corporate part of my +affection for you; and you are not a bit interested, for I have shown +you none of the seamy side; it is that which interests you male +creatures, Zolaites, every one of you. + +And what have you to show similar, of the thought of me entering into +all your masculine pursuits? Do you go out rabbit-shooting for the love +of me? If so, I trust you make a miss of it every time! That you are a +sportsman is one of the very hardest things in life that I have to bear. + +Last night Peterkins came up with me to keep guard against any further +intrusion of mice. I put her to sleep on the couch: but she discarded +the red shawl I had prepared for her at the bottom, and lay at the top +most uncomfortably in a parcel of millinery into which from one end I +had already made excavations, so that it formed a large bag. Into the +further end of this bag Turks crept and snuggled down: but every time +she turned in the night (and it seemed very often) the brown paper +crackled and woke me up. So at last I took it up and shook out its +contents; and Pippins slept soundly on red flannel till Nan-nan brought +the tea. + +You will notice that in this small narrative Peterkins gets three names: +it is a fashion that runs through the household, beginning with the +Mother-Aunt, who on some days speaks of Nan-nan as "the old lady," and +sometimes as "that girl," all according to the two tempers she has about +Nan-nan's privileged position in regard to me. + +You were only here yesterday, and already I want you again so much, so +much! + + Your never satisfied but always loving. + + + + +LETTER V. + + +Most Beloved: I have been thinking, staring at this blank piece of paper, +and wondering how _there_ am I ever to say what I have in me here--not +wishing to say anything at all, but just to be! I feel that I am living +now only because you love me: and that my life will have run out, like +this penful of ink, when that use in me is past. Not yet, Beloved, oh, not +yet! Nothing is finished that we have to do and be:--hardly begun! I will +not call even this "midsummer," however much it seems so: it is still only +spring. + +Every day your love binds me more deeply than I knew the day before: so +that no day is the same now, but each one a little happier than the last. +My own, you are my very own! And yet, true as that is, it is not so true +as that I am _your_ own. It is less absolute, I mean; and must be so, +because I cannot very well _take_ possession of anything when I am given +over heart and soul out of my own possession: there isn't enough identity +left in me, I am yours so much, so much! All this is useless to say, yet +what can I say else, if I have to begin saying anything? + +Could I truly be your "star and goddess," as you call me, Beloved, I +would do you the service of Thetis at least (who did it for a greater +than herself)-- + + "Bid Heaven and Earth combine their charms, + And round you early, round you late, + Briareus fold his hundred arms + To guard you from your single fate." + +But I haven't got power over an eight-armed octopus even: so am merely a +very helpless loving nonentity which merges itself most happily in you, +and begs to be lifted to no pedestal at all, at all. + +If you love me in a manner that is at all possible, you will see that +"goddess" does not suit me. "Star" I would I were now, with a wide eye +to carry my looks to you over this horizon which keeps you invisible. +Choose one, if you will, dearest, and call it mine: and to me it shall +be yours: so that when we are apart and the stars come out, our eyes may +meet up at the same point in the heavens, and be "keeping company" for +us among the celestial bodies--with their permission: for I have too +lively a sense of their beauty not to be a little superstitious about +them. Have you not felt for yourself a sort of physiognomy in the +constellations,--most of them seeming benevolent and full of kind +regards:--but not all? I am always glad when the Great Bear goes away +from my window, fine beast though he is: he seems to growl at me! No +doubt it is largely a question of names; and what's in a name? In yours, +Beloved, when I speak it, more than I can compass! + + + + +LETTER VI. + + +Beloved: I have been trusting to fate, while keeping silence, that +something from you was to come to-day and make me specially happy. And it +has: bless you abundantly! You have undone and got round all I said about +"jewelry," though this is nothing of the sort, but a shrine: so my word +remains. I have it with me now, safe hidden, only now and then it comes +out to have a look at me,--smiles and goes back again. Dearest, you must +_feel_ how I thank you, for I cannot say it: body and soul I grow too much +blessed with all that you have given me, both visibly and invisibly, and +always perfectly. + +And as for the day: I have been thinking you the most uncurious of men, +because you had not asked: and supposed it was too early days yet for +you to remember that I had ever been born. To-day is my birthday! you +said nothing, so I said nothing; and yet this has come: I trusted my +star to show its sweet influences in its own way. Or, after all, did you +know, and had you asked anyone but me? Yet had you known, you would +have wished me the "happy returns" which among all your dear words to me +you do not. So I take it that the motion comes straight to you from +heaven; and, in the event, you will pardon me for having been still +secretive and shy in not telling what you did not inquire after. +_Yours_, I knew, dear, quite long ago, so had no need to ask you for it. +And it is six months before you will be in the same year with me again, +and give to twenty-two all the companionable sweetness that twenty-one +has been having. + +Many happy returns of _my_ birthday to you, dearest! That is all that my +birthdays are for. Have you been happy to-day, I wonder? and am +wondering also whether this evening we shall see you walking quietly in +and making everything into perfection that has been trembling just on +the verge of it all day long. + +One drawback of my feast is that I have to write short to you; for there +are other correspondents who on this occasion look for quick answers, +and not all of them to be answered in an offhand way. Except you, it is +the coziest whom I keep waiting; but elders have a way with them--even +kind ones: and when they condescend to write upon an anniversary, we +have to skip to attention or be in their bad books at once. + +So with the sun still a long way out of bed, I have to tuck up these +sheets for you, as if the good of the day had already been sufficient +unto itself and its full tale had been told. Good-night. It is so hard +to take my hands off writing to you, and worry on at the same exercise +in another direction. I kiss you more times than I can count: it is +almost really you that I kiss now! My very dearest, my own sweetheart, +whom I so worship. Good-night! "Good-afternoon" sounds too funny: is +outside our vocabulary altogether. While I live, I must love you more +than I know! + + + + +LETTER VII. + + +My Friend: Do you think this a cold way of beginning? I do not: is it not +the true send-off of love? I do not know how men fall in love: but I could +not have had that come-down in your direction without being your friend +first. Oh, my dear, and after, after; it is but a limitless friendship I +have grown into! + +I have heard men run down the friendships of women as having little true +substance. Those who speak so, I think, have never come across a real +case of woman's friendship. I praise my own sex, dearest, for I know +some of their loneliness, which you do not: and until a certain date +their friendship was the deepest thing in life I had met with. + +For must it not be true that a woman becomes more absorbed in friendship +than a man, since friendship may have to mean so much more to her, and +cover so far more of her life, than it does to the average man? However +big a man's capacity for friendship, the beauty of it does not fill his +whole horizon for the future: he still looks ahead of it for the mate +who will complete his life, giving his body and soul the complement +they require. Friendship alone does not satisfy him: he makes a bigger +claim on life, regarding certain possessions as his right. + +But a woman:--oh, it is a fashion to say the best women are sure to find +husbands, and have, if they care for it, the certainty before them of a +full life. I know it is not so. There are women, wonderful ones, who +come to know quite early in life that no men will ever wish to make +wives of them: for them, then, love in friendship is all that remains, +and the strongest wish of all that can pass through their souls with +hope for its fulfillment is to be a friend to somebody. + +It is man's arrogant certainty of his future which makes him impatient +of the word "friendship": it cools life to his lips, he so confident +that the headier nectar is his due! + +I came upon a little phrase the other day that touched me so deeply: it +said so well what I have wanted to say since we have known each other. +Some peasant rhymer, an Irishman, is singing his love's praises, and +sinks his voice from the height of his passionate superlatives to call +her his "share of the world." Peasant and Irishman, he knew that his +fortune did not embrace the universe: but for him his love was just +that--his share of the world. + +Surely when in anyone's friendship we seem to have gained our share of +the world, that is all that can be said. It means all that we can take +in, the whole armful the heart and senses are capable of, or that fate +can bestow. And for how many that must be friendship--especially for how +many women! + +My dear, you are my share of the world, also my share of Heaven: but +there I begin to speak of what I do not know, as is the way with happy +humanity. All that my eyes could dream of waking or sleeping, all that +my ears could be most glad to hear, all that my heart could beat faster +to get hold of--your friendship gave me suddenly as a bolt from the +blue. + +My friend, my friend, my friend! If you could change or go out of my +life now, the sun would drop out of my heavens: I should see the world +with a great piece gashed out of its side,--my share of it gone. No, I +should not see it, I don't think I should see anything ever again,--not +truly. + +Is it not strange how often to test our happiness we harp on sorrow? I +do: don't let it weary you. I know I have read somewhere that great love +always entails pain. I have not found it yet: but, for me, it does mean +fear,--the sort of fear I had as a child going into big buildings. I +loved them: but I feared, because of their bigness, they were likely to +tumble on me. + +But when I begin to think you may be too big for me, I remember you as +my "friend," and the fear goes for a time, or becomes that sort of fear +I would not part with if I might. + +I have no news for you: only the old things to tell you, the wonder of +which ever remains new. How holy your face has become to me: as I saw it +last, with something more than the usual proofs of love for me upon +it--a look as if your love troubled you! I know the trouble: I feel it, +dearest, in my own woman's way. Have patience.--When I see you so, I +feel that prayer is the only way given me for saying what my love for +you wishes to be. And yet I hardly ever pray in words. + +Dearest, be happy when you get this: and, when you can, come and give my +happiness its rest. Till then it is a watchman on the lookout. + +"Night-night!" Your true sleepy one. + + + + +LETTER VIII. + + +Now _why_, I want to know, Beloved, was I so specially "good" to you in my +last? I have been quite as good to you fifty times before,--if such a +thing can be from me to you. Or do you mean good _for_ you? Then, dear, I +must be sorry that the thing stands out so much as an exception! + +Oh, dearest Beloved, for a little I think I must not love you so much, +or must not let you see it. + +When does your mother return, and when am I to see her? I long to so +much. Has she still not written to you about our news? + +I woke last night to the sound of a great flock of sheep going past. I +suppose they were going by forced marches to the fair over at Hylesbury: +It was in the small hours: and a few of them lifted up their voices and +complained of this robbery of night and sleep in the night. They were so +tired, so tired, they said: and so did the muffawully patter of their +poor feet. The lambs said most; and the sheep agreed with a husky +croak. + +I said a prayer for them, and went to sleep again as the sound of the +lambs died away; but somehow they stick in my heart, those sad sheep +driven along through the night. It was in its degree like the woman +hurrying along, who said, "My God, my God!" that summer Sunday morning. +These notes from lives that appear and disappear remain endlessly; and I +do not think our hearts can have been made so sensitive to suffering we +can do nothing to relieve, without some good reason. So I tell you this, +as I would any sorrow of my own, because it has become a part of me, and +is underlying all that I think to-day. + +I am to expect you the day after to-morrow, but "not for certain"? Thus +you give and you take away, equally blessed in either case. All the +same, I shall _certainly_ expect you, and be disappointed if on Thursday +at about this hour your way be not my way. + +"How shall I my true love know" if he does not come often enough to see +me? Sunshine be on you all possible hours till we meet again. + + + + +LETTER IX. + + +Beloved: Is the morning looking at you as it is looking at me? A little to +the right of the sun there lies a small cloud, filmy and faint, but enough +to cast a shadow somewhere. From this window, high up over the view, I +cannot see where the shadow of it falls,--further than my eye can reach: +perhaps just now over you, since you lie further west. But I cannot be +sure. We cannot be sure about the near things in this world; only about +what is far off and fixed. + +You and I looking up see the same sun, if there are no clouds over us: +but we may not be looking at the same clouds even when both our hearts +are in shadow. That is so, even when hearts are as close together as +yours and mine: they respond to the same light: but each one has its own +roof of shadow, wearing its rue with a world of difference. + +Why is it? why can no two of us have sorrows quite in common? What can +be nearer together than our wills to be one? In joy we are; and yet, +though I reach and reach, and sadden if you are sad, I cannot make your +sorrow my own. + +I suppose sorrow is of the earth earthy: and all that is of earth makes +division. Every joy that belongs to the body casts shadows somewhere. I +wonder if there can enter into us a joy that has no shadow anywhere? The +joy of having you has behind it the shadow of parting; is there any way +of loving that would make parting no sorrow at all? To me, now, the idea +seems treason! I cling to my sorrow that you are not here: I send up my +cloud, as it were, to catch the sun's brightness: it is a kite that I +pull with my heart-strings. + +To the sun of love the clouds that cover absence must look like white +flowers in the green fields of earth, or like doves hovering: and he +reaches down and strokes them with his warm beams, making all their +feathers like gold. + +Some clouds let the gold come through; _mine_, now.--That cloud I saw +away to the right is coming this way toward me. I can see the shadow of +it now, moving along a far-off strip of road: and I wonder if it is +_your_ cloud, with you under it coming to see me again! + +When you come, why am I any happier than when I know you are coming? It +is the same thing in love. I have you now all in my mind's eye; I have +you by heart; have I my arms a bit more round you then than now? + +How it puzzles me that, when love is perfect, there should be +disappearances and reappearances: and faces now and then showing a +change!--You, actually, the last time you came, looking a day older than +the day before! What was it? Had old age blown you a kiss, or given you a +wrinkle in the art of dying? Or had you turned over some new leaf, and +found it withered on the other side? + +I could not see how it was: I heard you coming--it was spring! The door +opened:--oh, it was autumnal! One day had fallen away like a leaf out of +my forest, and I had not been there to see it go! + +At what hour of the twenty-four does a day shed itself out of our lives? +Not, I think, on the stroke of the clock, at midnight, or at cock-crow. +Some people, perhaps, would say--with the first sleep; and that the +"beauty-sleep" is the new day putting out its green wings. _I_ think it +must be not till something happens to make the new day a stronger +impression than the last. So it would please me to think that your +yesterday dropped off as you opened the door; and that, had I peeped and +seen you coming up the stairs, I should have seen you looking a day +younger. + +_That_ means that you age at the sight of me! I think you do. I, I feel +a hundred on the road to immortality, directly your face dawns on me. + +There's a foot gone over my grave! The angel of the resurrection with his +mouth pursed fast to his trumpet!--Nothing else than the gallop-a-gallop +of your horse:--it sounds like a kettle boiling over! + +So this goes into hiding: listens to us all the while we talk; and comes +out afterwards with all its blushes stale, to be rouged up again and +sent off the moment your back is turned. No, better!--to be slipped into +your pocket and carried home to yourself _by_ yourself. How, when you +get to your destination and find it, you will curse yourself that you +were not a speedier postman! + + + + +LETTER X. + + +Dearest: Did you find your letter? The quicker I post, the quicker I need +to sit down and write again. The grass under love's feet never stops +growing: I must make hay of it while the sun shines. + +You say my metaphors make you giddy.--My clear, you, without a metaphor +in your composition, do that to me! So it is not for you to complain; +your curses simply fly back to roost. Where do you pigeon-hole them? In +a pie? (I mean to write now until I have made you as giddy as a dancing +dervish!) _Your_ letters are much more like blackbirds: and I have a pie +of them here, twenty-four at least; and when I open it they sing +"Chewee, chewee, chewee!" in the most scared way! + +Your last but three said most solemnly, just as if you meant it, "I hope +you don't keep these miserables! Though I fill up my hollow hours with +them, there is no reason why they should fill up yours." You added that +I was better occupied--and here I am "better occupied" even as you bid +me. + +But one can jump best from a spring-board: and how could I jump as far +as your arms by letter, if I had not yours to jump from? + +So you see they are kept, and my disobedience of you has begun: and I +find disobedience wonderfully sweet. But then, you gave me a law which +you knew I should disobey:--that is the way the world began. It is not +for nothing that I am a daughter of Eve. + +And here is our world in our hands, yours and mine, now in the making. +Which day are the evening and the morning now? I think it must be the +birds'--and already, with the wings, disobedience has been reached! Make +much of it! the day will come when I shall wish to obey. There are +moments when I feel a wish taking hold of me stronger than I can +understand, that you should command me beyond myself--to things I have +not strength or courage for of my own accord. How close, dearest, when +that day comes, my heart will feel itself to yours! It feels close now: +but it is to your feet I am nearest, as yet. Lift me! There, there, +Beloved, I kiss you with all my will. Oh, dear heart, forgive me for +being no more than I am: your freehold to all eternity! + + + + +LETTER XI + + +Oh, Dearest: I have danced and I have danced till I am tired! I +am dropping with sleep, but I must just touch you and say good-night. +This was our great day of publishing, dearest, _ours_: all the world +knows it; and all admire your choice! I was determined they should. I +have been collecting scalps for you to hang at your girdle. All thought +me beautiful: people who never did so before. I wanted to say to them, +"Am I not beautiful? I am, am I not?" And it was not for myself I was +asking this praise. Beloved, I was wearing the magic rose--what you gave +me when we parted: you saying, alas, that you were not to be there. But +you _were_! Its leaves have not dropped nor the scent of it faded. I +kiss you out of the heart of it. Good-night: come to me in my first +dream! + + + + +LETTER XII. + + +Dearest: It has been such a funny day from post-time onwards:-- +congratulations on the great event are beginning to arrive in envelopes +and on wheels. Some are very kind and dear; and some are not so--only the +ordinary seemliness of polite sniffle-snaffle. Just after you had gone +yesterday, Mrs. ---- called and was told the news. Of course she knew _of_ +you: but didn't think she had ever seen you. "Probably he passed you at +the gates," I said. "What?" she went off with a view-hallo; "that +well-dressed sort of young fellow in gray, and a mustache, and knowing how +to ride? Met us in the lane. _Well_, my dear, I _do_ congratulate you!" + +And whether it was by the gray suit, or the mustache, or the knowing how +to ride that her congratulations were so emphatically secured, I know not! + +Others are yet more quaint, and more to my liking. Nan-nan is Nan-nan: I +cannot let you off what she said! No tears or sentiment came from her +to prevent me laughing: she brisked like an old war-horse at the first +word of it, and blessed God that it had come betimes, that she might be +a nurse again in her old age! She is a true "Mrs. Berry," and is ready +to make room for you in my affections for the sake of far-off divine +events, which promise renewed youth to her old bones. + +Roberts, when he brought me my pony this morning, touched his hat quick +twice over to show that the news brimmed in his body: and a very nice +cordial way of showing, I thought it! He was quite ready to talk when I +let him go; and he gave me plenty of good fun. He used to know you when +he was in service at the H----s, and speaks of you as being then "a +gallous young hound," whatever that may mean. I imagine "gallous" to be +a rustic Lewis Carroll compound, made up in equal parts of callousness +and gallantry, which most boys are, at some stage of their existence. + +What tales will you be getting of me out of Nan-nan, some day behind my +back, I wonder? There is one I shall forbid her to reveal: it shall be +part of my marriage-portion to show you early that you have got a wife +with a temper! + +Here is a whole letter that must end now,--and the great Word never +mentioned! It is good for you to be put upon _maigre_ fare, for once. I +ho_l_d my pen back with b_o_th hands: it wants so much to gi_v_e you +the forbidd_e_n treat. Oh, the serpent in the garden! See where it has +underlined its meaning. Frailty, thy pen is a J pen! + +Adieu, adieu, remember me. + + + + +LETTER XIII. + + +The letters? No, Beloved, I could not! Not yet. There you have caught me +where I own I am still shy of you. + +A long time hence, when we are a safely wedded pair, you shall turn them +over. It _may_ be a short time; but I will keep them however long. Indeed +I must ever keep them; they talk to me of the dawn of my existence,--the +early light before our sun rose, when my love of you was growing and had +not yet reached its full. + +If I disappoint you I will try to make up for it with something I wrote +long before I ever saw you. To-day I was turning over old things my mother +had treasured for me of my childhood--of days spent with her: things of +laughter as well as of tears; such a dear selection, so quaint and sweet, +with moods of her as I dimly remember her to have been. And among them was +this absurdity, written, and I suppose placed in the mouth of my stocking, +the Christmas I stayed with her in France. I remember the time as a great +treat, but nothing of this. "Nilgoes" is "Nicholas," you must understand! +How he must have laughed over me asleep while he read this! + + "Cher pere Nilgoes. S'il vous plait voulez vous me donne + plus de jeux que des oranges des pommes et des pombons parc + que nous allons faire l'arbre de noel cette anne et les + jeaux ferait mieux pour l'arbre de Noel. Il ne faut pas dire + a petite mere s'il vous plait parce que je ne veut pas + quelle sache sil vous voulez venir ce soir du ceil pour que + vous pouvez me donner ce que je vous demande Dites bon jour + a la St. Viearge est a l'enfant Jeuses et a Ste Joseph. + Adieu cher St. Nilgoes." + +I haven't altered the spelling, I love it too well, prophetic of a fault +I still carry about me. How strange that little bit of invocation to the +dear folk above sounds to me now! My mother must have been teaching me +things after her own persuasion; most naturally, poor dear one--though +that too has gone like water off my mind. It was one of the troubles +between her and my father: the compact that I was to be brought up a +Catholic was dissolved after they separated; and I am sorry, thinking it +unjust to her; yet glad, content with being what I am. + +I must have been less than five when I penned this: I was always a +letter-writer, it seems. + +It is a reproach now from many that I have ceased to be: and to them I +fear it is true. That I have not truly ceased, "witness under my hand +these presents,"--or whatever may be the proper legal terms for an +affidavit. + +What were _you_ like, Beloved, as a very small child? Should I have loved +you from the beginning had we toddled to the rencounter; and would my love +have passed safely through the "gallous young hound" period; and could I +love you more now in any case, had I _all_ your days treasured up in my +heart, instead of less than a year of them? + +How strangely much have seven miles kept our fates apart! It seems +uncharacteristic for this small world,--where meetings come about so far +above the dreams of average--to have played us such a prank. + +This must do for this once, Beloved; for behold me busy to-day: with +_what_, I shall not tell you. I would like to put you to a test, as +ladies did their knights of old, and hardly ever do now--fearing, I +suppose, lest the species should altogether fail them at the pinch. I +would like to see if you could come here and sit with me from beginning +to end, _with your eyes shut_: never once opening them. I am not saying +whether I think curiosity, or affection, would make the attempt too +difficult. But if you were sure you could, you might come here +to-morrow--a day otherwise interdicted. Only know, having come, that if +you open those dear cupboards of vision and set eyes on things not yet +intended to be looked at, there will be confusion of tongues in this +Tower we are building whose top is to reach heaven. Will you come? I +don't _say_ "come"; I only want to know--will you? + +To-day my love flies low over the earth like a swallow before rain, and +touching the tops of the flowers has culled you these. Kiss them until +they open: they are full of my thoughts, as the world, to me, is full of +you. + + + + +LETTER XIV. + + +Own Dearest: Come I did not think that you would, or mean that you should +seriously; for is it not a poor way of love to make the object of it cut +an absurd or partly absurd figure? I wrote only as a woman having a secret +on the tip of her tongue and the tips of her fingers, and full of a +longing to say it and send it. + +Here it is at last: love me for it, I have worked so hard to get it done! +And you do not know why and what for? Beloved, it--_this_--is the +anniversary of the day we first met; and you have forgotten it already or +never remembered it:--and yet have been clamoring for "the letters"! + +On the first anniversary of our marriage, _if you remember it_, you shall +have those same letters: and not otherwise. So there they lie safe till +doomsday! + +The M.-A. has been very gracious and clear after her little outbreak of +yesterday: her repentances, after I have hurt her feelings, are so gentle +and sweet, they always fill me with compunction. Finding that I would go +on with the thing I was doing, she volunteered to come and read to me: a +requiem over the bone of contention which we had gnawed between us. Was +not that pretty and charitable? She read Tennyson's Life for a solid +hour, and continued it to-day. Isn't it funny that she should take up such +a book?--she who "can't abide" Tennyson or Browning or Shakespeare: only +likes Byron, I suppose because it was the right and fashionable liking +when she was young. Yet she is plodding through the Life religiously--only +skipping the verses. I have come across two little specimens of "Death and +the child" in it. His son, Lionel, was carried out in a blanket one night +in the great comet year, and waking up under the stars asked, "Am I dead?" +Number two is of a little girl at Wellington's funeral who saw his charger +carrying his _boots_, and asked, "Shall I be like that after I die?" + +A queer old lady came to lunch yesterday, a great traveler, though lame +on two crutches. We carefully hid all guide-books and maps, and held our +peace about next month, lest she should insist on coming too: though I +think Nineveh was the place she was most anxious to go to, if the M.-A. +would consent to accompany her! + +Good-by, dearest of one-year-old acquaintances! you, too, send your +blessing on the anniversary, now that my better memory has reminded you +of it! All that follow we will bless in company. I trust you are +one-half as happy as I am, my own, my own. + + + + +LETTER XV. + + +You told me, dearest, that I should find your mother formidable. It is +true; I did. She is a person very much in the grand pagan style: I admire +it, but I cannot flow in that sort of company, and I think she meant to +crush me. You were very wise to leave her to come alone. + +I like her: I mean I believe that under that terribleness she has a +heart of gold, which once opened would never shut: but she has not +opened it to me. I believe she could have a great charity, that no +evil-doing would dismay her: "stanch" sums her up. But I have done +nothing wrong enough yet to bring me into her good graces. Loving her +son, even, though, I fear, a great offense, has done me no good turn. + +Perhaps that is her inconsistency: women are sure to be inconsistent +somewhere: it is their birthright. + +I began to study her at once, to find _you_: it did not take long. How I +could love her, if she would let me! + +You know her far far better than I, and want no advice: otherwise I +would say--never praise me to her; quote my follies rather! To give +ground for her distaste to revel in will not deepen me in her bad books +so much as attempts to warp her judgment. + +I need not go through it all: she will have told you all that is to the +purpose about our meeting. She bristled in, a brave old fighting figure, +announcing compulsion in every line, but with all her colors flying. She +waited for the door to close, then said, "My son has bidden me come, I +suppose it is my duty: he is his own master now." + +We only shook hands. Our talk was very little of you. I showed her all the +horses, the dogs, and the poultry; she let the inspection appear to +conclude with myself: asked me my habits, and said I looked healthy. I +owned I felt it. "Looks and feelings are the most deceptive things in the +world," she told me; adding that "poor stock" got more than its share of +these. And when she said it I saw quite plainly that she meant me. + +I wonder where she gets the notion: for we are a long-lived race, both +sides of the family. I guessed that she would like frankness, and was as +frank as I could be, pretending no deference to her objections. "You +think you suit each other?" she asked me. My answer, "He suits me!" +pleased her maternal palate, I think. "Any girl might say that!" she +admitted. (She might indeed!) + +This is the part of our interview she will not have repeated to you. + +I was due at Hillyn when she was preparing to go: Aunt N---- came in, +and I left her to do the honors while I slipped on my habit. I rode by +your mother's carriage as far as the Greenway, where we branched. I +suppose that is what her phrase means that you quote about my "making a +trophy of her," and marching her a prisoner across the borders before +all the world! + +I do like her: she is worth winning.--Can one say warmer of a future +mother-in-law who stands hostile? + +All the same it was an ordeal. I believe I have wept since: for Benjy +scratched my door often yesterday evening, and looked most wistful when +I came out. Merely paltry self-love, dearest:--I am so little accustomed +to not being--liked. + +I think she will be more gracious in her own house. I have her formal +word that I am to come. Soon, not too soon, I will come over; and you +shall meet me and take me to see her. There is something in her +opposition that I can't fathom: I wondered twice was lunacy her notion: +she looked at me so hard. + +My mother's seclusion and living apart from us was not on _that_ +account. I often saw her: she was very dear and sweet to me, and had +quiet eyes the very reverse of a person mentally deranged. My father, I +know, went to visit her when she lay dying; and I remember we all wore +mourning. My uncle has told me they had a deep regard for each other: +but disagreed, and were independent enough to choose living apart. + +I do not remember my father ever speaking of her to us as children: but +I am sure there was no state of health to be concealed. + +Last night I was talking to Aunt N---- about her. "A very dear woman," +she told me, "but your father was never so much alive to her worth as +the rest of us." Of him she said, "A dear, fine fellow: but not at all +easy to get on with." Him, of course, I have a continuous recollection +of, and "a fine fellow" we did think him. My mother comes to me more +rarely, at intervals. + +Don't talk me down your mother's throat: but tell her as much as she cares +to know of this. I am very proud of my "stock" which she thinks "poor"! + +Dear, how much I have written on things which can never concern us +finally, and so should not ruffle us while they last! Hold me in your +heart always, always; and the world may turn adamant to me for aught I +care! Be in my dreams to-night! + + + + +LETTER XVI. + + +But, Dearest: When I think of you I never question whether what I think +would be true or false in the eyes of others. All that concerns you seems +to go on a different plane where evidence has no meaning or existence: +where nobody exists or means anything, but only we two alone, engaged in +bringing about for ourselves the still greater solitude of two into one. +Oh, Beloved, what a company that will be! Take me in your arms, fasten me +to your heart, breathe on me. Deny me either breath or the light of day: I +am yours equally, to live or die at your word. I shut my eyes to feel your +kisses falling on me like rain, or still more like sunshine,--yet most of +all like kisses, my own dearest and best beloved! + +Oh, we two! how wonderful we seem! And to think that there have been +lovers like us since the world began: and the world not able to tell us +one little word of it:--not well, so as to be believed--or only along +with sadness where Fate has broken up the heavens which lay over some +pair of lovers. Oenone's cry, "Ah me, my mountain shepherd," tells us +of the joy when it has vanished, and most of all I get it in that song +of wife and husband which ends:-- + + "Not a word for you, + Not a lock or kiss, + Good-by. + We, one, must part in two; + Verily death is this: + I must die." + +It was a woman wrote that: and we get love there! Is it only when joy is +past that we can give it its full expression? Even now, Beloved, I break +down in trying to say how I love you. I cannot put all my joy into my +words, nor all my love into my lips, nor all my life into your arms, +whatever way I try. Something remains that I cannot express. Believe, +dearest, that the half has not yet been spoken, neither of my love for +you, nor of my trust in you,--nor of a wish that seems sad, but comes in a +very tumult of happiness--the wish to die so that some unknown good may +come to you out of me. + +Not till you die, dearest, shall I die truly! I love you now too much for +your heart not to carry me to its grave, though I should die now, and you +live to be a hundred. I pray you may! I cannot choose a day for you to +die. I am too grateful to life which has given me to you to say--if I +were dying--"Come with me, dearest!" Though, how the words tempt me as I +write them!--Come with me, dearest: yes, come! Ah, but you kiss me more, I +think, when we say good-by than when meeting; so you will kiss me most of +all when I have to die:--a thing in death to look forward to! And, till +then,--life, life, till I am out of my depth in happiness and drown in +your arms! + +Beloved, that I can write so to you,--think what it means; what you have +made me come through in the way of love, that this, which I could not have +dreamed before, comes from me with the thought of you! You told me to be +still--to let you "worship": I was to write back acceptance of all your +dear words. Are you never to be at my feet, you ask. Indeed, dearest, I do +not know how, for I cannot move from where I am! Do you feel where my +thoughts kiss you? You would be vexed with me if I wrote it down, so I do +not. And after all, some day, under a bright star of Providence, I may +have gifts for you after my own mind which will allow me to grow proud. +Only now all the giving comes from you. It is I who am enriched by your +love, beyond knowledge of my former self. Are _you_ changed, dearest, by +anything I have done? + +My heart goes to you like a tree in the wind, and all these thoughts are +loose leaves that fly after you when I have to remain behind. Dear lover, +what short visits yours seem! and the Mother-Aunt tells me they are most +unconscionably long.--You will not pay any attention to _that_, please: +forever let the heavens fall rather than that a hint to such foul effect +should grow operative through me! + +This brings you me so far as it can:--such little words off so great a +body of--"liking" shall I call it? My paper stops me: it is my last sheet: +I should have to go down to the library to get more--else I think I could +not cease writing. + +More love than I can name.--Ever, dearest, your own. + + + + +LETTER XVII. + + +Dearest: Do I not write you long letters? It reveals my weakness. I have +thought (it had been coming on me, and now and then had broken out of me +before I met you) that, left to myself, I should have become a writer of +books--I scarcely can guess what sort--and gone contentedly into +middle-age with that instead of _this_ as my _raison d'etre_. + +How gladly I lay down that part of myself, and say--"But for you, I had +been this quite other person, whom I have no wish to be now"! Beloved, +your heart is the shelf where I put all my uncut volumes, wondering a +little what sort of a writer I should have made; and chiefly wondering, +would _you_ have liked me in that character? + +There is one here in the family who considers me a writer of the darkest +dye, and does not approve of it. Benjy comes and sits most mournfully +facing me when I settle down on a sunny morning, such as this, to write: +and inquires, with all the dumbness a dog is capable of--"What has come +between us, that you fill up your time and mine with those cat's-claw +scratchings, when you should be in your woodland dress running [with] me +through damp places?" + +Having written this sentimental meaning into his eyes, and Benjy still +sitting watching me, I was seized with ruth for my neglect of him, and +took him to see his mother's grave. At the bottom of the long walk is our +dog's cemetery:--no tombstones, but mounds; and a dog-rose grows there and +flourishes as nowhere else. It was my fancy as a child to have it planted: +and I declare to you, it has taken wonderfully to the notion, as if it +_knew_ that it had relations of a higher species under its keeping. Benjy, +too, has a profound air of knowing, and never scratches for bones there, +as he does in other places. What horror, were I to find him digging up his +mother's skeleton! Would my esteem for him survive? + +When we got there to-day, he deprecated my choice of locality, asking +what I had brought him _there_ for. I pointed out to him the precise +mound which covered the object of his earliest affections, and gathered +you these buds. Are they not a deep color for wild ones?--if their blush +remains a fixed state till the post brings them to you. + +Through what flower would you best like to be passed back, as regards +your material atoms, into the spiritualized side of nature, when we +have done with ourselves in this life? No single flower quite covers all +my wants and aspirations. You and I would put our heads together +underground and evolve a new flower--"carnation, lily, lily, rose"--and +send it up one fine morning for scientists to dispute over and give +diabolical learned names to. What an end to our cozy floral +collaboration that would be! + +Here endeth the epistle: the elect salutes you. This week, if the +authorities permit, I shall be paying you a flying visit, with wings +full of eyes,--_and_, I hope, healing; for I believe you are seedy, and +that _that_ is what is behind it. You notice I have not complained. +Dearest, how could I! My happiness reaches to the clouds--that is, to +where things are not quite clear at present. I love you no more than I +ought: yet far more than I can name. Good-night and good-morning.--Your +star, since you call me so. + + + + +LETTER XVIII. + + +Dearest: Not having had a letter from you this morning, I have read over +some back ones, and find in one a bidding which I have never fulfilled, to +tell you what I _do_ all day. Was that to avoid the too great length of my +telling you what I _think_? Yet you get more of me this way than that. +What I do is every day so much the same: while what I think is always +different. However, since you want a woman of action rather than of brain, +here I start telling you. + +I wake punctual and hungry at the sound of Nan-nan's drawing of the +blinds: wait till she is gone (the old darling potters and tattles: it +is her most possessive moment of me in the day, except when I sham +headaches, and let her put me to bed); then I have my hand under my +pillow and draw out your last for a reading that has lost count whether +it is the twenty-second or the fifty-second time;--discover new beauties +in it, and run to the glass to discover new beauties in myself,--find +them; Benjy comes up with the post's latest, and behold, my day is +begun! + +Is that the sort of thing you want to know? My days are without an +action worth naming: I only think swelling thoughts, and write some of +them: if ever I do anything worth telling, be sure I run a pen-and-ink +race to tell you. No, it is man who _does_ things; a woman only diddles +(to adapt a word of diminutive sound for the occasion), unless, good, +fortunate, independent thing, she works for her own living: and that is +not me! + +I feel sometimes as if a real bar were between me and a whole conception +of life; because I have carpets and curtains, and Nan-nan, and Benjy, +and last of all you--shutting me out from the realities of existence. + +If you would all leave me just for one full moon, and come back to me +only when I am starving for you all--for my tea to be brought to me in +the morning, and all the paddings and cushionings which bolster me up +from morning till night--with what a sigh of wisdom I would drop back +into your arms, and would let you draw the rose-colored curtains round +me again! + +Now I am afraid lest I have become too happy: I am leaning so far out of +window to welcome the dawn, I seem to be tempting a fall--heaven itself +to fall upon me. + +What do I _know_ truly, who only know so much happiness? + +Dearest, if there is anything else in love which I do not know, teach it +me quickly: I am utterly yours. If there is sorrow to give, give it me! +Only let me have with it the consciousness of your love. + +Oh, my dear, I lose myself if I think of you so much. What would life +have without you in it? The sun would drop from my heavens. I see only +by you! you have kissed me on the eyes. You are more to me than my own +poor brain could ever have devised: had I started to invent Paradise, I +could not have invented _you_. But perhaps you have invented me: I am +something new to myself since I saw you first. God bless you for it! + +Even if you were to shut your eyes at me now--though I might go blind, +you could not unmake me:--"The gods themselves cannot recall their +gifts." Also that I am yours is a gift of the gods, I will trust: and +so, not to be recalled! + +Kiss me, dearest; here where I have written this! I am yours, Beloved. I +kiss you again and again.--Ever your own making. + + + + +LETTER XIX. + + +Dearest, Dearest: How long has this happened? You don't tell me the day or +the hour. Is it ever since you last wrote? Then you have been in pain and +grief for four days: and I not knowing anything about it! And you have no +hand in the house kind enough to let you dictate by it one small word to +poor me? What heartless merrymakings may I not have sent you to worry you, +when soothing was the one thing wanted? Well, I will not worry now, then; +neither at not being told, nor at not being allowed to come: but I will +come thus and thus, O my dear heart, and take you in my arms. And you will +be comforted, will you not be? when I tell you that even if you had no +legs at all, I would love you just the same. Indeed, dearest, so much of +you is a superfluity: just your heart against mine, and the sound of your +voice, would carry me up to more heavens than I could otherwise have +dreamed of. I may say now, now that I know it was not your choice, what a +void these last few days the lack of letters has been to me. I wondered, +truly, if you had found it well to put off such visible signs for a while +in order to appease one who, in other things more essential, sees you +rebellious. But the wonder is over now; and I don't want you to write--not +till a consultation of doctors orders it for the good of your health. I +will be so happy talking to you: also I am sending you books:--those I +wish you to read; and which now you _must_, since you have the leisure! +And I for my part will make time and read yours. Whose do you most want me +to read, that my education in your likings may become complete? What I +send you will not deprive me of anything: for I have the beautiful +complete set--your gift--and shall read side by side with you to realize +in imagination what the happiness of reading them for the first time ought +to be. + +Yesterday, by a most unsympathetic instinct, I went out for a long tramp +on my two feet; and no ache in them came and told me of you! Over +Sillingford I sat on a bank and looked downhill where went a carter. And +I looked uphill where lay something which might be nothing--or not his. +Now, shall I make a fool of myself by pursuing to tell him he may have +dropped something, or shall I go on and see? So I went on and saw a coat +with a fat pocket: and by then he was out of sight, and perhaps it +wasn't his; and it was very hot and the hill steep. So I minded my own +business, making Cain's motto mine; and now feel so had, being quite +sure that it was his. And I wonder how many miles he will have tramped +back looking for it, and whether his dinner was in the pocket. + +These unintentional misdoings are the "sins" one repents of all one's +life long: I have others stored away, the bitterest of small things done +or undone in haste and repented of at so much leisure afterwards. And +always done to people or things I had no grudge against, sometimes even +a love for. They are my skeletons: I will tell you of them some day. + +This, dearest, is our first enforced absence from each other; and I feel +it almost more hard on me than on you. Beloved, let us lay our hearts +together and get comforted. It is not real separation to know that +another part of the world contains the rest of me. Oh, the rest of me, +the rest of me that you are! So, thinking of you, I can never be tired. +I rest yours. + + + + +LETTER XX. + + +Yes, Dearest, "Patience!" but it is a virtue I have little enough of +naturally, and used to be taught to pray for as a child. And I remember +once really hurting clear Mother-Aunt's feelings by trying to repay her +for that teaching by a little iniquitous laughter at her expense. It was +too funny for me to feel very contrite about, as I do sometimes over quite +small things, or I would not be telling it you now (for there are things +in me I would conceal even from you). I dare say you wouldn't guess it, +but the M.-A. is a most long person over her private devotions. Perhaps it +was her own habit, with the cares of a household sometimes conflicting, +which made her recite to me so often her pet legend of a saintly person +who, constantly interrupted over her prayers by mundane matters, became a +pattern in patience out of these snippings of her godly desires. So, one +day, angels in the disguise of cross people with selfish demands on her +time came seeking to know where in her composition or composure +exasperation began: and finding none, they let her return in peace to her +missal, where for a reward all the letters had been turned into gold. "And +that, my dear, comes of patience," my aunt would say, till I grew a little +tired of the saying. I don't know what experience my uncle had gathered of +her patience under like circumstances: but I notice that to this day he +treads delicately, like Agag, when he knows her to be on her knees; and +prefers then to send me on his errands instead of doing them himself. + +So it happened one day that he wanted a particular coat which had been put +away in her clothes-closet--and she was on her knees between him and it, +with the time of her Amen quite indefinite. I was sent, said my errand +briefly, and was permitted to fumble out her keys from her pocket while +she continued to kneel over her morning psalms. + +What I brought to him turned out to be the wrong coat: I went back and +knocked for readmittance. Long-sufferingly she bade me to come in. I +explained, and still she repressed herself, only saying in a tone of +affliction, "Do see this time that you take the right one!" + +After I had made my second selection, and proved it right on my uncle's +person, the parallelism of things struck me, and I skipped back to my +aunt's door and tapped. I got a low wailing "Yes?" for answer--a +monosyllabic substitute for the "How long, O Lord?" of a saint in +difficulties. When I called through the keyhole, "Are your psalms +written in gold?" she became really angry:--I suppose because the +miracle so well earned had not come to pass. + +Well, dearest, if you have been patient with me over so much about +nothing, I pray this letter may appear to you written in gold. Why I +write so is, partly, that, it is bad for us both to be down in the +mouth, or with hearts down at heel: and so, since you cannot, I have to +do the dancing;--and, partly, because I found I had a bad temper on me +which needed curing, and being brought to the sun-go-down point of owing +no man anything. Which, sooner said, has finally been done; and I am +very meek now and loving to you, and everything belonging to you--not to +come nearer the sore point. + +And I hope some day, some day, as a reward to my present submission, +that you will sprain your ankle in my company (just a very little bit +for an excuse) and let me have the nursing of it! It hurts my heart to +have your poor bones crying out for comfort that I am not to bring to +them. I feel robbed of a part of my domestic training, and may never +pick up what I have just lost. And I fear greatly you must have been +truly in pain to have put off Meredith for a day. If I had been at hand +to read to you, I flatter myself you would have liked him well, and +been soothed. You must take the will, Beloved, for the deed. I kiss you +now, as much as even you can demand; and when you get this I will be +thinking of you all over again.--When do I ever leave off? Love, love, +love till our next meeting-, and then more love still, and more!--Ever +your own. + + + + +LETTER XXI. + + +Dearest: I am in a simple mood to-day, and give you the benefit of it: +I shall become complicated again presently, and you will hear from me +directly that happens. + +The house only emptied itself this morning; I may say emptied, for the +remainder fits like a saint into her niche, and is far too comfortable +to count. This is C----, whom you only once met, when she sat so much in +the background that you will not remember her. She has one weakness, a +thirst between meals--the blameless thirst of a rabid teetotaler. She +hides cups of cold tea about the place, as a dog its bones: now and then +one gets spilled or sat on, and when she hears of the accident, she +looks thirsty, with a thirst which only _that_ particular cup of tea +could have quenched. In no other way is she any trouble: indeed, she is +a great dear, and has the face of a Madonna, as beautiful as an +apocryphal gospel to look at and "make believe" in. + +Arthur, too, like the rest of them, when he came over to give me his +brotherly blessing, wished to know what you were like. I didn't pretend +to remember your outward appearance too well,--told him you looked like +a common or garden Englishman, and roused his suspicions by so careless +a championship of my choice. He accused me of being in reality highly +sentimental about you, and with having at that moment your portrait +concealed and strung around my neck in a locket. Mother-Aunt stood up +for me against him, declaring I was "too sensible a girl for nonsense of +that sort." (It is a little weakness of hers, you know, to resent +extremes of endearment towards anyone but herself in those she has +"brooded," and she has thought us hitherto most restrained and +proper--as, indeed, have we not been?) Arthur and I exchanged tokens of +truce: in a little while off went my aunt to bed, leaving us alone. +Then, for he is the one of us that I am most frank with: "Arthur," cried +I, and up came your little locket like a bucket from a well, for him to +have his first sight of you, my Beloved. He objected that he could not +see faces in a nutshell; and I suppose others cannot: only I. + +He, too, is gone. If you had been coming he would have spared another +day--for to-day _was_ planned and dated, you will remember--and we would +have ridden halfway to meet you. But, as fate has tripped you, and made +all comings on your part indefinite, he sends you his hopes for a later +meeting. + +How is your poor foot? I suppose, as it is ill, I may send it a kiss by +post and wish it well? I do. Truly, you are to let me know if it gives +you much pain, and I will lie awake thinking of you. This is not +sentimental, for if one knows that a friend is occupied over one's +sleeplessness one feels the comfort. + +I am perplexed how else to give you my company: your mother, I know, +could not yet truly welcome me; and I wish to be as patient as possible, +and not push for favors that are not offered. So I cannot come and ask +to take you out in _her_ carriage, nor come and carry you away in mine. +We must try how fast we can hold hands at a distance. + +I have kept up to where you have been reading in "Richard Feverel," +though it has been a scramble: for I have less opportunity of reading, I +with my feet, than you without yours. In _your_ book I have just got to +the smuggling away of General Monk in the perforated coffin, and my +sense of history capitulates in an abandonment of laughter. I yield! The +Gaul's invasion of Britain always becomes broad farce when he attempts +it. This in clever ludicrousness beats the unintentional comedy of +Victor Hugo's "John-Jim-Jack" as a name typical of Anglo-Saxon +christenings. But Dumas, through a dozen absurdities, knows apparently +how to stalk his quarry: so large a genius may play the fool and remain +wise. + +You see I have given your author a warm welcome at last: and what about +you and mine? Tell me you love his women and I will not be jealous. +Indeed, outside him I don't know where to find a written English woman +of modern times whom I would care to meet, or could feel honestly bound +to look up to:--nowhere will I have her shaking her ringlets at me in +Dickens or Thackeray. Scott is simply not modern; and Hardy's women, if +they have nobility in them, get so cruelly broken on the wheel that you +get but the wrecks of them at last. It is only his charming baggages who +come to a good ending. + +I like an author who has the courage and self-restraint to leave his noble +creations alive: too many try to ennoble them by death. For my part, if I +have to go out of life before you, I would gladly trust you to the hands +of Clara, or Rose, or Janet, or most of all Vittoria; though, to be +accurate, I fear they have all grown too old for you by now. + +And you? have you any men to offer me in turn out of your literary +admirations, supposing you should die of a snapped ankle? Would you give +me to d'Artagnan for instance? Hardly, I suspect! But either choose me +some proxy hero, or get well and come to me! You will be very welcome +when you do. Sleep is making sandy eyes at me: good-night, dearest. + + + + +LETTER XXII. + + +Why, my Beloved: Since you put it to me as a point of conscience (it is +only lying on your back with one active leg doing nothing, and the other +dying to have done aching, which has made you take this new start of +inquiring within upon everything), since you call on me for a +conscientious answer, I say that it stands to reason that I love you more +than you love me, because there is so much more of you to love, let alone +fit for loving. + +Do you imagine that you are going to be a cripple for life, and therefore +an indifferent dancer in the dances I shall always be leading you, that +you have started this fit of self-depreciation? Or is it because I have +thrown Meredith at your sick head that you doubt my tact and my affection, +and my power patiently to bear for your sake a good deal of cold shoulder? +Dearest, remember I am doctoring you from a distance: and am not yet +allowed to come and see my patient, so can only judge from your letters +how ill you are. That you have been concealing from me almost +treacherously: and only by a piece of abject waylaying did I receive word +to-day of your sleepless nights, and so get the key to your symptoms. Lay +by Meredith, then, for a while: I am sending you a cargo of Stevenson +instead. You have been truly unkind, trying to read what required effort, +when you were fit for nothing of the sort. + +And lest even Stevenson should be too much for you, and wanting very much, +and perhaps a little bit jealously, to be your most successful nurse, I am +letting my last large bit of shyness of you go; and with a pleasant sort +of pain, because I know I have hit on a thing that will please you, I open +my hands and let you have these, and with them goes my last blush: +henceforth I am a woman without a secret, and all your interest in me may +evaporate. Yet I know well it will not. + +As for this resurrection pie from love's dead-letter office, you will +find from it at least one thing--how much I depended upon response from +you before I could become at all articulate. It is you, dearest, from +the beginning who have set my head and heart free and made me a woman. I +am something quite different from the sort of child I was less than a +year ago when I wrote that small prayer which stands sponsor for all +that follows. How abundantly it has been answered, dearest Beloved, +only I know: you do not! + +Now my prayer is not that you should "come true," but that you should +get well. Do this one little thing for me, dearest! For you I will do +anything: my happiness waits for that. As yet I seem to have done +nothing. Oh, but, Beloved, I will! From a reading of the Fioretti, I +sign myself as I feel.--Your glorious poor little one. + + + + +THE CASKET LETTERS. + + +A. + + my dear Prince Wonderful,[1] + +Pray God bless ---- ---- and make him come true for my sake. Amen. + +_R.S.V.P._ + +[Footnote 1: The MS. contained at first no name, but a blank; over it +this has been written afterwards in a small hand.] + + +B. + +Dear Prince Wonderful: Now that I have met you I pray that you will be my +friend. I want just a little of your friendship, but that, so much, so +much! And even for that little I do not know how to ask. + +Always to be _your_ friend: of that you shall be quite sure. + + +C. + +Dear Prince Wonderful: Long ago when I was still a child I told myself +of you: but thought of you only as in a fairy tale. Now I am afraid of +trusting my eyes or ears, for fear I should think too much of you before +I know you really to be true. Do not make me wish so much to be your +friend, unless you are also going to be true! + +Please come true now, for mine and for all the world's sake:--but for +mine especially, because I thought of you first! And if you are not able +to come true, don't make me see you any more. I shall always remember +you, and be glad that I have seen you just once. + + +D. + +Dear Prince Wonderful: _Has_ God blessed you yet and made you come true? I +have not seen you again, so how am I to know? Not that it is necessary for +me to know even if you do come true. I believe already that you are true. + +If I were never to see you again I should be glad to think of you as +living, and shall always be your friend. I pray that you may come to +know that. + + +E. + +Dear Highness: I do not know what to write to you: I only know how much I +wish to write. I have always written the things I thought about: it has +been easy to find words for them. Now I think about you, but have no +words:--no words, dear Highness, for you! I could write at once if I knew +you were my friend. Come true for me: I will have so much to tell you +then! + + +F. + +Dear Highness: If I believe in fairy tales coming true, it is because I am +superstitious. This is what I did to-day. I shut my eyes and took a book +from the shelf, opened it, and put my fingers down on a page. This is what +I came to: + + "All I believed is true! + I am able yet + All I want to get + By a method as strange as new: + Dare I trust the same to you?" + +Fate says, then, you are to be my friend. Fate has said I am yours +already. That is very certain. Only in real life where things come true +would a book have opened as this has done. + + +G. + +Dear Highness: I am sure now, then, that I please you, and that you like +me, perhaps only a little: for you turned out of your way to ride with me +though you were going somewhere so fast. How much I wished it when I saw +you coming, but dared not believe it would come true! + +"Come true": it is the word I have always been writing, and everything +_has_:--you most of all! You are more true each time I see you. So true +that now I will write it down at last,--the truth for you who have come +so true. + +Dear Highness and Great Heart, I love you dearly, though you don't know +it,--quite ever so much; and am going to love you ever so much more, +only--please like _me_ a little better first! You on your dear side must +do something: or, before I know, I may be wringing my hands all alone on +a desert island to a bare blue horizon, with nothing in it real or +fabulous. + +If I am to love you, nothing but happiness is to be allowed to come of +it. So don't come true too fast without one little wee corresponding +wish for me to find that you are! I am quite happy thinking you out +slowly: it takes me all day long; the longer the better! + +I wonder how often in my life I shall write down that I love you, having +once written it (I do:--I love you! there [it] is for you, with more to +follow after!); and send you my love as I do now into the great +emptiness of chance, hoping somehow, known or unknown, it may bless you +and bring good to you. + +Oh, but 'tis a windy world, and I a mere feather in it: how can I get +blown the way I would? + +Still I have a superstition that some star is over me which I have not +seen yet, but shall,--Heaven helping me. + +And now good-night, and no more, no more at all! I send out an "I love +you" to be my celestial commercial traveler for me while I fold myself +up and become its sleeping partner. + +Good-night: you are the best and truest that I ever dreamed yet. + + +H. + +Dear Highness: I begin not to be able to name you anything, for there is +not a word for you that will do! "Highness" you are: but that leaves gaps +and coldnesses without end. "Royal," yet much more serene than royal: +though by that I don't mean any detraction from your royalty, for I never +saw a man carry his invisible crown with so level a head and no +haughtiness at all: and that is the finest royalty of look possible. + +I look at you and wonder so how you have grown to this--to have become +king so quietly without any coronation ceremony. You have thought more +than you should for happiness at your age; making me, by that one line +in your forehead, think you were three years older than you really are. +I wish--if I dare wish you anything different--that you were! It makes +me uncomfortable to remember that I am--what? Almost half a year your +elder as time flies:--not really, for your brain was born long before +mine began to rattle in its shell. You say quite _old_ things, and +quietly, as if you had had them in your mind ten years already. When you +told me about your two old pensioners, the blind man and his wife, whom +you brought to so funny a reconciliation, I felt ("mir war, ich wuszte +nicht wie") that I would like very much to go blindfold led by you: it +struck me suddenly how happy would be a blindfoldness of perfect trust +such as one might have with your hands on one. I suppose that is what in +religion is called faith: I haven't it there, my dear; but I have it in +you now. I love you, beginning to understand why: at first I did not. I +am ashamed not to have discovered it earlier. The matter with you is +that you have goodness prevailing in you, an integrity of goodness, I +mean:--a different thing from there being a whereabouts for goodness in +you; _that_ we all have in some proportion or another. I was quite right +to love you: I know it now,--I did not when I first did. + +Yesterday I was turning over a silly "confession book" in which a rose was +everybody's favorite flower, manliness the finest quality for a man, and +womanliness for a woman (which is as much as to say that pig is the best +quality for pork, and pork for pig): till I came upon one different from +the others, and found myself saying "Yes" all down the page. + +I turned over for the signature, and found my own mother's. Was it not a +strange sweet meeting? And only then did the memory of her handwriting +from far back come to me. She died, dear Highness, before I was seven +years old. I love her as I do my early memory of flowers, as something +very sweet, hardly as a real person. + +I noticed she loved best in men and women what they lack most often: in a +man, a fair mind; in a woman, courage. "Brave women and fair men," she +wrote. Byron might have turned in his grave at having his dissolute +stiff-neck so wrung for him by misquotation. And she--it must have been +before the eighties had started the popular craze for him--chose Meredith, +my own dear Meredith, for her favorite author. How our tastes would have +run together had she lived! + +Well, I know you fair, and believe myself brave--constitutionally, so +that I can't help it: and this, therefore, is not self-praise. But +fairness in a man is a deadly hard acquirement, I begin now to discover. +You have it fixed fast in you. + +You, I think, began to do just things consciously, as the burden of +manhood began in you. I love to think of you growing by degrees till you +could carry your head _so_--and no other way; so that, looking at you, I +can promise myself you never did a mean thing, and never consciously an +unjust thing except to yourself. I can just fancy that fault in you. +But, whatever--I love you for it more and more, and am proud knowing you +and finding that we are to become friends. For it is that, and no less +than that, now. + +I love you; and me you like cordially: and that is enough. I need not +look behind it, for already I have no way to repay you for the happiness +this brings me. + + +I. + +Oh, I think greatly of you, my dear; and it takes long thinking. Not +merely such a quantity of thought, but such a quality, makes so hard a +day's work that by the end of it I am quite drowsy. Bless me, dearest; all +to-day has belonged to you; and to-morrow, I know, waits to become yours +without the asking: just as without the asking I too am yours. I wish it +were more possible for us to give service to those we love. I am most glad +because I see you so often: but I come and go in your life empty-handed, +though I have so much to give away. Thoughts, the best I have, I give you: +I cannot empty my brain of them. Some day you shall think well of me.--That +is a vow, dear friend,--you whom I love so much! + + +J. + +I have not had to alter any thought ever formed about you, Beloved; I have +only had to deepen it--that is all. You grow, but you remain. I have heard +people talk about you, generally kindly; but what they think of you is +often wrong. I do not say anything, but I am glad, and so sure that I know +you better. If my mind is so clear about you, it shows that you are good +for me. Now for nearly three months I may not see you again; but all that +time you will be growing in my heart; and at the end without another word +from you I shall find that I know you better than before. Is that strange? +It is because I love you: love is knowledge--blind knowledge, not wanting +eyes. I only hope that I shall keep in your memory the kind place you have +given me. You are almost my friend now, and I know it. You do not know +that I love you. + + +K. + +Beloved: You love me! I know it now, and bless the sun and the moon and +the stars for the dear certainty of it. And I ask you now, O heart that +has opened to me, have I once been unhappy or impatient while this good +thing has been withheld from me? Indeed my love for you has occupied me +too completely: I have been so glad to find how much there is to learn in +a good heart deeply unconscious of its own goodness. You have employed me +as I wish I may be employed all the days of my life: and now my beloved +employer has given me the wages I did not ask. + +You love me! Is it a question of little or much? Is it not rather an +entire new thought of me that has entered your life, as the thought of you +entered mine months that seem years ago? It was the seed then, and seemed +small; but the whole life was there; and it has grown and grown till now +it is I who have become small, and have hardly room in me for the roots: +and it seems to have gone so far up over my head that I wonder if the +stars know of my happiness. + +They must know of yours too, then, my Beloved: they are no company for me +without you. Oh, to-day, to-day of all days! how in my heart I shall go on +kissing it till I die! You love me: that is wonderful! You love me: and +already it is not wonderful in the least! but belongs to Noah and the ark +and all the animals saved up for an earth washed clean and dried, and the +new beginnings of time which have ever since been twisting and turning +with us in safe keeping through all the history of the world. + +"We came over at the Norman conquest," my dear, as people say trailing +their pedigree: but there was no ancestral pride about us--it was all for +the love of the thing we did it: how clear it seems now! In the hall hangs +a portrait in a big wig, but otherwise the image of my father, of a man +who flouted the authority of James II. merely because he was so like my +father in character that he could do nothing else. I shall look for you +now in the Bayeux tapestries with a prong from your helmet down the middle +of your face--of which that line on your forehead is the remainder. And +you love me! I wonder what the line has to do with that? + +By such little things do great things seem to come about: not really. I +know it was not because I said just what I did say, and did what I did +yesterday, that your heart was bound to come for mine. But it was those +small things that brought you consciousness: and when we parted I knew +that I had all the world at my feet--or all heaven over my head! + +Ah, at last I may let the spirit of a kiss go to you from me, and not be +ashamed or think myself forward since I have your love. All this time you +are thinking of me: a certainty lying far outside what I can see. + +Beloved, if great happiness may be set to any words, it is here! If +silence goes better with it,--speak, silence, for me when I end now! + +Good-night, and think greatly of me! I shall wake early. + + +L. + +Dearest: Was my heart at all my own,--was it my own to give, till you came +and made me aware of how much it contains? Truly, dear, it contained +nothing before, since now it contains you and nothing else. So I have a +brand-new heart to give away: and you, you want it and can't see that +there it is staring you in the face like a rose with all its petals ready +to drop. + +I am quite sure that if I had not met you, I could have loved nobody as I +love you. Yet it is very likely that I should have loved--sufficiently, as +the way of the world goes. It is not a romantic confession, but it is true +to life: I do so genuinely like most of my fellow-creatures, and am not +happy except where shoulders rub socially:--that is to say, have not until +now been happy, except dependently on the company and smiles of others. +Now, Beloved, I have none of your company, and have had but few of your +smiles (I could count them all); yet I have become more happy filling up +my solitude with the understanding of you which has made me wise, than +all the rest of fate or fortune could make me. Down comes autumn's sad +heart and finds me gay; and the asters, which used to chill me at their +appearing, have come out like crocuses this year because it is the +beginning of a new world. + +And all the winter will carry more than a suspicion of summer with it, +just as the longest days carry round light from northwest to northeast, +because so near the horizon, but out of sight, lies their sun. So you, +Beloved, so near to me now at last, though out of sight. + + +M. + +Beloved: Whether I have sorry or glad things to think about, they are +accompanied and changed by thoughts of you. You are my diary:--all goes to +you now. That you love me is the very light by which I see everything. +Also I learn so much through having you in my thoughts: I cannot say how +it is, for I have no more knowledge of life than I had before:--yet I am +wiser, I believe, knowing much more what lives at the root of things and +what men have meant and felt in all they have done:--because I love you, +dearest. Also I am quicker in my apprehensions, and have more joy and more +fear in me than I had before. And if this seems to be all about myself, +it is all about you really, Beloved! + +Last week one of my dearest old friends, our Rector, died: a character you +too would have loved. He was a father to the whole village, rather stern +of speech, and no respecter of persons. Yet he made a very generous +allowance for those who did not go through the church door to find their +salvation. I often went only because I loved him: and he knew it. + +I went for that reason alone last Sunday. The whole village was full of +closed blinds: and of all things over him Chopin's Funeral March was +played!--a thing utterly unchristian in its meaning: wild pagan grief, +desolate over lost beauty. "Balder the beautiful is dead, is dead!" it +cried: and I thought of you suddenly; you, who are not Balder at all. +Too many thorns have been in your life, but not the mistletoe stroke +dealt by a blind god ignorantly. Yet in all great joy there is the +Balder element: and I feared lest something might slay it for me, and my +life become a cry like Chopin's march over mown-down unripened grass, +and youth slain in its high places. + +After service a sort of processional instinct drew people up to the house: +they waited about till permission was given, and went in to look at their +old man, lying in high state among his books. I did not go. Beloved, I +have never yet seen death: you have, I know. Do you, I wonder, remember +your father better than I mine:--or your brother? Are they more living +because you saw them once not living? I think death might open our eyes to +those we lived on ill terms with, but not to the familiar and dear. I do +not need you dead, to be certain that your heart has mine for its true +inmate and mine yours. + +I love you, I love you: so let good-night bring you good-morning! + + +N. + +At long intervals, dearest, I write to you a secret all about yourself for +my eyes to see: because, chiefly because, I have not you to look at. Thus +I bless myself with you. + +Away over the world west of this and a little bit north is the city of +spires where you are now. Never having seen it I am the more free to +picture it as I like: and to me it is quite full of you:--quite greedily +full, Beloved, when elsewhere you are so much wanted! I send my thoughts +there to pick up crumbs for me. + +It is a strange blend of notions--wisdom and ignorance combined: for +_you_ I seem to know perfectly; but of your life nothing at all. And +yet nobody there knows so much about you as I. What you _do_ matters so +much less than what you are. You, who are the clearest heart in all the +world, do what you will, you are so still to me, Beloved. + +I take a happy armful of thoughts about you into all my dreams: and when +I wake they are there still, and have done nothing but remain true. What +better can I ask of them? + +You do love me: you have not changed? Without change I remain yours so +long as I live. + + +O. + +And you, Beloved, what are you thinking of me all this while? Think well +of me, I beg you: I deserve so much, loving you as truly as I do! + +So often, dearest, I sit thinking my hands into yours again as when we +were saying good-by the last time. Then it was, under our laughter and +light words, that I saw suddenly how the thing too great to name had +become true, that from friends we were changed into lovers. It seemed the +most natural thing to be, and yet was wonderful--for it was I who loved +you first: a thing I could never be ashamed of, and am now proud to +own--for has it not proved me wise? My love for you is the best wisdom +that I have. Good-night, dearest! Sleep as well as I love you, and nobody +in the world will sleep so soundly. + + +P. + +A few times in my life, Beloved, I have had the Blue-moon-hunger for +something which seemed too impossible and good ever to come true: prosaic +people call it being "in the blues"; I comfort myself with a prettier word +for it. To-day, not the Blue-moon itself, but the Man of it came down and +ate plum-porridge with me! Also, I do believe that it burnt his mouth, and +am quite reasonably happy thinking so, since it makes me know that you +love me as much as ever. + +If I have had doubts, dearest, they have been of myself, lest I might be +unworthy of your friendship or love. Suspicions of you I never had. + +Who wrote that suspicions among thoughts are like bats among birds, flying +only by twilight? + +But even my doubts have been thoughts, Beloved,--sure of you if not always +of myself. And if I have looked for you only with doubtful vision, yet I +have always seen you in as strong a light as my eyes could bear:-- +blue-moonlight. Beloved, is not twilight: and blue-moonlight has been the +light I saw you by: it is you alone who can make sunlight of it. + +This I read yesterday has lain on my mind since as true and altogether +beautiful, with the beauty of major, not of minor poetry, though it was +a minor poet who wrote it. It is of a wood where Apollo has gone in +quest of his Beloved, and she is not yet to be found: + + "Here each branch + Sway'd with a glitter all its crowded leaves, + And brushed the soft divine hair touching them + In ruffled clusters.... + + Suddenly the moon + Smoothed herself out of vapor-drift and made + The deep night full of pleasure in the eye + Of her sweet motion. Not alone she came + Leading the starlight with her like a song: + And not a bud of all that undergrowth + But crisped and tingled out an ardent edge + As the light steeped it: over whose massed leaves + The portals of illimitable sleep + Faded in heaven." + +That is love in its moonrise, not its sunrise stage: yet you see. +Beloved, how it takes possession of its dark world, quite as fully as +the brighter sunlight could do. And if I speak of doubts, I mean no +twilight and no suspicions: nor by darkness do I mean any unhappiness. + +My blue-moon has come, leading the starlight with her like a song. Am I +not happy enough to be patiently yours before you know it? Good things +which are to be, before they happen are already true. Nothing is so true +as you are, except my love for you and yours for me. Good-night, +good-night. + +Sleep well, Beloved, and wake. + + +Q. + +Beloved: I heard somebody yesterday speak of you as "charming"; and I +began wondering to myself was that the word which could ever have covered +my thoughts of you? I do not know whether you ever charmed me, except in +the sense of charming which means magic and spell-binding. _That_ you did +from the beginning, dearest. But I think I held you at first in too much +awe to discover charm in you: and at last knew you too much to the depths +to name you by a word so lightly used for the surface of things. Yet now a +charm in you, which is not _all_ you, but just a part of you, comes to +light, when I see you wondering whether you are really loved, or whether, +Beloved, I only _like_ you rather well! + +Well, if you will be so "charming," I am helpless: and can do nothing, +nothing, but pray for the blue-moon to rise, and love you a little better +because you have some of that divine foolishness which strikes the very +wise ones of earth, and makes them kin to weaker mortals who otherwise +might miss their "charm" altogether. + +Truly, Beloved, if I am happy, it is because I am also your most patiently +loving. + + +R. + +Beloved: The certainty which I have now that you love me so fills all my +thoughts, I cannot understand you being in any doubt on your side. What +must I do that I do not do, to show gladness when we meet and sorrow when +we have to part? I am sure that I make no pretense or disguise, except +that I do not stand and wring my hands before all the world, and cry +"Don't go!"--which has sometimes been in my mind, to be kept _not_ said! + +Indeed, I think so much of you, my dear, that I believe some day, if you +do your part, you will only have to look up from your books to find me +standing. If you did, would you still be in doubt whether I loved you? + +Oh, if any apparition of me ever goes to you, all my thoughts will surely +look truthfully out of its eyes; and even you will read what is there at +last! + +Beloved, I kiss your blind eyes, and love them the better for all their +unreadiness to see that I am already their slave. Not a day now but I +think I may see you again: I am in a golden uncertainty from hour to hour. + +I love you: you love me: a mist of blessing swims over my eyes as I write +the words, till they become one and the same thing: I can no longer divide +their meaning in my mind. Amen: there is no need that I should. + + +S. + +Beloved: I have not written to you for quite a long time: ah, I could not. +I have nothing now to say! I think I could very easily die of this great +happiness, so certainly do you love me! Just a breath more of it and I +should be gone. + +Good-by, dearest, and good-by, and good-by! If you want letters from me +now, you must ask for them! That the earth contains us both, and that we +love each other, is about all that I have mind enough to take in. I do not +think I can love you more than I do: you are no longer my dream but my +great waking thought. I am waiting for no blue-moonrise now: my heart has +not a wish which you do not fulfill. I owe you my whole life, and for any +good to you must pay it out to the last farthing, and still feel myself +your debtor. + +Oh, Beloved, I am most poor and most rich when I think of your love. +Good-night; I can never let thought of you go! + + * * * * * + +Beloved: These are almost all of them, but not quite; a few here and there +have cried to be taken out, saying they were still too shy to be looked +at. I can't argue with them: they know their own minds best; and you know +mine. + +See what a dignified historic name I have given this letter-box, or +chatterbox, or whatever you like to call it. But "Resurrection Pie" is +_my_ name for it. Don't eat too much of it, prays your loving. + + + + +LETTER XXIII. + + +Saving your presence, dearest, I would rather have Prince Otto, a very +lovable character for second affections to cling to. Richard Feverel would +never marry again, so I don't ask for him: as for the rest, they are all +too excellent for me. They give me the impression of having worn +copy-books under their coats, when they were boys, to cheat punishment: +and the copy-books got beaten into their systems. + +You must find me somebody who was a "gallous young hound" in the days of +his youth--Crossjay, for instance:--there! I have found the very man for +me! + +But really and truly, are you better? It will not hurt your foot to come +to me, since I am not to come to you? How I long to see you again, +dearest! it is an age! As a matter of fact, it is a fortnight: but I dread +lest you will find some change in me. I have kept a real white hair to +show you, I drew it out of my comb the other morning: wound up into a curl +it becomes quite visible, and it is ivory-white: you are not to think it +flaxen, and take away its one wee sentiment! And I make you an offer:--you +shall have it if, honestly, you can find in your own head a white one to +exchange. + +Dearest, I am not _hurt_, nor do I take seriously to heart your mother's +present coldness. How much more I could forgive her when I put myself in +her place! She may well feel a struggle and some resentment at having to +give up in any degree her place with you. All my selfishness would come +to the front if that were demanded of me. + +Do not think, because I leave her alone, that I am repaying her coldness +in the same coin. I know that for the present anything I do must offend. +Have I demanded your coming too soon? Then stay away another day--or +two: every day only piles up the joy it will be to have your arms round +me once more. I can keep for a little longer: and the gray hair will +keep, and many to-morrows will come bringing good things for us, when +perhaps your mother's "share of the world" will be over. + +Don't say it, but when you next kiss her, kiss her for me also: I am +sorry for all old people: their love of things they are losing is so far +more to be reverenced and made room for than ours of the things which +will come to us in good time abundantly. + +To-night I feel selfish at having too much of your love: and not a bit +of it can I let go! I hope, Beloved, we shall live to see each other's +gray hairs in earnest: gray hairs that we shall not laugh at, as at this +one I pulled. How dark your dear eyes will look with a white setting! My +heart's heart, every day you grow larger round me, and I so much +stronger depending upon you! + +I won't say--come for certain, to-morrow: but come if, and as soon as, +you can. I seem to see a mile further when I am on the lookout for you: +and I shall be long-sighted every day until you come. It is only +_doubtful_ hope deferred which maketh the heart sick. I am as happy as +the day is long waiting for you: but the day _is_ long, dearest, none +the less when I don't see you. + +All this space on the page below is love. I have no time left to put it +into words, or words into it. You bless my thoughts constantly.--Believe +me, never your thoughtless. + + + + +LETTER XXIV. + + +Dearest: How, when, and where is there any use wrangling as to +which of us loves the other the best ("the better," I believe, would be +the more grammatical phrase in incompetent Queen's English), and why in +that of all things should we pretend to be rivals? For this at least +seems certain to me, that, being created male and female, no two lovers +since the world began ever loved each other quite in the _same_ way: it +is not in nature for it to be so. They cannot compare: only to the best +that is in them they _do_ love each after their kind,--as do we for +certain! + +Be sure, then, that I am utterly contented with what I get (and you, +Beloved, and you?): nay, I wonder forever at the love you have given me: +and if I will to lay mine at your feet, and feel yours crowning my +life,--why, so it is, you know; you cannot alter it! And if you insist +that your love is at _my_ feet, I have only to turn Irish and reply that +it is because I am heels over head in love with you:--and, mark you, +that is no pretty attitude for a lady that you have driven me into in +order that I may stick to my "crown"! + +Go to, dearest! There is one thing in which I can beat you, and that is +in the bandying of words and all verbal conjurings: take this as the +last proof of it and rest quiet. I know you love me a great great deal +more than I have wit or power to love you: and that is just the little +reason why your love mounts till, as I tell you, it crowns me (head or +heels): while mine, insufficient and groveling, lies at your feet, and +will till they become amputated. And I can give you, but won't, sixty +other reasons why things are as I say, and are to be left as I say. And +oh, my world, my world, it is with you I go round sunwards, and you make +my evenings and mornings, and will, till Time shuts his wings over us! +And now it is doleful business I have to write to you.... + +I have dropped to sleep over all this writing of things, and my cheek down +on the page has made the paper unwilling to take the ink again:--what a +pretty compliment to me: and, if you prefer it, what an easy way of +writing to you! I can send you such any day and be as idle as I like. And +you will decide about all the above exactly as you and I think best (or +should it be "better" again, being only between us two?). When you get +this, blow your beloved self a kiss in the glass for me,--a great big +shattering blow that shall astonish Mercury behind his window-pane. +Good-night, my best--or "better," for that is what I most want you to be. + + + + +LETTER XXV. + + +My Own Beloved: And I never thanked you yesterday for your dear words +about the resurrection pie; that comes of quarreling! Well, you must prove +them and come quickly that I may see this restoration of health and +spirits that you assure me of. You avoid saying that they sent you to +sleep; but I suppose that is what you mean. + +Fate meant me only to light upon gay things this morning: listen to this +and guess where it comes from: + + "When March with variant winds was past, + And April had with her silver showers + Ta'en leif at life with an orient blast; + And lusty May, that mother of flowers, + Had made the birds to begin their hours, + Among the odours ruddy and white, + Whose harmony was the ear's delight: + + "In bed at morrow I sleeping lay; + Methought Aurora, with crystal een, + In at the window looked by day, + And gave me her visage pale and green; + And on her hand sang a lark from the splene, + 'Awake ye lovers from slumbering! + See how the lusty morrow doth spring!'" + +Ah, but you are no scholar of the things in your own tongue! That is +Dunbar, a Scots poet contemporary of Henry VII., just a little bit +altered by me to make him soundable to your ears. If I had not had to +leave an archaic word here and there, would you ever have guessed he lay +outside this century? That shows the permanent element in all good +poetry, and in all good joy in things also. In the four centuries since +that was written we have only succeeded in worsening the meaning of +certain words, as for instance "spleen," which now means irritation and +vexation, but stood then for quite the opposite--what we should call, I +suppose, "a full heart." It is what I am always saying--a good digestion +is the root of nearly all the good living and high thinking we are +capable of: and the spleen was then the root of the happy emotions as it +is now of the miserable ones. Your pre-Reformation lark sang from "a +full stomach," and thanked God it had a constitution to carry it off +without affectation: and your nineteenth century lark applying the same +code of life, his plain-song is mere happy everyday prose, and not +poetry at all as we try to make it out to be. + +I have no news for you at all of anyone: all inside the house is a +simmer of peace and quiet, with blinds drawn down against the heat the +whole day long. No callers; and as for me, I never call elsewhere. The +gossips about here eke out a precarious existence by washing each +other's dirty linen in public: and the process never seems to result in +any satisfactory cleansing. + +I avoid saying what news I trust to-morrow's post-bag may contain for +me. Every wish I send you comes "from the spleen," which means I am very +healthy, and, conditionally, as happy as is good for me. Pray God bless +my dear Share of the world, and make him get well for his own and my +sake! Amen. + +This catches the noon post, an event which always shows I am jubilant, +with a lot of the opposite to a "little death" feeling running over my +nerves. I feel the grass growing _under_ me: the reverse of poor Keats' +complaint. Good-by, Beloved, till I find my way into the provender of +to-morrow's post-bag. + + + + +LETTER XXVI. + + +Oh, wings of the morning, here you come! I have been looking out for you +ever since post came. Roberts is carrying orders into town, and will bring +you this with a touch of the hat and an amused grin under it. I saw you +right on the top Sallis Hill: this is to wager that my eyes have told me +correctly. Look out for me from far away, I am at my corner window: wave +to me! Dearest, this is to kiss you before I can. + + + + +LETTER XXVII. + + +Dearest: I have made a bad beginning of the week: I wonder how it will +end? it all comes of my not seeing enough of you. Time hangs heavy on my +hands, and the Devil finds me the mischief! + +I prevailed upon myself to go on Sunday and listen to our new lately +appointed vicar: for I thought it not fair to condemn him on the strength +of Mrs. P----'s terrible reporting powers and her sensuous worship of his +full-blown flowers of speech--"pulpit-pot-plants" is what I call them. + +It was not worse and not otherwise than I had expected. I find there are +only two kinds of clerics as generally necessary to salvation in a country +parish--one leads his parishioners to the altar and the other to the +pulpit: and the latter is vastly the more popular among the articulate and +gad-about members of his flock. This one sways himself over the edge of +his frame, making signals of distress in all directions, and with that and +his windy flights of oratory suggests twenty minutes in a balloon-car, +till he comes down to earth at the finish with the Doxology for a +parachute. His shepherd's crook is one long note of interrogation, with +which he tries to hook down the heavens to the understanding of his +hearers, and his hearers up to an understanding of himself. All his +arguments are put interrogatively, and few of them are worth answering. +Well, well, I shall be all the freer for your visit when you come next +Sunday, and any Sunday after that you will: and he shall come in to tea if +you like and talk to you in quite a cultured and agreeable manner, as he +can when his favorite beverage is before him. + +I discover that I get "the snaps" on a Monday morning, if I get them at +all. The M.-A. gets them on the Sunday itself, softly but regularly: they +distress no one, and we all know the cause: her fingers are itching for +the knitting which she mayn't do. Your Protestant ignores Lent as a Popish +device, a fond thing vainly invented: but spreads it instead over +fifty-two days in the year. Why, I want to know, cannot I change the +subject? + +Sunday we get no post (and no collection except in church) unless we send +down to the town for it, so Monday is all the more welcome: but this I +have been up and writing before it arrives--therefore the "snaps." + +Our postman is a lovely sight. I watched him walking up the drive the +other morning, and he seemed quite perfection, for I guessed he was +bringing me the thing which would make me happy all day. I only hope the +Government pays him properly. + +I think this is the least pleasant letter I have ever sent you: shall I +tell you why? It was not the sermon: he is quite a forgivable good man in +his way. But in the afternoon that same Mrs. P---- came, got me in a +corner, and wanted to unburden herself of invective against your mother, +believing that I should be glad, because her coldness to me has become +known! What mean things some people can think about one! I heard nothing: +but I am ruffled in all my plumage and want stroking. And my love to your +mother, please, if she will have it. It is only through her that I get +you.--Ever your very own. + + + + +LETTER XXVIII. + + +Dearest: Here comes a letter to you from me flying in the opposite +direction. I won't say I am not wishing to go; but oh, to be a bird in two +places at once! Give this letter, then, a special nesting-place, because I +am so much on the wing elsewhere. + +I shut my eyes most of the time through France, and opened them on a +soup-tureen full of coffee which presented itself at the frontier: and +then realized that only a little way ahead lay Berne, with baths, buns, +bears, breakfast, and other nice things beginning with B, waiting to make +us clean, comfortable, contented, and other nice things beginning with C. + +Through France I loved you sleepy fashion, with many dreams in between not +all about you. But now I am breathing thoughts of you out of a new +atmosphere--a great gulp of you, all clean-living and high-thinking +between these Alpine royal highnesses with snow-white crowns to their +heads: and no time for a word more about anything except you: you, and +double-you,--and treble-you if the alphabet only had grace to contain so +beautiful a symbol! Good-by: we meet next, perhaps, out of Lucerne: if +not,--Italy. + +What a lot I have to go through before we meet again visibly! You will +find me world-worn, my Beloved! Write often. + + + + +LETTER XXIX. + + +Beloved: You know of the method for making a cat settle down in +a strange place by buttering her all over: the theory being that by the +time she has polished off the butter she feels herself at home? My +morning's work has been the buttering of the Mother-Aunt with such +things as will Lucerne her the most. When her instincts are appeased I +am the more free to indulge my own. + +So after breakfast we went round the cloisters, very thick set with +tablets and family vaults, and crowded graves inclosed. It proved quite +"the best butter." To me the penance turned out interesting after a +period of natural repulsion. A most unpleasant addition to sepulchral +sentiment is here the fashion: photographs of the departed set into the +stone. You see an elegant and genteel marble cross: there on the +pedestal above the name is the photo:--a smug man with bourgeois +whiskers,--a militiaman with waxed mustaches well turned up,--a woman +well attired and conscious of it: you cannot think how indecent looked +the pretension of such types to the dignity of death and immortality. + +But just one or two faces stood the test, and were justified: a young +man oppressed with the burden of youth; a sweet, toothless grandmother +in a bonnet, wearing old age like a flower; a woman not beautiful but +for her neck which carried indignation; her face had a thwarted look. +"Dead and rotten" one did not say of these in disgust and involuntarily +as one did of the others. And yet I don't suppose the eye picks out the +faces that kindled most kindness round them when living, or that one can +see well at all where one sees without sympathy. I think the +Mother-Aunt's face would not look dear to most people as it does to +me,--yet my sight of her is the truer: only I would not put it up on a +tombstone in order that it might look nothing to those that pass by. + +I wrote this much, and then, leaving the M.-A. to glory in her +innumerable correspondence, Arthur and I went off to the lake, where we +have been for about seven hours. On it, I found it become infinitely +more beautiful, for everything was mystified by a lovely bloomy haze, +out of which the white peaks floated like dreams: and the mountains +change and change, and seem not all the same as going when returning. +Don't ask me to write landscape to you: one breathes it in, and it is +there ever after, but remains unset to words. + +The T----s whittle themselves out of our company just to the right +amount: come back at the right time (which is more than Arthur and I are +likely to do when our legs get on the spin), and are duly welcome with a +diversity of doings to talk about. Their tastes are more the M.-A.'s, +and their activities about halfway between hers and ours, so we make +rather a fortunate quintette. The M---- trio join us the day after +to-morrow, when the majority of us will head away at once to Florence. +Arthur growls and threatens he means to be left behind for a week: and +it suits the funny little jealousy of the M.-A. well enough to see us +parted for a time, quite apart from the fact that I shall then be more +dependent on her company. She will then glory in overworking +herself,--say it is me; and I shall feel a fiend. No letter at all, +dearest, this; merely talky-talky.--Yours without words. + + + + +LETTER XXX. + + +Dearest: I cannot say I have seen Pisa, for the majority had +their way, and we simply skipped into it, got ourselves bumped down at +the Duomo and Campo Santo for two hours, fell exhausted to bed, and +skipped out again by the first train next morning. Over the walls of the +Campo Santo are some divine crumbs of Benozzo Gozzoli (don't expect me +ever to spell the names of dead painters correctly: it is a politeness +one owes to the living, but the famous dead are exalted by being spelt +phonetically as the heart dictates, and become all the better company +for that greatest of unspelled and spread-about names--Shakspere, +Shakspeare, Shakespeare--his mark, not himself). Such a long parenthesis +requires stepping-stones to carry you over it: "crumbs" was the last +(wasn't a whole loaf of bread a stepping-stone in one of Andersen's +fairy-tales?): but, indeed, I hadn't time to digest them properly. Let +me come back to them before I die, and bury me in that inclosure if you +love me as much then as I think you do now. + +The Baptistry has a roof of echoes that is wonderful,--a mirror of sound +hung over the head of an official who opens his mouth for centimes to +drop there. You sing notes up into it (or rather you don't, for that is +his perquisite), and they fly circling, and flock, and become a single +chord stretching two octaves: till you feel that you are living inside +what in the days of our youth would have been called "the sound of a +grand Amen." + +The cathedral has fine points, or more than points--aspects: but the +Italian version of Gothic, with its bands of flat marbles instead of +moldings, was a shock to me at first. I only begin to understand it now +that I have seen the outside of the Duomo at Florence. Curiously enough, +it doesn't strike me as in the least Christian, only civic and splendid, +reminding me of what Ruskin says about church architecture being really +a dependant on the feudal or domestic. The Strozzi Palace is a beautiful +piece of street-architecture; its effect is of an iron hand which gives +you a buffet in the face when you look up and wonder--how shall I climb +in? I will tell you more about insides when I write next. + +I fear my last letter to you from Lucerne may either have strayed, or not +even have begun straying: for in the hurry of coming away I left it, +addressed, I _think_, but unstamped; and I am not sure that that +particular hotel will be Christian enough to spare the postage out of the +bill, which had a galaxy of small extras running into centimes, and +suggesting a red-tape rectitude that would not show blind +twenty-five-centime gratitude to the backs of departed guests. So be +patient and forgiving if I seem to have written little. I found two of +yours waiting for me, and cannot choose between them which I find most +dear. I will say, for a fancy, the shorter, that you may ever be +encouraged to write your shortest rather than none at all. One word from +you gives me almost as much pleasure as twenty, for it contains all your +sincerity and truth; and what more do I want? Yon bless me quite. How many +perfectly happy days I owe to you, and seldom dare dream that I have made +any beginning of a return! If I could take one unhappy day out of your +life, dearest, the secret would be mine, and no such thing should be left +in it. Be happy, beloved! oh, happy, happy,--with me for a partial +reason--that is what I wish! + + + + +LETTER XXXI. + + +Dearest: The Italian paper-money paralyzes my brain: I cannot +calculate in it; and were I left to myself an unscrupulous shopman could +empty me of pounds without my becoming conscious of it till I beheld +vacuum. But the T----s have been wonderful caretakers to me: and +to-morrow Arthur rejoins us, so that I shall be able to resume my full +activities under his safe-conduct. + +The ways of the Italian cabbies and porters fill me with terror for the +time when I may have to fall alive and unassisted into their hands: they +have neither conscience nor gratitude, and regard thievish demands when +satisfied merely as stepping-stones to higher things. + +Many of the outsides of Florence I seemed to know by heart--the Palazzo +Vecchio for instance. But close by it Cellini's two statues, the Judith +and the Perseus, brought my heart up to my mouth unexpectedly. The +Perseus is so out of proportion as to be ludicrous from one point of +view: but another is magnificent enough to make me forgive the scamp his +autobiography from now to the day of judgment (when we shall all begin +forgiving each other in great haste, I suppose, for fear of the devil +taking the hindmost!), and I registered a vow on the spot to that +effect:--so no more of him here, henceforth, but good! + +There is not so much color about as I had expected: and austerity rather +than richness is the note of most of the exteriors. + +I have not been allowed into the Uffizi yet, so to-day consoled myself +with the Pitti. Titian's "Duke of Norfolk" is there, and I loved him, +seeing a certain likeness there to somebody whom I--like. A photo of him +will be coming to you. Also there is a very fine Lely-Vandyck of Charles +I. and Henrietta Maria, a quite moral painting, making a triumphant +assertion of that martyr's bad character. I imagine he got into heaven +through having his head cut off and cast from him: otherwise all of him +would have perished along with his mouth. + +Somewhere too high up was hanging a ravishing Botticelli--a Madonna and +Child bending over like a wind-blown tree to be kissed by St. John:--a +composition that takes you up in its arms and rocks you as you look at +it. Andrea del Sarto is to me only a big mediocrity: there is nothing +here to touch his chortling child-Christ in our National Gallery. + +At Pisa I slept in a mosquito-net, and felt like a bride at the altar +under a tulle veil which was too large for her. Here, for lack of that +luxury, being assured that there were no mosquitoes to be had, I have +been sadly ravaged. The creatures pick out all foreigners, I think, and +only when they have exhausted the supply do they pass on to the natives. +Mrs. T---- left one foot unveiled when in Pisa, and only this morning +did the irritation in the part bitten begin to come out. + +I can now ask for a bath in Italian, and order the necessary things for +myself in the hotel: also say "come in" and "thank you." But just the +few days of that very German _table d'hote_ at Lucerne, where I talked +gladly to polish myself up, have given my tongue a hybrid way of talking +without thinking: and I say "_ja, ja_," and "_nein_," and "_der, die, +das_," as often as not before such Italian nouns as I have yet captured. +To fall upon a chambermaid who knows French is like coming upon my +native tongue suddenly. + +Give me good news of your foot and all that is above it: I am so doubtful +of its being really strong yet; and its willing spirits will overcome it +some day and do it an injury, and hurt my feelings dreadfully at the same +time. + +Walk only on one leg whenever you think of me! I tell you truly I am +wonderfully little lonely: and yet my thoughts are constantly away with +you, wishing, wishing,--what no word on paper can ever carry to you. It +shall be at our next meeting!--All yours. + + + + +LETTER XXXII. + + +My Dearest: Florence is still eating up all my time and energies: I +promised you there should be austerity and self-denial in the matter of +letter-writing: and I know you are unselfish enough to expect even less +than I send you. + +Girls in the street address compliments to Arthur's complexion:-- +"beautiful brown boy" they call him: and he simmers over with vanity, and +wishes he could show them his boating arms, brown up to the shoulder, as +well. Have you noticed that combination in some of the dearest specimens +of young English manhood,--great physical vanity and great mental modesty? +and each as transparently sincere as the other. + +The Bargello is an ideal museum for the storage of the best things out of +the Middle Ages. It opens out of splendid courtyards and staircases, and +ranges through rooms which have quite a feudal gloom about them; most of +these are hung with bad late tapestries (too late at least for my taste), +so that the gloom is welcome and charming, making even "Gobelins" quite +bearable. I find quite a new man here to admire--Pollaiolo, both painter +and sculptor, one of the school of "passionate anatomists," as I call +them, about the time of Botticelli, I fancy. He has one bust of a young +Florentine which equals Verocchio on the same ground, and charms me even +more. Some of his subjects are done twice over, in paint and bronze: but +he is more really a sculptor, I think, and merely paints his piece into a +picture from its best point of view. + +Verocchio's idea of David is charming: he is a saucy fellow who has gone +in for it for the fun of the thing--knew he could bring down a hawk with +his catapult, and therefore why not a Goliath also? If he failed, he +need but cut and run, and everybody would laugh and call him plucky for +doing even that much. So he does it, brings down his big game by good +luck, and stands posing with a sort of irresistible stateliness to suit +the result. He has a laugh something like "little Dick's," only more +full of bubbles, and is saying to himself, "What a hero they all think +me!" He is the merriest of sly-dog hypocrites, and has thin, wiry arms +and a craney neck. He is a bit like Tom Sawyer in character, more ornate +and dramatic than Huckleberry Finn, but quite as much a liar, given a +good cause. + +Another thing that has seized me, more for its idea than actual carrying +out, is an unnamed terra-cotta Madonna and Child. He is crushing himself +up against her neck, open-mouthed and terrified, and she spreading long +fingers all over his head and face. My notion of it is that it is the +Godhead taking his first look at life from the human point of view; and +he realizes himself "caught in his own trap," discovering it to be ever +so much worse than it had seemed from an outside view. It is a fine +modern _zeit-geist_ piece of declamation to come out of the rather +over-sweet della Robbia period of art. + +There seems to have been a rage at one period for commissioning statues +of David: so Donatello and others just turned to and did what they liked +most in the way of budding youth, stuck a Goliath's head at its feet, +and called it "David." Verocchio is the exception. + +We are going to get outside Florence for a week or ten days; it is too +hot to be borne at night after a day of tiring activity. So we go to the +D----s' villa, which they offered us in their absence; it lies about +four miles out, and is on much higher ground: address only your very +immediately next letter there, or it may miss me. + +There are hills out there with vineyards among them which draw me into +wishing to be away from towns altogether. Much as I love what is to be +found in this one, I think Heaven meant me to be "truly rural"; which +all falls in, dearest, with what _I_ mean to be! Beloved, how little I +sometimes can say to you! Sometimes my heart can put only silence into +the end of a letter; and with that I let this one go.--Yours, and so +lovingly. + + + + +LETTER XXXIII. + + +Beloved: I had your last letter on Friday: all your letters have come in +their right numbers. I have lost count of mine; but I think seven and two +postcards is the total, which is the same as the numbers of clean and +unclean beasts proportionately represented in the ark. + +Up here we are out of the deadliness of the heat, and are thankful for it. +Vineyards and olives brush the eyes between the hard, upright bars of the +cypresses: and Florence below is like a hot bath which we dip into and +come out again. At the Riccardi chapel I found Benozzo Gozzoli, not in +crumbs, but perfectly preserved: a procession of early Florentine youths, +turning into angels when they get to the bay of the window where the altar +once stood. The more I see of them, the greater these early men seem to +me: I shall be afraid to go to Venice soon; Titian will only half satisfy +me, and Tintoretto, I know, will be actively annoying: I shall stay in my +gondola, as your American lady did on her donkey after riding twenty +miles to visit the ruins, of--Carnac, was it not? It is well to have the +courage of one's likings and dislikings, that is the only true culture +(the state obtained by use of a "coulter" or cutter)--I cut many things +severely which, no doubt, are good for other people. + +Botticelli I was shy of, because of the craze about him among people who +know nothing: he is far more wonderful than I had hoped, both at the +Uffizi and the Academia: but he is quite pagan. I don't know why I say +"but"; he is quite typical of the world's art-training: Christianity may +get hold of the names and dictate the subjects, but the artist-breed +carries a fairly level head through it all, and, like Pater's Mona Lisa, +draws Christianity and Paganism into one: at least, wherever it reaches +perfect expression it has done so. Some of the distinctly primitives are +different; their works inclose a charm which is not artistic. Fra +Angelico, after being a great disappointment to me in some of his large +set pictures in the Academia and elsewhere, shows himself lovely in fresco +(though I think the "crumb" element helps him). His great Crucifixion is +big altogether, and has so permanent a force in its aloofness from mere +drama and mere life. In San Marco, the cells of the monks are quite +charming, a row of little square bandboxes under a broad raftered +corridor, and in every cell is a beautiful little fresco for the monks to +live up to. But they no longer live there now: all that part of San Marco +has become a peep-show. + +I liked being in Savonarola's room, and was more susceptible to the +remains of his presence than I have been to Michel Angelo or anyone +else's. Michel Angelo I feel most when he has left a thing unfinished; +then one can put one's finger into the print of the chisel, and believe +anything of the beauty that might have come out of the great stone +chrysalis lying cased and rough, waiting to be raised up to life. + +Yesterday Arthur and I walked from here to Fiesole, which we had +neglected while in Florence--six miles going, and more like twelve +coming back, all because of Arthur's absurd cross-country instinct, +which, after hours of river-bends, bare mountain tracks, and tottering +precipices, brought us out again half a mile nearer Florence than when +we started. + +At Fiesole is the only church about here whose interior architecture I +have greatly admired, austere but at the same time gracious--like a +Madonna of the best period of painting. We also went to look at the +Roman baths and theater: the theater is charming enough, because it is +still there: but for the baths--oblongs of stone don't interest me just +because they are old. All stone is old: and these didn't even hold water +to give one the real look of the thing. Too tired, and even more too +lazy, to write other things, except love, most dear Beloved. + + + + +LETTER XXXIV. + + +Dearest: We were to have gone down with the rest into Florence +yesterday: but soft miles of Italy gleamed too invitingly away on our +right, and I saw Arthur's eyes hungry with the same far-away wish. So I +said "Prato," and he ran up to the fattore's and secured a wondrous +shandry-dan with just space enough between its horns to toss the two of +us in the direction where we would go. Its gaunt framework was painted +of a bright red, and our feet had only netting to rest on: so +constructed, the creature was most vital and light of limb, taking every +rut on the road with flea-like agility. Oh, but it was worth it! + +We had a drive of fourteen miles through hills and villages, and +castellated villas with gardens shut in by formidably high walls--always, +a charm: a garden should always have something of the jealous seclusion of +a harem. I am getting Italian landscape into my system, and enjoy it more +and more. + +Prato is a little cathedral town, very like the narrow and tumble-down +parts of Florence, only more so. The streets were a seething caldron of +cattle-market when we entered, which made us feel like a tea-cup in a +bull-ring (or is it thunderstorm?) as we drove through needle's-eye ways +bristling with agitated horns. + +The cathedral is little and good: damaged, of course, wherever the last +three centuries have laid hands on it. At the corner of the west front +is an out-door pulpit beautifully put on with a mushroom hood over its +head. The main lines of the interior are finely severe, either quite +round or quite flat, and proportions good always. An upholstered priest +coming out to say mass is generally a sickening sight, so wicked and +ugly in look and costume. The best-behaved people are the low-down +beggars, who are most decoratively devotional. + +We tried to model our exit on a brigand-beggar who came in to ask +permission to murder one of his enemies. He got his request granted at +one of the side-altars (some strictly local Madonna, I imagine), and his +gratitude as he departed was quite touching. Having studiously copied +his exit, we want to know whom we shall murder to pay ourselves for our +trouble. + +It amuses me to have my share of driving over these free and easy and +very narrow highroads. But A. has to do the collision-shouting and the +cries of "Via!"--the horse only smiles when he hears me do it. + +Also did I tell you that on Saturday we two walked from here over to +Fiesole--six miles there, and ten back: for why?--because we chose to go +what Arthur calls "a bee-line across country," having thought we had +sighted a route from the top of Fiesole. But in the valley we lost it, +and after breaking our necks over precipices and our hearts down +cul-de-sacs that led nowhere, and losing all the ways that were pointed +out to us, for lack of a knowledge of the language, we came out again +into view of Florence about half a mile nearer than when we started and +proportionately far away from home. When he had got me thoroughly +foot-sore, Arthur remarked complacently, "The right way to see a country +is to lose yourself in it!" I didn't feel the truth of it then: but +applied to other things I perceive its wisdom. Dear heart, where I have +lost myself, what in all the world do I know so well as you? + + Your most lost and loving. + + + + +LETTER XXXV. + + +Beloved: Rain swooped down on us from on high during the night, and the +country is cut into islands: the river from a rocky wriggling stream has +risen into a tawny, opaque torrent that roars with a voice a mile long and +is become quite unfordable. The little mill-stream just below has broken +its banks and poured itself away over the lower vineyards into the river; +a lot of the vines look sadly upset, generally unhinged and unstrung, yet +I am told the damage is really small. I hope so, for I enjoyed a real +lash-out of weather, after the changelessness of the long heat. + +I have been down in Florence beginning to make my farewells to the many +things I have seen too little of. We start away for Venice about the end +of the week. At the Uffizi I seem to have found out all my future +favorites the first day, and very little new has come to me; but most of +them go on growing. The Raphael lady is quite wonderful; I think she was +in love with him, and her soul went into the painting though he himself +did not care for her; and she looks at you and says, "See a miracle: he +was able to paint this, and never knew that I loved him!" It is +wonderful that; but I suppose it can be done,--a soul pass into a work +and haunt it without its creator knowing anything about how it came +there. Always when I come across anything like that which has something +inner and rather mysterious, I tremble and want to get back to you. You +are the touchstone by which I must test everything that is a little new +and unfamiliar. + +From now onwards, dearest, you must expect only cards for a time: it is +not settled yet whether we stop at Padua on our way in or our way out. I +am clamoring for Verona also; but that will be off our route, so Arthur +and I may go there alone for a couple of greedy days, which I fear will +only leave me dissatisfied and wishing I had had patience to depend on +coming again--perhaps with you! + +Uncle N. has written of your numerous visits to him, and I understand you +have been very good in his direction. He does not speak of loneliness; and +with Anna and her brood next week or now, he will be as happy as his +temperament allows him to be when he has nothing to worry over. + +I am proud to say I have gone brown without freckles. And are you really +as cheerful as you write yourself to be? Dearest and best, when is your +holiday to begin; and is it to be with me? Does anywhere on earth hold +that happiness for us both in the near future? I kiss you well, Beloved. + + + + +LETTER XXXVI. + + +Dearest: Venice is round me as I write! Well, I will not waste my Baedeker +knowledge on you,--you too can get a copy; and it is not the panoramic +view of things you will be wanting from me: it is my own particular Venice +I am to find out and send you. So first of all from the heart of it I send +you mine: when I have kissed you I will go on. My eyes have been seeing so +much that is new, I shall want a fresh vocabulary for it all. But mainly I +want to say, let us be here again together quickly, before we lose any +more of our youth or our two-handed hold on life. I get short of breath +thinking of it! + +So let it be here, Beloved, that some of our soon-to-be happiness opens +and shuts its eyes: for truly Venice is a sleepy place. I am wanting, +and taking, nine hours' sleep after all I do! + +Outside coming over the flats from Padua, she looked something like a +manufacturing town at its ablutions,--a smoky chimney well to the fore: +but get near to her and you find her standing on turquoise, her feet set +about with jaspers, and with one of her eyes she ravishes you: and all +her campanile are like the "thin flames" of "souls mounting up to God." + +That is from without: within she becomes too sensuous and civic in her +splendor to let me think much of souls. "Rest and be indolent" is the +motto for the life she teaches. The architecture is the song of the +lotos-eater built into stone--were I in a more florid mood I would have +said "swan-song," for the whole stands finished with nothing more to be +added: it has sung itself out: and if there is a moral to it all, no +doubt it is in Ruskin, and I don't wont to read it just now. + +What I want is you close at hand looking up at all this beauty, and +smiling when I smile, which is your way, as if you had no opinions of +your own about anything in which you are not a professor. So you will +write and agree that I am to have the pleasure of this return to look +forward to? If I know that, I shall be so much more reconciled to all +the joy of the things I am seeing now for the first time: and shall see +so much better the second, Beloved, when your eyes are here helping me. + +Here is love, dearest! help yourself to just as much as you wish for; +though all that I send is good for you! No letter from you since +Florence, but I am neither sad nor anxious: only all the more your +loving. + + + + +LETTER XXXVII. + + +Beloved: The weather is as gray as England to-day, and much rainier. To +feel it on my cheeks and be back north with that and warmer things, I +would go out in it in the face of protests, and had to go alone--not +Arthur even being in the mood just then for a patriotic quest of the +uncomfortable. I had myself oared into the lagoons across a racing current +and a driving head-wind which made my gondolier bend like a distressed +poplar over his oar; patience on a monument smiling at backsheesh--"all +comes to him who knows." + +Of course, for comfort and pleasure, and everything but economy, we have +picked up a gondolier to pet: we making much of him, and he much out of +us. He takes Arthur to a place where he can bathe--to use his own +expression--"cleanly," that is to say, unconventionally; and this +appropriately enough is on the borders of a land called "the Garden of +Eden" (being named so after its owners). He--"Charon," I call him--is +large and of ruddy countenance, and talks English in blinkers--that is +to say, gondola English--out of which he could not find words to summon +me a cab even if it were not opposed to his interests. Still there are +no cabs to be called in Venice, and he is teaching us that the shortest +way is always by water. If Arthur is not punctually in his gondola by 7 +A.M., I hear a call for the "Signore Inglese" go up to his window; and +it is hungry Charon waiting to ferry him. + +Yesterday your friend Mr. C---- called and took me over to Murano in a +beautiful pair-oared boat that simply flew. There I saw a wonderful apse +filled with mosaic of dull gold, wherein is set a blue-black figure of +the Madonna, ten heads high and ten centuries old, which almost made me +become a Mariolatrist on the spot. She stands leaning up the bend with +two pale hands lifted in ghostly blessing. Underfoot the floor is all +mosaic, mountainous with age and earthquakes; the architecture classic +in the grip of Byzantine Christianity, which is like the spirit of God +moving on the face of the waters, or Ezekiel prophesying to the dry +bones. + +The Colleoni is quite as much more beautiful in fact and seen full-size +as I had hoped from all smaller reproductions. A fine equestrian figure +always strikes one as enthroned, and not merely riding; if I can't get +that, I consider a centaur the nobler creature with its human body set +down into the socket of the brute, and all fire--a candle burning at +both ends: which, in a way, is what the centaur means, I imagine? + +Bellini goes on being wonderful, and for me beats Raphael's Blenheim +Madonna period on its own ground. I hear now that the Raphael lady I +raved over in Florence is no Raphael at all,--which accounts for it +being so beautiful and interesting--to _me_, I hasten to add. Raphael's +studied calmness, his soul of "invisible soap and imperceptible water," +may charm some; me it only chills or leaves unmoved. + +Is this more about art than you care to hear? I have nothing to say +about myself, except that I am as happy as a cut-in-half thing can be. +Is it any use sending kind messages to your mother? If so, my heart is +full of them. Bless you, dearest, and good-night. + + + + +LETTER XXXVIII. + + +Dearest: St. Mark's inside is entirely different from anything I had +imagined. I had expected a grove of pillars instead of these wonderful +breadths of wall; and the marble overlay I had not understood at all till +I saw it. My admiration mounts every time I enter: it has a different +gloom from any I have ever been in, more joyous and satisfying, not in the +least moody as our own Gothic seems sometimes to be; and saints instead of +devils look at you solemn-eyed from every corner of shade. + +A heavy rain turns the Piazza into a lake: this morning Arthur had to +carry me across. Other foolish Englishwomen were shocked at such means, +and paddled their own leaky canoes, or stood on the brink and looked +miserable. The effect of rain-pool reflections on the inside of St. +Mark's is noticeable, causing it to bloom unexpectedly into fresh +subtleties and glories. The gold takes so sympathetically to any least +tint of color that is in the air, and counts up the altar candles even +unto its furthest recesses and cupolas. + +I think before I leave Venice I shall find about ten Tintorettos which I +really like. Best of all is that Bacchus and Ariadne in the Ducal Palace, +of which you gave me the engraving. His "Marriage of St. Catherine," which +is there also, has all Veronese's charm of color and what I call his +"breeding"; and in the ceiling of the Council Chamber is one splendid +figure of a sea-youth striding a dolphin. + +Last evening we climbed the San Giorgio campanile for a sunset view of +Venice; it is a much better point of view than the St. Mark's one, and +we were lucky in our sunset. Venice again looked like a beautified +factory town, blue and blue with smoke and evening mists. Down below in +the church I met a delightful Capuchin priest who could talk French, and +a poor, very young lay-brother who had the holy custody of the eyes +heavily upon his conscience when I spoke to him. I was so sorry for him! + +The Mother-Aunt is ill in bed; but as she is at the present moment +receiving three visitors, you will understand about how ill. The fact +is, she is worn to death with sight-seeing. I can't stop her; while she +is on her legs it is her duty, and she will. The consequence is I get +rushed through things I want to let soak into me, and have to go again. +My only way of getting her to rest has been by deserting her; and then I +come back and receive reproaches with a meek countenance. + +Mr. C---- has been good to us and cordial, and brings his gondola often +to our service. A gondola and pair has quite a different motion from a +one-oared gondola; it is like riding a seahorse instead of a sea-camel-- +almost exciting, only it is so soft in its prancings. + +He took A. and myself into the procession which welcomed the crowned heads +last Wednesday; the hurly-burly of it was splendid. We tore down the Grand +Canal from end to end, almost cheek by jowl with the royalties; the M.-A. +was quite jubilant when she heard we had had such "good places." Hundreds +of gondolas swarmed round; many of them in the old Carpaccio rig-outs, +very gorgeous though a little tawdry when taken out of the canvas. Hut the +rush and the collisions, and the sound of many waters walloping under the +bellies of the gondolas, and the blows of fighting oars--regular +underwater wrestling matches--made it as vivid and amusing as a prolonged +Oxford and Cambridge boat-race in fancy costume. Our gondoliers streamed +with the exertion, and looked like men fighting a real battle, and yet +enjoyed it thoroughly. Violent altercations with police-boats don't ruffle +them at all; at one moment it looks daggers drawn; at the next it is +shrugs and smiles. Often, from not knowing enough of Italian and Italian +ways, I get hot all over when an ordinary discussion is going on, thinking +that blows are about to be exchanged. The Mother-Aunt had hung a wonderful +satin skirt out of window for decoration; and when she leaned over it in a +bodice of the same color, it looked as if she were sitting with her legs +out as well! I suppose it was this peculiar effect that, when the King and +Queen came by earlier in the morning, won for her a special bow and smile. + +I must hurry or I shall miss the post that I wish to catch. There seems +little chance now of my getting you in Venice; but elsewhere perhaps you +will drop to me out of the clouds. + + Your own and most loving. + + + + +LETTER XXXIX. + + +My Own, Own Beloved: Say that my being away does not seem too long? I have +not had a letter yet, and that makes me somehow not anxious but +compunctious; only writing to you of all I do helps to keep me in good +conscience. Not the other foot gone to the mender's, I hope, with the same +obstructive accompaniments as went to the setting-up again of the last? If +I don't hear soon, you will have me dancing on wires, which cost as much +by the word as a gondola by the hour. + +Yesterday we went to see Carpaccio at his best in San Giorgio di +Schiavone: two are St. George pictures, three St. Jeromes, and two of some +other saint unknown to me. The St. Jerome series is really a homily on the +love and pathos of animals. First is St. Jerome in his study with a sort +of unclipped white poodle in the pictorial place of honor, all alone on a +floor beautifully swept and garnished, looking up wistfully to his master +busy at writing (a Benjy saying, "Come and take me for a walk, there's a +good saint!"). Scattered among the adornments of the room are small +bronzes of horses and, I think, birds. So, of course, these being his +tastes, when St. Jerome goes into the wilderness, a lion takes to him, and +accompanies him when he pays a call on the monks in a neighboring +monastery. Thereupon, holy men of little faith, the entire fraternity take +to their heels and rush upstairs, the hindermost clinging to the skirts of +the formermost to be hauled the quicker out of harm's way. And all the +while the lion stands incorrectly offering the left paw, and Jerome with +shrugs tries to explain that even the best butter wouldn't melt in his +dear lion's mouth. After that comes the tragedy. St. Jerome lies dying in +excessive odor of sanctity, and all the monks crowd round him with prayers +and viaticums, and the ordinary stuffy pieties of a "happy death," while +Jerome wonders feebly what it is he misses in all this to-do for which he +cares so little. And there, elbowed far out into the cold, the lion lies +and lifts his poor head and howls because he knows his master is being +taken from him. Quite near to him, fastened to a tree, a queer, +nondescript, crocodile-shaped dog runs out the length of its tether to +comfort the disconsolate beast: but _la bete humaine_ has got the +whip-hand of the situation. In another picture is a parrot that has just +mimicked a dog, or called "Carlo!" and then laughed: the dog turns his +head away with a sleek, sheepish, shy look, exactly as a sensitive dog +does when you make fun of him. + +These are, perhaps, mere undercurrents of pictures which are quite +glorious in color and design, but they help me to love Carpaccio to +distraction; and when the others lose me, they hunt through all the +Carpaccios in Venice till they find me! + +Love me a little more if possible while I am so long absent from you! What +I do and what I think go so much together now, that you will take what I +write as the most of me that it is possible to cram in, coming back to you +to share everything. + +Under such an Italian sky as to-day how I would like to see your face! +Here, dearest, among these palaces you would be in your peerage, for I +think you have some southern blood in you. + +Curious that, with all my fairness, somebody said to me to-day, "But you +are not quite English, are you?" And I swore by the nine gods of my +ancestry that I was nothing else. But the look is in us: my father had a +foreign air, but made up for it by so violent a patriotism that Uncle N. +used to call him "John Bull let loose." + +My love to England. Is it showing much autumn yet? My eyes long for green +fields again. Since I have been in Italy I had not seen one until the +other day from the top of St. Giorgio Maggiore, where one lies in hiding +under the monastery walls. + +All that I see now quickens me to fresh thoughts of you. Yet do not expect +me to come back wiser: my last effort at wisdom was to fall in love with +you, and there I stopped for good and all. There I am still, everything +included: what do you want more? My letter and my heart both threaten to +be over-weight, so no more of them this time. Most dearly do I love you. + + + + +LETTER XL. + + +Beloved: If two days slip by, I don't know where I am when I come to +write; things get so crowded in such a short space of time. Where I left +off I know not: I will begin where I am most awake--your letter which I +have just received. + +That is well, dearest, that is well indeed: a truce till February! And +since the struggle then must needs be a sharp one--with only one end, as +we know,--do not vex her now by any overt signs of preparation as if you +assumed already that her final arguments were to be as so much chaff +before the wind. You do not tell me _what_ she argues, and I do not ask. +She does not say I shall not love you enough! + +To answer businesslike to your questions first: with your forgiveness we +stay here till the 25th, and get back to England with the last of the +month. Does that seem a very cruel, far-off date? Others have the wish to +stay even longer, and it would be no fairness to hurry them beyond a +certain degree of reasonableness with my particular reason for +impatience, seeing, moreover, that in your love I have every help for +remaining patient. It is too much to hope, I suppose, that the "truce" +sets you free now, and that you could meet us here after all, and prolong +our stay indefinitely? I know one besides myself who would be glad, and +would welcome an outside excuse dearly. + +For, oh, the funniness of near and dear things! Arthur's heart is laid +up with a small love affair, and it is the comicalest of internal +maladies. He is screwing up courage to tell me all about it, and I write +in haste before my mouth is sealed by his confidences. I fancy I know +the party, an energetic little mortal whom we met at Lucerne, where +Arthur lingered while we came on to Florence. She talked vaguely of +being in Venice some time this autumn; and the vagueness continues. +Arthur, in consequence, roams round disconsolately with no interest but +in hotel books. And for fear lest we should gird up his loins and drag +him away with us out of Paradisal possibilities, he is forever praising +Venice as a resting-place, and saying he wants to be nowhere else. The +bathing just keeps him alive; but when put to it to explain what charms +him since pictures do not, and architecture only slightly, he says in +exemplary brotherly fashion that he likes to see me completing my +education and enthusiasms,--and does not realize with how foreign an +air that explanation sits upon his shoulders. + +I saw to-day a remnant of your patron saint, and for your sake +transferred a kiss to it, Italian fashion, with my thumb and the sign of +the cross. I hope it will do you good. Also, I have been up among the +galleries of St. Mark's, and about the roof and the west front where +somebody or another painted his picture of the bronze horses. + +The pigeons get to recognize people personally, and grow more intimate +every time we come. I even conceive they make favorites, for I had three +pecking food out of my mouth to-day and refusing to take it in any other +fashion, and they coo and say thank you before and after every seed they +take or spill. They are quite the pleasantest of all the Italian +beggars--and the cleanest. + +Your friend pressed us in to tea yesterday: I think less for the sake of +giving us tea than that we should see his palace, or rather his first +floor, in which alone he seems to lose himself. I have no idea for +measurements, but I imagine his big sala is about eighty feet long and +perhaps twenty-five feet across, with a flat-beamed roof, windows at +each end, and portieres along the walls of old blue Venetian linen: a +place in which it seems one could only live and think nobly. His face +seems to respond to its teachings. What more might not an environment +like that bring out in you? Come and let me see! I have hopes springing +as I think of things that you may be coming after all; and that that is +what lay concealed under the gayety of your last paragraph. Then I am +more blessed even than I knew. What, you are coming? So well I do love +you, my Beloved! + + + + +LETTER XLI. + + +Dearest: This letter will travel with me: we leave to-day. Our +movements are to be too restless and uncomfortable for the next few days +for me to have a chance of quiet seeing or quiet writing anywhere. At +Riva we shall rest, I hope. + +Yesterday a storm began coming over towards evening, and I thought to +myself that if it passed in time there should be a splendid sunset of +smolder and glitter to be seen from the Campanile, and perhaps by good +chance a rainbow. + +I went alone: when I got to the top the rain was pelting hard; so there +I stayed happily weather-bound for an hour looking over Venice "silvered +with slants of rain," and watching umbrellas scuttering below with toes +beneath them. The golden smolder was very slow in coming: it lay over +the mainland and came creeping along the railway track. Then came the +glitter and the sun, and I turned round and found my rainbow. But it +wasn't a bow, it was a circle: the Campanile stood up as it were a +spoke in the middle,--the lower curve of the rainbow lay on the ground +of the Piazzetta, cut off sharp by the shadow of the Campanile. It was +worth waiting an hour to see. The islands shone mellow and bright in the +clearance with the storm going off black behind them. Good-by, Venice! + + * * * * * + +Verona began by seeming dull to me; but it improves and unfolds beautiful +corners of itself to be looked at: only I am given so little time. The +Tombs of the Della Scalas and the Renaissance facade of the Consiglio are +what chiefly delight me. I had some quiet hours in the Museo, where I fell +in love with a little picture by an unknown painter, of Orpheus charming +the beasts in a wandering green landscape, with a dance of fauns in the +distance, and here and there Eurydice running;--and Orpheus in Hades, and +the Thracian women killing him, and a crocodile fishing out his head, and +mermaids and ducks sitting above their reflections reflecting. + +Also there is one beautiful Tobias and the Angel there by a painter +whose name I most ungratefully forget. I saw a man yesterday carrying +fishes in the market, each strung through the gills on a twig of myrtle: +that is how Tobias ought to carry his fish: when a native custom +suggests old paintings, how charming it always is! + + + Riva. + +We have just got here from Verona. In the matter of the garden at least +it is a Paradise of a place. A great sill of honeysuckle leans out from +my window: beyond is a court grown round with creepers, and beyond that +the garden--such a garden! The first thing one sees is an arcade of +vines upon stone pillars, between which peep stacks of roses, going off +a little from their glory now, and right away stretches an alley of +green, that shows at the end, a furlong off, the blue glitter of water. +It is a beautifully wild garden: grass and vegetables and trees and +roses all grow in a jungle together. There are little groves of bamboo +and chestnut and willow; and a runnel of water is somewhere--I can hear +it. It suggests rest, which I want; and so, for all its difference, +suggests you, whom also I want,--more, I own it now, than I have said! +But that went without saying, Beloved, as it always must if it is to be +the truth and nothing short of the truth. + +While this has been waiting to go, your letter has been put into my hands. +I am too happy to say words about it, and can afford now to let this go as +it is. The little time of waiting for you will be perfect happiness now; +and your coming seems to color all that is behind as well. I have had a +good time indeed, and was only wearying with the plethora of my enjoyment: +but the better time has been kept till now. We shall be together day after +day and all day long for at least a month, I hope: a joy that has never +happened to us yet. + +Never mind about the lost letter now, dearest, dearest: Venice was a +little empty just one week because of it. I still hope it will come; but +what matter?--I know _you_ will. All my heart waits for you.--Your most +glad and most loving. + + + + +LETTER XLII. + + +Dearest: I saw an old woman riding a horse astride: and I was convinced on +the spot that this is the rightest way of riding, and that the sidesaddle +was a foolish and affected invention. The horse was fine, and so was the +young man leading it: the old woman was upright and stately, with a wide +hat and full petticoats like a Maximilian soldier. + +This was at Bozen, where we stayed for two nights, and from which I have +brought a cold with me: it seems such an English thing to have, that I +feel quite at home in the discomfort of it. It had been such wonderful +weather that we were sitting out of doors every evening up to 9.30 P.M. +without wraps, and on our heads only our "widows' caps." (The M.-A. +persists in a style which suggests that Uncle N. has gone to a better +world.) Mine was too flimsy a work of fiction, and a day before I had been +for a climb and got wet through, so a chill laid its benediction on my +head, and here I am,--not seriously incommoded by the malady, but by the +remedy, which is the M.-A. full of kind quackings and fierce tyranny if I +do but put my head out of window to admire the view, whose best is a +little round the corner. + +I had no idea Innsbruck was so high up among the mountains: snows are on +the peaks all around. Behind the house-tops, so close and near, lies a +quarter circle of white crests. You are told that in winter creatures +come down and look in at the windows: sometimes they are called wolves, +sometimes bears--any way the feeling is mediaeval. + +Hereabouts the wayside shrines nearly always contain a crucifix, whereas +in Italy that was rare--the Virgin and Child being the most common. I +remarked on this, which I suppose gave rise to a subsequent observation +of the M.-A.'s: "I think the Tyrolese are a _good_ people: they are not +given over to Mariolatry like those poor priest-ridden Italians." I +think, however, that they merely have that fundamental grace, religious +simplicity, worshiping--just what they can get, for yesterday I saw two +dear old bodies going round and telling their beads before the bronze +statues of the Maximilian tomb--King Arthur, Charles the Bold, etc. I +suppose, by mere association, a statue helps them to pray. + +The national costume does look so nice, though not exactly beautiful. I +like the flat, black hats with long streamers behind and a gold tassel, +and the spacious apron. Blue satin is a favorite style, always silk or +satin for Sunday best: one I saw of pearl-white brocade. + +Since we came north we have had lovely weather, except the one day of +which I am still the filterings: and morning along the Brenner Pass was +perfect. I think the mountains look most beautiful quite early, at +sunrise, when they are all pearly and mysterious. + +We go on to Zurich on Thursday, and then, Beloved, and then!--so this +must be my last letter, since I shall have nowhere to write to with you +rushing all across Europe and resting nowhere because of my impatience +to have you. The Mother-Aunt concedes a whole month, but Arthur will +have to leave earlier for the beginning of term. How little my two +dearest men have yet seen of each other! Barely a week lies between us: +this will scarcely catch you. Dearest of dearests, my heart waits on +yours. + + + + +LETTER XLIII. + + +My Dearest: See what an effect your "gallous young hound" episode has had +on me. I send it back to you roughly done into rhyme. I don't know +whether it will carry; for, outside your telling of it, "Johnnie Kigarrow" +is not a name of heroic sound. What touches me as so strangely complete +about it is that you should have got that impression and momentary +romantic delusion as a child, and now hear, years after, of his +disappearing out of life thus fittingly and mysteriously, so that his name +will fix its legend to the countryside for many a long day. I would like +to go there some day with you, and standing on Twloch Hill imagine all the +country round as the burial-place of the strong man on whose knees my +beloved used to play when a child. + +It must have been soon after this that your brother died: truly, +dearest, from now, and strangely, this Johnnie Kigarrow will seem more +to me than him; touching a more heroic strain of idea, and stiffening +fibers in your nature that brotherhood, as a rule, has no bearing on. + +A short letter to-day, Beloved, because what goes with it is so long. +This is the first time I have come before your eyes as anything but a +letter-writer, and I am doubtful whether you will care to have so much +all about yourself. Yet for that very reason think how much I loved +doing it! I am jealous of those days before I knew you, and want to have +all their wild-honey flavor for myself. Do remember more, and tell me! +Dearest heart, it was to me you were coming through all your scampers +and ramblings; no wonder, with that unknown good running parallel, that +my childhood was a happy one. May long life bless you, Beloved! + +(_Inclosure._) + + My brother and I were down in Wales, + And listened by night to the Welshman's tales; + He was eleven and I was ten. + We sat on the knees of the farmer's men + After the whole day's work was done: + And I was friends with the farmer's son. + His hands were rough as his arms were strong, + His mouth was merry and loud for song; + Each night when set by the ingle-wall + He was the merriest man of them all. + I would catch at his beard and say + All the things I had done in the day-- + Tumbled bowlders over the force, + Swum in the river and fired the gorse-- + "Half the side of the hill!" quoth I:-- + "Ah!" cried he, "and didn't you die?" + + "Chut!" said he, "but the squeak was narrow! + Didn't you meet with Johnnie Kigarrow?" + "No!" said I, "and who will he be? + And what will be Johnnie Kigarrow to me?" + The farmer's son said under his breath, + "Johnnie Kigarrow may be your death + Listen you here, and keep you still-- + Johnnie Kigarrow bides under the hill; + Twloch barrow stands over his head; + He shallows the river to make his bed; + Bowlders roll when he stirs a limb; + And the gorse on the hills belongs to him! + And if so be one fires his gorse, + He's out of his bed, and he mounts his horse. + Off he sets: with the first long stride + He is halfway over the mountain side: + With his second stride he has crossed the barrow, + And he has you fast, has Johnnie Kigarrow!" + + Half I laughed and half I feared; + I clutched and tugged at the strong man's beard, + And bragged as brave as a boy could be-- + "So? but, you see, he didn't catch me!" + + Fear caught hold of me: what had I done? + High as the roof rose the farmer's son: + How the sight of him froze my marrow! + "I," he cried, "am Johnnie Kigarrow!" + + Well, you wonder, what was the end? + Never forget;--he had called me "friend"! + Mighty of limb, and hard, and blown; + Quickly he laughed and set me down. + "Heh!" said, he, "but the squeak was narrow, + Not to be caught by Johnnie Kigarrow!" + + Now, I hear, after years gone by, + Nobody knows how he came to die. + He strode out one night of storm: + "Get you to bed, and keep you warm!" + Out into darkness so went he: + Nobody knows where his bones may be. + + Only I think--if his tongue let go + Truth that once,--how perhaps _I_ know. + Twloch river, and Twloch barrow, + Do you cover my Johnnie Kigarrow? + + + + +LETTER XLIV. + + +Dearest: I have been doing something so wise and foolish: mentally wise, +I mean, and physically foolish. Do you guess?--Disobeying your parting +injunction, and sitting up to see eclipses. + +It was such a luxury to do as I was _not_ told just for once; to feel +there was an independent me still capable of asserting itself. My belief +is that, waking, you hold me subjugated: but, once your godhead has put +on its spiritual nightcap, and begun nodding, your mesmeric influence +relaxes. Up starts resolution and independence, and I breathe desolately +for a time, feeling myself once more a free woman. + +'Twas a tremulous experience, Beloved; but I loved it all the more for +that. How we love playing at grief and death--the two things that must +come--before it is their due time! I took a look at my world for three +most mortal hours last night, trying to see you _out_ of it. And oh, how +close it kept bringing me! I almost heard you breathe, and was forever +wondering--Can we ever be nearer, or love each other more than we do? +For _that_ we should each want a sixth sense, and a second soul: and it +would still be only the same spread out over larger territory. I prefer +to keep it nesting close in its present limitations, where it feels like +a "growing pain"; children have it in their legs, we in our hearts. + +I am growing sleepy as I write, and feel I am sending you a dull +letter,--my penalty for doing as you forbade. + +I sat up from half-past one to a quarter to five to see our shadow go +over heaven. I didn't see much, the sky was too piebald: but I was not +disappointed, as I had never watched the darkness into dawn like that +before: and it was interesting to hear all the persons awaking:--cocks +at half-past four, frogs immediately after, then pheasants and various +others following. I was cuddled close up against my window, throned in a +big arm-chair with many pillows, a spirit-lamp, cocoa, bread and butter, +and buns; so I fared well. Just after the pheasants and the first +querulous fidgetings of hungry blackbirds comes a soft pattering along +the path below: and Benjy, secretive and important, is fussing his way +to the shrubbery, when instinct or real sentiment prompts him to look up +at my window; he gives a whimper and a wag, and goes on. I try to +persuade myself that he didn't see me, and that he does this, other +mornings, when I am not thus perversely bolstered up in rebellion, and +peering through blinds at wrong hours. Isn't there something pathetic in +the very idea that a dog may have a behind-your-back attachment of that +sort?--that every morning he looks up at an unresponsive blank, and +wags, and goes by? + +I heard him very happy in the shrubs a moment after: he and a pheasant, +I fancy, disputing over a question of boundaries. And he comes in for +breakfast, three hours later, looking positively _fresh,_ and wants to +know why I am yawning. + +Most mornings he brings your letter up to my room in his mouth. It is +old Nan-nan's joke: she only sends up _yours_ so, and pretends it is +Benjy's own clever selection. I pretend that, too, to him; and he thinks +he is doing something wonderful. The other morning I was--well, Benjy +hears splashing: and tires of waiting--or his mouth waters. An extra can +of hot water happens to stand at the door; and therein he deposits his +treasure (mine, I mean), and retires saying nothing. The consequence is, +when I open three minutes after his scratch, I find you all ungummed and +swimming, your beautiful handwriting bleared and smeared, so that no eye +but mine could have read it. Benjy's shame when I showed him what he +had done was wonderful. + +How it rejoices me to write quite foolish things to you!--that I _can_ +helps to explain a great deal in the up-above order of things, which I +never took in when I was merely young and frivolous. One must have +touched a grave side of life before one can take in that Heaven is not +opposed to laughter. + +My eye has just caught back at what I have written; and the "little +death" runs through me, just because I wrote "grave side." It shouldn't, +but loving has made me superstitious: the happiness seems too great; how +can it go on? I keep thinking--this is not life: you are too much for +me, my dearest! + +Oh, my Beloved, come quickly to meet me to-day: this morning! Ride over; +I am willing it. My own dearest, you must come. If you don't, what shall +I believe? That Love cannot outdo space: that when you are away I cannot +reach you by willing. But I can: come to me! You shall see my arms open +to you as never before. What is it?--you must be coming. I have more +love in me after all than I knew. + +Ah, I know: I wrote "grave side," and all my heart is in arms against +the treason. With us it is not "till death us do part": we leap it +altogether, and are clasped on the other side. + +My dear, my dear, I lay my head down on your heart: I love you! I post +this to show how certain I am. At twelve to-day I shall see you. + + + + +LETTER XLV. + + +Beloved: I look at this ridiculous little nib now, running like a plow +along the furrows! What can the poor thing do? Bury its poor black, blunt +little nose in the English language in order to tell you, in all sorts of +roundabout ways, what you know already as well as I do. And yet, though +that is all it can do, you complain of not having had a letter! Not had a +letter? Beloved, there are half a hundred I have not had from you! Do you +suppose you have ever, any one week in your life, sent me as many as I +wanted? + +Now, for once, I did hold off and didn't write to you: because there was +something in your last I couldn't give any answer to, and I hoped you +would come yourself before I need. Then I hoped silence would bring you: +and now--no!--instead of your dear peace-giving face I get this complaint! + +Ah, Beloved, have you in reality any complaint, or sorrow that I can set +at rest? Or has that little, little silence made you anxious? I do come +to think so, for you never flourish your words about as I do: so, +believing that, I would like to write again differently; only it is truer +to let what I have written stand, and make amends for it in all haste. I +love you so infinitely well, how could even a year's silence give you any +doubt or anxiety, so long as you knew I was not ill? + +"Should one not make great concessions to great grief even when it is +unreasonable?" I cannot answer, dearest: I am in the dark. Great grief +cannot be great without reasons: it should give them, and you should judge +by them:--you, not I. I imagine you have again been face to face with +fierce, unexplained opposition. Dearest, if it would give you happiness, I +would say, make five, ten, twenty years' "concession," as you call it. But +the only time you ever spoke to me clearly about your mother's mind toward +me, you said she wanted an absolute surrender from you, not covered only +by her lifetime. Then though I pitied her, I had to smile. A twenty years' +concession even would not give rest to her perturbed spirit. I pray +truly--having so much reason for your sake to pray it--"God rest her soul! +and give her a saner mind toward both of us." + +Why has this come about at all? It is not February yet: and _our_ plans +have been putting forth no buds before their time. When the day comes, +and you have said the inevitable word, I think more calm will follow +than you expect. _You_, dearest, I do understand: and the instinct of +tenderness you have toward a claim which yet fills you with the sense of +its injustice. I know that you can laugh at her threat to make you poor; +but not at hurting her affections. Did your asking for an "answer" mean +that I was to write so openly? Bless you, my own dearest. + + + + +LETTER XLVI. + + +Dearest: To-day I came upon a strange spectacle: poor old Nan-nan weeping +for wounded pride in me. I found her stitching at raiment of needlework +that is to be mine (piles of it have been through her fingers since the +word first went out; for her love asserts that I am to go all home-made +from my old home to my new one--wherever that may be!). And she was +weeping because, as I slowly got to understand, from one particular +quarter too little attention had been paid to me:--the kow-tow of a +ceremonious reception into my new status had not been deep enough to +make amends to her heart for its partial loss of me. + +Her deferential recognition of the change which is coming is pathetic +and full of etiquette; it is at once so jealous and so unselfish. +Because her sense of the proprieties will not allow her to do so much +longer, she comes up to my room and makes opportunity to scold me over +quite slight things:--and there I am, meeker under her than I would be +to any relative. So to-day I had to bear a statement of your mother's +infirmities rigorously outlined in a way I could only pretend to be deaf +to until she had done. Then I said, "Nan-nan, go and say your prayers!" +And as she stuck her heels down and refused to go, there I left the poor +thing, not to prayer, I fear, but to desolate weeping, in which love and +pride will get more firmly entangled together than ever. + +I know when I go up to my room next I shall find fresh flowers put upon +my table: but the grievous old dear will be carrying a sore heart that I +cannot comfort by any words. I cannot convince her that I am not hiding +in myself any wounds such as she feels on my behalf. + +I write this, dearest, as an indirect answer to yours,--which is but +Nan-nan's woe writ large. If I could persuade your two dear and very +different heads how very slightly wounded I am by a thing which a little +waiting will bring right, I could give it even less thought than I do. +Are you keeping the truce in spirit when you disturb yourself like this? +Trust me, Beloved, always to be candid: I will complain to you when I +feel in need of comfort. Be comforted yourself, meanwhile, and don't +shape ghosts of grief which never do a goose-step over me! Ah well, +well, if there is a way to love you better than I do now, only show it +me! Meantime, think of me as your most contented and happy-go-loving. + + + + +LETTER XLVII. + + +Dearest: I am haunted by a line of quotation, and cannot think where it +comes from: + + "Now sets the year in roaring gray." + +Can you help me to what follows? If it is a true poem it ought now to be +able to sing itself to me at large from an outer world which at this +moment is all gray and roaring. To-day the year is bowing itself out +tempestuously, as if angry at having to go. Dear golden year! I am sorry +to see its face so changed and withering: it has held so much for us +both. Yet I am feeling vigorous and quite like spring. All the seasons +have their marches, with buffetings and border-forays: this is an autumn +march-wind; before long I shall be out into it, and up the hill to look +over at your territory and you being swept and garnished for the seven +devils of winter. + +"Roaring gray" suggests Tennyson, whom I do very much associate with +this sort of weather, not so much because of passages in "Maud" and "In +Memoriam" as because I once went over to Swainston, on a day such as +this when rooks and leaves alike hung helpless in the wind; and heard +there the story of how Tennyson, coming over for his friend's funeral, +would not go into the house, but asked for one of Sir John's old hats, +and with that on his head sat in the garden and wrote almost the best of +his small lyrics: + + "Nightingales warbled without, + Within was weeping for thee." + +The "old hat" was mentioned as something humorous: yet an old glove is +the most accepted symbol of faithful absence: and why should head rank +lower than hand? What creatures of convention we are! + +There is an old notion, quite likely to be true, that a nightcap carries +in it the dreams of its first owner, or that anything laid over a +sleeper's head will bring away the dream. One of the stories which used +to put a lump in my throat as a child was of an old backwoodsman who by +that means found out that his dog stole hams from the storeroom. The dog +was given away in disgrace, and came to England to die of a broken heart +at the sight of a cargo of hams, which, at their unpacking, seemed like +a monstrous day of judgment--the bones of his misdeeds rising again +reclothed with flesh to reproach him with the thing he had never +forgotten. + +I wonder how long it was before I left off definitely choosing out a +story for the pleasure of making myself cry! When one begins to avoid +that luxury of the fledgling emotions, the first leaf of youth is flown. + +To-day I look almost jovially at the decay of the best year I have ever +lived through, and am your very middle-aged faithful and true. + + + + +LETTER XLVIII. + + +Dearest: If anybody has been "calling me names" that are not mine, they do +me a fine injury, and you did well to purge the text of their abuse. I +agree with no authority, however immortal, which inquires "What's in a +name?" expecting the answer to be a snap of the fingers. I answer with a +snap of temper that the blood, boots, and bones of my ancestors are in +mine! Do you suppose I could have been the same woman had such names as +Amelia or Bella or Cinderella been clinging leechlike to my consciousness +through all the years of my training? Why, there are names I can think of +which would have made me break down into side-ringlets had I been forced +to wear them audibly. + +The effect is not so absolute when it is a second name that can be tucked +away if unpresentable, but even then it is a misfortune. There is C----, +now, who won't marry, I believe, chiefly because of the insane "Annie" +with which she was smitten at the baptismal font by an afterthought. She +regards it as a taint in her constitution which orders her to a lonely +life lest worse might follow. And apply the consideration more publicly: +do you imagine the Prince of Wales will be the same sort of king if, when +he comes to the throne, he calls himself King Albert Edward in florid +Continental fashion, instead of "Edward the Seventh," with a right hope +that an Edward the Eighth may follow after him, to make a neck-and-neck +race of it with the Henries? I don't know anything that would do more to +knit up the English constitution: but whenever I pass the Albert Memorial +I tremble lest filial piety will not allow the thing to be done. + +Now of all this I had an instance in the village the day before yesterday. +At the corner house by the post-office, as I went by, a bird opened his +bill and sang a note, and down, down, down, down he went over a golden +scale: pitched afresh, and dropped down another; and then up, up, up, over +the range of both. Then he flung back his shaggy head and laughed. "In all +my father's realm there are no such bells as these!" It was the laughing +jackass. "Who gave you your name?" "My godfathers and my godmothers in my +baptism." Well, _his_ will have _that_ to answer for, however safely for +the rest he may have eschewed the world, the flesh, and the devil. Poor +bird, to be set to sing to us under such a burden:--of which, unconscious +failure, he knows nothing. + +Here I have remembered for you a bit of a poem that took hold of me some +while ago and touched on the same unkindness: only here the flower is +conscious of the wrong done to it, and looks forward to a day of juster +judgment:-- + + "What have I done?--Man came + (There's nothing that sticks like dirt), + Looked at me with eyes of blame, + And called me 'Squinancy-wort!' + What have I done? I linger + (I cannot say that I live) + In the happy lands of my birth; + Passers-by point with the finger: + For me the light of the sun + Is darkened. Oh, what would I give + To creep away, and hide my shame in the earth! + What have I done? + Yet there is hope. I have seen + Many changes since I began. + The web-footed beasts have been + (Dear beasts!)--and gone, being part of some wider plan. + Perhaps in His infinite mercy God will remove this man!" + +Now I am on sentiment and unjust judgments: here is another instance, +where evidently in life I did not love well enough a character nobler than +this capering and accommodating boy Benjy, who toadies to all my moods. +Calling at the lower farm, I missed him whom I used to nickname "Manger," +because his dog-jaws always refused to smile on me. His old mistress gave +me a pathetic account of his last days. It was the muzzling order that +broke his poor old heart. He took it as an accusation on a point where, +though of a melancholy disposition, his reputation had been spotless. He +never lifted his head nor smiled again. And not all his mistress' love +could explain to him that he was not in fault. She wept as she told it me. + +Good-by, dearest, and for this letter so full of such little worth call me +what names you like; and I will go to Jemima, Keziah, and Kerenhappuch for +the patience in which they must have taken after their father when he so +named them, I suppose for a discipline. + +My Beloved, let my heart come where it wants to be. Twilight has been on +me to-day, I don't know why; and I have not written it off as I hoped to +do.--All yours and nothing left. + + + + +LETTER XLIX. + + +Dearest: I suppose your mother's continued absence, and her unexplanation +of her further stay, must be taken for unyielding disapproval, and tells +us what to expect of February. It is not a cordial form of "truce": but +since it lets me see just twice as much of you as I should otherwise, I +will not complain so long as it does not make you unhappy. You write to +her often and kindly, do you not? + +Well, if this last letter of hers frees you sufficiently, it is quite +settled at this end that you are to be with us for Christmas:--read into +that the warmest corners of a heart already fully occupied. I do not think +of it too much, till I am assured it is to be. + +Did you go over to Pembury for the day? Your letter does not say anything: +but your letters have a wonderful way with them of leaving out things of +outside importance. I shall hear from the rattle of returning fire-engines +some day that Hatterling has been burned down: and you will arrive cool +the next day and say, "Oh yes, it is so!" + +I am sure you have been right to secure this pledge of independence to +yourself: but it hurts me to think what a deadly offense it may be both to +her tenderness for you and her pride and stern love of power. To realize +suddenly that Hatterling does not mean to you so much as the power to be +your own master and happy in your own way, which is altogether opposite to +_her_ way, will be so much of a blow that at first you will be able to do +nothing to soften it. + +February fill-dyke is likely to be true to its name, this coming one, in +all that concerns us and our fortunes. Meanwhile, if at Pembury you +brought things any nearer settlement, and are not coming so soon as +to-morrow, let me know: for some things of "outside importance" do affect +me unfavorably while in suspense. I have not your serene determination to +abide the workings of Kismet when once all that can be done is done. + +The sun sets now, when it does so visibly, just where Pembury _is_. I +take it as an omen. In your diary to-morrow you may write down in the +business column that you have had a business letter from _me_, or as +near to one as I can go:--chiefly for that it requires an answer on this +matter of "outside importance," which otherwise you will altogether +leave out. But you will do better still to come. My whole heart goes out +to fetch you: my dearest dear, ever your own. + + + + +LETTER L. + + +Beloved: No, not Browning but Tennyson was in my thoughts at our last ride +together: and I found myself shy, as I have been for a long time wishing +to say things I could not. What has never entered your head to ask becomes +difficult when I wish to get it spoken. So I bring Tennyson to tell you +what I mean:-- + + "Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaaey? + Proputty, proputty, proputty--that's what I 'ears 'em saaey." + +The tune of this kept me silent all the while we galloped: this and +Pembury, a name that glows to me now like the New Jerusalem. + +And do you understand, Beloved? or must I say more? My freedom has made +its nest under my uncle's roof: but I _am_ a quite independent person in +other ways besides character. + +Well, Pembury was settled on your own initiative: and I looked on proud +and glad. Now I have my own little word to add, merely a tail that wags +and makes merry over a thing decided and done. Do you forgive me for +this: and for the greater offense of being quite shy at having to write +it? + +My Aunt thanks you for the game: for my part I cannot own that it will +taste sweeter to me for being your own shooting. And please, whatever +else you do big and grand and dangerous, respect my superstitions and +don't shoot any larks this winter. In the spring I would like to think +that here or there an extra lark bubbles over because I and my whims +find occasional favor in your sight. When I ask great favors you always +grant them; and so, Ahasuerus, grant this little one to your beautifully +loving. + + * * * * * + +Give me the credit of being conscious of it, Beloved: postscripts I +never _do_ write. I am glad you noticed it. If I find anything left out +I start another letter: _this_ is that other letter: it goes into the +same envelope merely for company, and signs itself yours in all state. + + + + +LETTER LI. + + +Dearest: It was so nice and comedy to see the Mother-Aunt this +morning importantly opening a letter from you all to herself with the +pleasure quite unmixed by any inclosure for me, or any other letter in +the house _to_ me so far as she was aware. I listened to you with new +ears, discovering that you write quite beautifully in the style which I +never get from you. Don't, because I admire you in your more formal +form, alter in your style to me. I prefer you much, for my own part, +formless: and feel nearer to your heart in an unfinished sentence than +in one that is perfectly balanced. Still I want you to know that your +cordial warmed her dear old heart and makes her not think now that she +has let me see too much of you. She was just beginning to worry herself +jealously into that belief the last two days: and Arthur's taking to you +helped to the same end. Very well; I seem to understand everybody's +oddities now,--having made a complete study of yours. + +Best Beloved, I have your little letter lying close, and feel dumb when +I try to answer. You with your few words make me feel a small thing with +all my unpenned rabble about me. Only you do know so very well that I +love you better than I can ever write. This is my first letter of the +new year: will our letter-writing go on all this year, or will it, as we +dearly dream, die a divine death somewhere before autumn? + +In any case, I am, dearest, your most happy and loving. + + + + +LETTER LII. + + +My Dearest: Arthur and the friend went off together yesterday. I am glad +the latter stayed just long enough after you left for me to have leisure +to find him out human. Here is the whole story: he came and unbosomed to +me three days ago: and he said nothing about not telling, so I tell you. +As water goes from a duck's back, so go all things worth hearing from me +to you. + +Arthur had said to him, "Come down for a week," and he had answered, +"Can't, because of clothes!" explaining that beyond evening-dress he had +only those he stood in. "Well," said Arthur, "stand in them, then; you +look all right." "The question is," said his friend, "can I sit down?" +However, he came; and was appalled to find that a man unpacked his +trunk, and would in all probability be carrying away his clothes each +night to brush them. He, conscious of interiors, a lining hanging in +rags, and even a patching somewhere, had not the heart to let his one +and only day-jacket go down to the servants' hall to be sniffed over: +and so every evening when he dressed for dinner he hid his jacket +laboriously under the permanent layers of a linen wardrobe which stood +in his room. + +I had all this in the frankest manner from him in the hour when he +became human: and my fancy fired at the vision. Graves with a fierce eye +set on duty probing hither and thither in search after the missing coat; +and each night the search becoming more strenuous and the mystery more +baffling than ever. It had a funny likeness to the Jack Raikes episode +in "Evan Harrington," and pleased me the more thus cropping up in real +life. + +Well, I demanded there and then to be shown the subject of so much +romance and adventure: and had the satisfaction of mending it, he +sitting by in his shirt-sleeves the while, and watching delighted and +without craven apologies. + +I notice it is not his own set he is ashamed of, but only the moneyed, +high-sniffing servant-class who have no understanding for honorable +poverty: and to be misunderstood pricks him in the thinnest of thin +places. + +He told me also that he brought only three white ties to last him for +seven days: and that Graves placed them out in order of freshness and +cleanliness night after night:--first three new ones consecutively, then +three once worn. After that, on the seventh day, Graves resigned all +further responsibility, and laid out all three of them for him to choose +from. On the last three days of his stay he did me the honor to leave his +coat out, declaring that my mendings had made it presentable before an +emperor. Out of this dates the whole of his character, and I understand, +what I did not, why Arthur and he get on together. + +Now the house is empty, and your comings will be--I cannot say more +welcome: but there will be more room for them to be after my own heart. + +Heaven be over us both. Faithfully your most loving. + + + + +LETTER LIII. + + +Beloved: I wish you could have been with me to look out into this garden +last night when the spirit moved me there. I had started for bed, but +became sensitive of something outside not normal. Whether my ear missed +the usual echoes and so guessed a muffled world I do not know. To open the +door was like slicing into a wedding-cake; then,--where was I to put a +foot into that new-laid carpet of ankle-deepness? I hobbled out in a pair +of my uncle's. I suppose it is because I know every tree and shrub in its +true form that snow seems to pile itself nowhere as it does here: it +becomes a garden of entombments. Now and then some heap would shuffle +feebly under its shroud, but resurrection was not to be: the Lawson +cypress held out great boxing-glove hands for me to shake and set free; +and the silence was wonderful. I padded about till I froze: this morning I +can see my big hoof-marks all over the place, and Benjy has been +scampering about in them as if he found some flavor of me there. The trees +are already beginning to shake themselves loose, and the spell is over: +but it had a wonderful hold while it lasted. I take a breath back into +last night, and feel myself again full of a romance without words that I +cannot explain. If you had been there, even, I think I could have +forgotten I had you by me, the place was so weighed down with its sense of +solitude. It struck eleven while I was outside, and in that, too, I could +hear a muffle as if snow choked all the belfry lattices and lay even on +the outer edge of the bell itself. Across the park there are dead boughs +cracking down under the weight of snow; and it would be very like you to +tramp over just because the roads will be so impossible. + +I heard yesterday a thing which made me just a little more free and easy +in mind, though I had nothing sensibly on my conscience. Such a good youth +who two years ago believed I was his only possible future happiness, is +now quite happy with a totally different sort of person. I had a little +letter from him, shy and stately, announcing the event. I thought it such +a friendly act, for some have never the grace to unsay their grievances, +however much actually blessed as a consequence of them. + +With that off my mind I can come to you swearing that there have been no +accidents on anybody's line of life through a mistake in signals, or a +flying in the face of them, where I have had any responsibility. As for +you, and as you know well by now, my signals were ready and waiting +before you sought for them. "Oh, whistle, and I'll come to you!" was +their giveaway attitude. + +I am going down to play snowballs with Benjy. Good-by. If you come you +will find this letter on the hall table, and me you will probably hear +barking behind the rhododendrons.--So much your most loving. + + + + +LETTER LIV. + + +Beloved: We have been having a great day of tidyings out, rummaging +through years and years of accumulations--things quite useless but which I +have not liked to throw away. My soul has been getting such dusty answers +to all sorts of doubtful inquiries as to where on earth this, that, and +the other lay hidden. And there were other things, the memory of which had +lain quite dead or slept, till under the light of day they sprouted hack +into life like corn from the grave of an Egyptian mummy. + +Very deep in one box I found a stealthy little collection of secret +playthings which it used to be my fond belief that nobody knew of but +myself. It may have been Anna's graspingness, when four years of +seniority gave her double my age, or Arthur's genial instinct for +destructiveness, which drove me into such deep concealment of my dearest +idols. But, whether for those or more mystic reasons, I know I had dolls +which I nursed only in the strictest privacy and lavished my firmest +love upon. It was because of them that I bore the reproach of being but +a lukewarm mother of dolls and careless of their toilets; the truth +being that my motherly passion expended itself in secret on certain +outcasts of society whom others despised or had forgotten. They, on +their limp and dissolute bodies, wore all the finery I could find to +pile on them: and one shady transaction done on their behalf I remember +now without pangs. There was one creature of state whom an inconsiderate +relative had presented to Anna and myself in equal shares. Of course +Anna's became more and more lionlike. I had very little love for the +bone of contention myself, but the sense of injustice rankled in me. So +one day, at an unclothing, Anna discovered that certain undergarments +were gone altogether away. She sat aghast, questioned me, and, when I +refused to disgorge, screamed down vengeance from the authorities. I was +morally certain I had taken no more than my just share, and resolution +sat on my lips under all threats. For a punishment the whole ownership +of the big doll was made over to Anna: I was no worse off, and was very +contented with my obstinacy. To-day I found the beautifully wrought +bodice, which I had carried beyond reach of even the supreme court of +appeal, clothing with ridiculous looseness a rag-doll whose head +tottered on its stem like an over-ripe plum, and whose legs had no +deportment at all: and am sending it off in charitable surrender to +Anna to be given, bag and rag, to whichever one of the children she +likes to select. + +Also I found:--would you care to have a lock of hair taken from the head +of a child then two years old, which, bright golden, does not match what +I have on now in the least? I can just remember her: but she is much of +a stranger to both of us. Why I value it is that the name and date on +the envelope inclosing it are in my mother's handwriting: and I suppose +_she_ loved very much the curly treasure she then put away. Some of the +other things, quite funny, I will show you the next time you come over. +How I wish that vanished mite had mixed some of her play-hours with +yours:--you only six miles away all the time: had one but known!--Now +grown very old and loving, always your own. + + + + +LETTER LV. + + +Beloved: I am getting quite out of letter-writing, and it is your doing, +not mine. No sooner do I get a line from you than you rush over in person +and take the answer to it out of my mouth! + +I have had six from you in the last week, and believe I have only +exchanged you one: all the rest have been nipped in the bud by your +arrivals. My pen turns up a cross nose whenever it hears you coming now, +and declares life so dull as not to be worth living. Poor dinky little +Othello! it shall have its occupation again to-day, and say just what it +likes. + +It likes you while you keep away: so that's said! When I make it write +"come," it kicks and tries to say "don't." For it is an industrious +minion, loves to have work to do, and never complains of overhours. It +is a sentimental fact that I keep all its used-up brethren in an +inclosure together, and throw none of them away. If once they have +ridden over paper to you, I turn them to grass in their old age. I let +this out because I think it is time you had another laugh at me. + +Laugh, dearest, and tell me that you have done so if you want to make me +a little more happy than I have been this last day or two. There has +been too much thinking in the heads of both of us. Be empty-headed for +once when you write next: whether you write little or much, I am sure +always of your full heart: but I cannot trust your brain to the same +pressure: it is such a Martha to headaches and careful about so many +things, and you don't bring it here to be soothed as often as you +should--not at its most needy moments, I mean. + +Have you made the announcement? or does it not go till to-day? I am not +sorry, since the move comes from her, that we have not to wait now till +February. You will feel better when the storm is up than when it is only +looming. This is the headachy period. + +Well. Say "well" with me, dearest! It is going to be well: waiting has +not suited us--not any of us, I think. Your mother is one in a thousand, +I say that and mean it:--worth conquering as all good things are. I +would not wish great fortune to come by too primrosy a way. "Canst thou +draw out Leviathan with a hook?" Even so, for size, is the share of the +world which we lay claim to, and for that we must be toilers of the +deep.--Always, Beloved, your truest and most loving. + + + + +LETTER LVI. + + +My Own Own Love: You have given me a spring day before the buds begin,-- +the weather I have been longing for! I had been quite sad at heart these +cold wet days, really _down_;--a treasonable sadness with you still +anywhere in the world (though where in the world have you been?). Spring +seemed such a long way off over the bend of it, with you unable to come; +and it seems now another letter of yours has got lost. (Write it again, +dearest,--all that was in it, with any blots that happened to come:--there +was a dear smudge in to-day's, with the whirlpool mark of your thumb quite +clear on it,--delicious to rest my face against and feel _you_ there.) + +And so back to my spring weather: all in a moment you gave me a whole +week of the weather I had longed after. For you say the sun has been +shining on you: and I would rather have it there than here if it refuses +to be in two places at once. Also my letters have pleased you. When they +do, I feel such a proud mother to them! Here they fly quick out of the +nest; but I think sometimes they must come to you broken-winged, with +so much meant and all so badly put. + +How can we ever, with our poor handful of senses, contrive to express +ourselves perfectly? Perhaps,--I don't know:--dearest, I love you! I +kiss you a hundred times to the minute. If everything in the world were +dark round us, could not kisses tell us quite well all that we wish to +know of each other?--me that you were true and brave and so beautiful +that a woman must be afraid looking at you:--and you that I was just my +very self,--loving and--no! just loving: I have no room for anything +more! You have swallowed up all my moral qualities, I have none left: I +am a beggar, where it is so sweet to beg.--Give me back crumbs of +myself! I am so hungry, I cannot show it, only by kissing you a hundred +times. + +Dear share of the world, what a wonderful large helping of it you are to +me! I alter Portia's complaint and swear that "my little body is +bursting with this great world." And now it is written and I look at it, +it seems a Budge and Toddy sort of complaint. I do thank Heaven that the +Godhead who rules in it for us does not forbid the recognition of the +ludicrous! C---- was telling me how long ago, in her own dull Protestant +household, she heard a riddle propounded by some indiscreet soul who did +not understand the prudish piety which reigned there: and saw such +shocked eyes opening all round on the sound of it. "What is it," was +asked, "that a common man can see every day but that God never sees?" +"His equal" is the correct answer: but even so demure and proper a +support to thistly theology was to the ears that heard it as the hand of +Uzzah stretched out intrusively and deserving to be smitten. As for +C----, a twinkle of wickedness seized her, she hazarded "A joke" to be +the true answer, and was ordered into banishment by the head of that +God-fearing household for having so successfully diagnosed the family +skeleton. + +As for skeletons, why your letter makes me so happy is that the one +which has been rubbing its ribs against you for so long seems to have +given itself a day off, or crumbled to dissolution. And you are yourself +again, as you have not been for many a long day. I suppose there has +been thunder, and the air is cleared: and I am not to know any of that +side of your discomforts? + +Still I _do_ know. You have been writing your letters with pressed lips +for a month past: and I have been a mere toy-thing, and no helpmate to +you at all at all. Oh, why will she not love me? I know I am lovable +except to a very hard heart, and hers is not: it is only like yours, +reserved in its expression. It is strange what pain her prejudice has +been able to drop into my cup of happiness; and into yours, dearest, I +fear, even more. + +Oh, I love you, I love you! I am crying with it, having no words to +declare to you what I feel. My tears have wings in them: first +semi-detached, then detached. See, dearest, there is a rain-stain to +make this letter fruitful of meaning! + +It is sheer convention--and we, creatures of habit--that tears don't +come kindly and easily to express where laughter leaves off and a +something better begins. Which is all very ungrammatical and entirely +me, as I am when I get off my hinges too suddenly. + +Amen, amen! When we are both a hundred we shall remember all this very +peaceably; and the "sanguine flower" will not look back at us less +beautifully because in just one spot it was inscribed with woe. And if +we with all our aids cannot have patience, where in this midge-bitten +world is that virtue to find a standing? + +I kiss you--how? as if it were for the first or the last time? No, but +for all time, Beloved! every time I see you or think of you sums up my +world. Love me a little, too, and I will be as contented as I am your +loving. + + + + +LETTER LVII. + + +Come to me! I will not understand a word you have written till you come. +Who has been using your hand to strike me like this, and why do you lend +it? Oh, if it is she, you do not owe her _that_ duty! Never write such +things:--speak! have you ever found me not listen to you, or hard to +convince? Dearest, dearest!--take what I mean: I cannot write over this +gulf. Come to me,--I will believe anything you can _say_, but I can +believe nothing of this written. I must see you and hear what it is you +mean. Dear heart, I am blind till I set eyes on you again! Beloved, I have +nothing, nothing in me but love for you: except for that I am empty! +Believe me and give me time; I will not be unworthy of the joy of holding +you. I am nothing if not _yours_! Tell this to whoever is deceiving you. + +Oh, my dearest, why did you stay away from me to write so? Come and put an +end to a thing which means nothing to either of us. You love me: how can +it have a meaning? + +Can you not hear my heart crying?--I love nobody but you--do not know +what love is without you! How can I be more yours than I am? Tell me, and +I will be! + +Here are kisses. Do not believe yourself till you have seen me. Oh, the +pain of having to _write_, of not having your arms round me in my misery! +I kiss your dear blind eyes with all my heart.--My Love's most loved and +loving. + + + + +LETTER LVIII. + + +No, no, I cannot read it! What have I done that you will not +come to me? They are mad here, telling me to be calm, that I am not to +go to you. I too am out of my mind--except that I love you. I know +nothing except that. Beloved, only on my lips will I take my dismissal +from yours: not God himself can claim you from me till you have done me +that justice. Kiss me once more, and then, if you can, say we must part. +You cannot!--Ah, come here where my heart is, and you cannot! + +Have I never told you enough how I love you? Dearest, I have no words +for all my love: I have no pride in me. Does not this alone tell +you?--You are sending me away, and I cry to you to spare me. Can I love +you more than that? What will you have of me that I have not given? Oh, +you, the sun in my dear heavens--if I lose you, what is left of me? +Could you break so to pieces even a woman you did not love? And me you +_do_ love,--you _do_. Between all this denial of me, and all this +silence of words that you have put your name to, I see clearly that you +are still my lover.--Your writing breaks with trying not to say it: you +say again and again that there is no fault in me. I swear to you, +dearest, there is none, unless it be loving you: and how can you mean +that? For what are you and I made for unless for each other? With all +our difference people tell us we are alike. We were shaped for each +other from our very birth. Have we not proved it in a hundred days of +happiness, which have lifted us up to the blue of a heaven higher than +any birds ever sang? And now you say--taking on you the blame for the +very life-blood in us both--that the fault is yours, and that your fault +is to have allowed me to love you and yourself to love me! + +Who has suddenly turned our love into a crime? Beloved, is it a sin that +here on earth I have been seeing God through you? Go away from me, and He +is gone also. Ah, sweetheart, let me see you before all my world turns +into a wilderness! Let me know better why,--if my senses are to be emptied +of you. My heart can never let you go. Do you wish that it should? + +Bring your own here, and see if it can tell me that! Come and listen to +mine! Oh, dearest heart that ever beat, mine beats so like yours that +once together you shall not divide their sound! + +Beloved, I will be patient, believe me, to any words you can say: but I +cannot be patient away from you. If I have seemed to reproach you, do +not think that now. For you are to give me a greater joy than I ever had +before when you take me in your arms again after a week that has spelled +dreadful separation. And I shall bless you for it--for this present pain +even--because the joy will be so much greater. + +Only come: I do not live till you have kissed me again. Oh, my beloved, +how cruel love may seem if we do not trust it enough! My trust in you has +come back in a great rush of warmth, like a spring day after frost. I +almost laugh as I let this go. It brings you,--perhaps before I wake: I +shall be so tired to-night. Call under my window, make me hear in my +sleep. I will wake up to you, and it shall be all over before the rest of +the world wakes. There is no dream so deep that I shall not hear you out +of the midst of it. Come and be my morning-glory to-morrow without fail. I +will rewrite nothing that I have written--let it go! See me out of deep +waters again, because I have thought so much of you! I have come through +clouds and thick darkness. I press your name to my lips a thousand times. +As sure as sunrise I say to myself that you will come: the sun is not +truer to his rising than you to me. + +Love will go flying after this till I sleep. God bless you!--and me also; +it is all one and the same wish.--Your most true, loving, and dear +faithful one. + + + + +LETTER LIX. + + +I have to own that I know your will now, at last. Without seeing you I am +convinced: you have a strong power in you to have done that! You have told +me the word I am to say to you: it is your bidding, so I say it--Good-by. +But it is a word whose meaning I cannot share. + +Yet I have something to tell you which I could not have dreamed if it +had not somehow been true: which has made it possible for me to believe, +without hearing you speak it, that I am to be dismissed out of your +heart.--May the doing of it cost you far less pain than I am fearing! + +You did not come, though I promised myself so certainly that you would: +instead came your last very brief note which this is to obey. Still I +watched for you to come, believing it still and trusting to silence on +my part to bring you more certainly than any more words could do. And +at last either you came to me, or I came to you: a bitter last meeting. +Perhaps your mind too holds what happened, if so I have got truly at +what your will is. I must accept it as true, since I am not to see you +again. I cannot tell you whether I thought it or dreamed it, but it +seems still quite real, and has turned all my past life into a mockery. + +When I came I was behind you; then you turned and I could see your +face--you too were in pain: in that we seemed one. But when I touched +you and would have kissed you, you shuddered at me and drew back your +head. I tell you this as I would tell you anything unbelievable that I +had heard told of you behind your back. You see I am obeying you at +last. + +For all the love which you gave me when I seemed worthy of it I thank +you a thousand times. Could you ever return to the same mind, I should +be yours once more as I still am; never ceasing on my side to be your +lover and servant till death, and--if there be anything more--after as +well. + +My lips say amen now: but my heart cannot say it till breath goes out of +my body. Good-by: that means--God be with you. I mean it; but He seems to +have ceased to be with me altogether. Good-by, dearest. I kiss your heart +with writing for the last time, and your eyes, that will see nothing more +from me after this. Good-by. + + +Note.--All the letters which follow were found lying loosely +together. They only went to their destination after the writer's death. + + + + +LETTER LX. + + +To-day, dearest, a letter from you reached me: a fallen star which had +lost its way. It lies dead in my bosom. It was the letter that lost itself +in the post while I was traveling: it comes now with half a dozen +postmarks, and signs of long waiting in one place. In it you say, "We have +been engaged now for two whole months; I never dreamed that two moons +could contain so much happiness." Nor I, dearest! We have now been +separated for three; and till now I had not dreamed that time could so +creep, to such infinitely small purpose, as it has in carrying me from the +moment when I last saw you. + +You were so dear to me, Beloved; _that_ you ever are! Time changes +nothing in you as you seemed to me then. Oh, I am sick to touch your +hands: all my thoughts run to your service: they seem to hear you call, +only to find locked doors. + +If you could see me now I think you would open the door for a little +while. + +If they came and told me--"You are to see him just for five minutes, and +then part again"--what should I be wanting most to say to you? Nothing-- +only "Speak, speak!" I would have you fill my heart with your voice the +whole time: five minutes more of you to fold my life round. It would +matter very little what you said, barring the one thing that remains never +to be said. + +Oh, could all this silence teach me the one thing I am longing to know!-- +why am I unworthy of you? If I cannot be your wife, why cannot I see you +still,--serve you if possible? I would be grateful. + +You meant to be generous; and wishing not to wound me, you said that +"there was no fault" in me. I realize now that you would not have said +that to the woman you still loved. And now I am never to know what part +in me is hateful to you. I must live with it because you would not tell +me the truth! + +Every day tells me I am different from the thing I wish to be--your +love, the woman you approve. + +I love you, I love you! Can I get no nearer to you ever for all this +straining? If I love you so much, I must be moving toward what you would +have me be. In our happiest days my heart had its growing pains,--growing +to be as you wished it. + +Dear, even the wisest make mistakes, and the tenderest may be hard +without knowing: I do not think I am unworthy of you, if you knew all. + +Writing to you now seems weakness: yet it seemed peace to come in here +and cry to you. And when I go about I have still strength left, and try +to be cheerful. Nobody knows, I think nobody knows. No one in the house +is made downcast because of me. How dear they are, and how little I can +thank them! Except to you, dearest, I have not shown myself selfish. + +I love you too much, too much: I cannot write it. + + + + +LETTER LXI. + + +You are very ill, they tell me. Beloved, it is such kindness in +them to have regard for the wish they disapprove and to let me know. +Knowledge is the one thing needful whose lack has deprived me of my +happiness: the express image of sorrow is not so terrible as the +foreboding doubt of it. Not because you are ill, but because I know +something definitely about you, I am happier to-day: a little nearer to +a semblance of service to you in my helplessness. How much I wish you +well, even though that might again carry you out of my knowledge! And, +though death might bring you nearer than life now makes possible, I pray +to you, dearest, not to die. It is not right that you should die yet, +with a mistake in your heart which a little more life might clear away. + +Praying for your dear eyes to remain open, I realize suddenly how much +hope still remains in me, where I thought none was left. Even your +illness I take as a good omen; and the thought of you weak as a child +and somewhat like one in your present state with no brain for deep +thinking, comes to my heart to be cherished endlessly: there you lie, +Beloved, brought home to my imagination as never since the day we +parted. And the thought comes to the rescue of my helpless longing--that +it is as little children that men get brought into the kingdom of +Heaven. Let that be the medicine and outcome of your sickness, my own +Beloved! I hold my breath with hope that I shall have word of you when +your hand has strength again to write. For I know that in sleepless +nights and in pain you will be unable not to think of me. If you made +resolutions against that when you were well, they will go now that you +are laid weak; and so some power will come back to me, and my heart will +never be asleep for thinking that yours lies awake wanting it:--nor ever +be at rest for devising ways by which to be at the service of your +conscious longing. + +Ah, my own one Beloved, whom I have loved so openly and so secretly, if +you were as I think some other men are, I could believe that I had given +you so much of my love that you had tired of me because I had made no +favor of it but had let you see that I was your faithful subject and +servant till death: so that after twenty years you, chancing upon an +empty day in your life, might come back and find me still yours;--as +to-morrow, if you came, you would. + +My pride died when I saw love looking out of your eyes at me; and it has +not come back to me now that I see you no more. I have no wish that it +should. In all ways possible I would wish to be as I was when you loved +me; and seek to change nothing except as you bid me. + + + + +LETTER LXII. + + +So I have seen you, Beloved, again, after fearing that I never should. A +day's absence from home has given me this great fortune. + +The pain of it was less than it might have been, since our looks did not +meet. To have seen your eyes shut out their recognition of me would have +hurt me too much: I must have cried out against such a judgment. But you +passed by the window without knowing, your face not raised: so little +changed, yet you have been ill. Arthur tells me everything: he knows I +must have any word of you that goes begging. + +Oh, I hope you are altogether better, happier! An illness helps some +people: the worst of their sorrow goes with the health that breaks down +under it; and they come out purged into a clearer air, and are made +whole for a fresh trial of life. + +I hear that you are going quite away; and my eyes bless this chance to +have embraced you once again. Your face is the kindest I have ever +seen: even your silence, while I looked at you, seemed a grace instead +of a cruelty. What kindness, I say to myself, even if it be mistaken +kindness, must have sealed those dear lips not to tell me of my unworth! + +Oh, if I could see once into the brain of it all! No one but myself knows +how good you are: how can I, then, be so unworthy of you? Did you think I +would not surrender to anything you fixed, that you severed us so +completely, not even allowing us to meet, and giving me no way to come +back to you though I might come to be all that you wished? Ah, dear face, +how hungry you have made me!--the more that I think you are not yet so +happy as I could wish,--as I could make you,--I say it foolishly:--yet if +you would trust me, I am sure. + +Oh, how tired loving you now makes me! physically I grow weary with the +ache to have you in my arms. And I dream, I dream always, the shadows of +former kindness that never grow warm enough to clasp me before I +wake.--Yours, dearest, waking or sleeping. + + + + +LETTER LXIII. + + +Do you remember, Beloved, when you came on your birthday, you said I was +to give you another birthday present of your own choosing, and I promised? +And it was that we were to do for the whole day what _I_ wished: you were +not to be asked to choose. + +You said then that it was the first time I had ever let you have your +way, which was to see me be myself independently of you:--as if such a +self existed. + +You will never see what I write now; and I did not do then any of the +things I most wished: for first I wished to kneel down and kiss your +hands and feet; and you would not have liked that. Even now that you +love me no more, you would not like me to do such a thing. A woman can +never do as she likes when she loves--there is no such thing until he +shows it her or she divines it. I loved you, I loved you!--that was all +I could do, and all I wanted to do. + +You have kept my letters? Do you read them ever, I wonder? and do they +tell you differently about me, now that you see me with new eyes? Ah no, +you dare not look at them: they tell too much truth! How can love-letters +ever cease to be the winged things they were when they first came? I fancy +mine sick to death for want of your heart to rest on; but never less +loving. + +If you would read them again, you would come back to me. Those little +throats of happiness would be too strong for you. And so you lay them in +a cruel grave of lavender,--"Lavender for forgetfulness" might be +another song for Ophelia to sing. + +I am weak with writing to you, I have written too long: this is twice +to-day. + +I do not write to make myself more miserable: only to fill up my time. + +When I go about something definite, I can do it:--to ride, or read aloud +to the old people, or sit down at meals with them is very easy; but I +cannot make employment for myself--that requires too much effort of +invention and will: and I have only will for one thing in life--to get +through it: and no invention to the purpose. Oh, Beloved, in the grave I +shall lie forever with a lock of your hair in my hand. I wonder if, +beyond there, one sees anything? My eyes ache to-day from the brain, +which is always at blind groping for you, and the point where I missed +you. + + + + +LETTER LXIV. + + +Dearest: It is dreadful to own that I was glad at first to know that you +and your mother were no longer together, glad of something that must mean +pain to you! I am not now. When you were ill I did a wrong thing: from her +something came to me which I returned. I would do much to undo that act +now; but this has fixed it forever. With it were a few kind words. I could +not bear to accept praise from her: all went back to her! Oh, poor thing, +poor thing! if I ever had an enemy I thought it was she! I do not think so +now. Those who seem cold seldom are. I hope you were with her at the last: +she loved you beyond any word that was in her nature to utter, and the +young are hard on the old without knowing it. We were two people, she and +I, whose love clashed jealously over the same object, and we both failed. +She is the first to get rest. + + + + +LETTER LXV. + + +My Dear: I dream of you now every night, and you are always kind, always +just as I knew you: the same without a shadow of change. + +I cannot picture you anyhow else, though my life is full of the silence +you have made. My heart seems to have stopped on the last beat the sight +of your handwriting gave it. + +I dare not bid you come back now: sorrow has made me a stranger to +myself. I could not look at you and say "I am your Star":--I could not +believe it if I said it. Two women have inhabited me, and the one here +now is not the one you knew and loved: their one likeness is that they +both have loved the same man, the one certain that her love was +returned, and the other certain of nothing. What a world of difference +lies in that! + +I lay hands on myself, half doubting, and feel my skeleton pushing to +the front: my glass shows it me. Thus we are all built up: bones are at +the foundations of our happiness, and when the happiness wears thin, +they show through, the true architecture of humanity. + +I have to realize now that I have become the greatest possible failure +in life,--a woman who has lost her "share of the world": I try to shape +myself to it. + +It is deadly when a woman's sex, what was once her glory, reveals itself +to her as an all-containing loss. I realized myself fully only when I +was with you; and now I can't undo it.--You gone, I lean against a +shadow, and feel myself forever falling, drifting to no end, a Francesca +without a Paolo. Well, it must be some comfort that I do not drag you +with me. I never believed myself a "strong" woman; your lightest wish +shaped me to its liking. Now you have molded me with your own image and +superscription, and have cast me away. + +Are not the die and the coin that comes from it only two sides of the +same form?--there is not a hair's breadth anywhere between their +surfaces where they lie, the one inclosing the other. Yet part them, and +the light strikes on them how differently! That is a mere condition of +light: join them in darkness, where the light cannot strike, and they +are the same--two faces of a single form. So you and I, dear, when we +are dead, shall come together again, I trust. Or are we to come back to +each other defaced and warped out of our true conjunction? I think not: +for if you have changed, if soul can ever change, I shall be melted +again by your touch, and flow to meet all the change that is in you, +since my true self is to be you. + +Oh, you, my Beloved, do you wake happy, either with or without thoughts +of me? I cannot understand, but I trust that it may be so. If I could +have a reason why I have so passed out of your life, I could endure it +better. What was in me that you did not wish? What was in you that I +must not wish for evermore? If the root of this separation was in you, +if in God's will it was ordered that we were to love, and, without +loving less, afterwards be parted, I could acquiesce so willingly. But +it is this knowing nothing that overwhelms me:--I strain my eyes for +sight and can't see; I reach out my hands for the sunlight and am given +great handfuls of darkness. I said to you the sun had dropped out of my +heaven.--My dear, my dear, is this darkness indeed you? Am I in the mold +with my face to yours, receiving the close impression of a misery in +which we are at one? Are you, dearest, hungering and thirsting for me, +as I now for you? + +I wonder what, to the starving and drought-stricken, the taste of death +can be like! Do all the rivers of the world run together to the lips +then, and all its fruits strike suddenly to the taste when the long +deprivation ceases to be a want? Or is it simply a ceasing of hunger and +thirst--an antidote to it all? + +I may know soon. How very strange if at the last I forget to think of +you! + + + + +LETTER LXVI. + + +Dearest: Every day I am giving myself a little more pain than I need--for +the sake of you. I am giving myself your letters to read again day by day +as I received them. Only one a day, so that I have still something left to +look forward to to-morrow: and oh, dearest, what _unanswerable_ things +they have now become, those letters which I used to answer so easily! +There is hardly a word but the light of to-day stands before it like a +drawn sword, between the heart that then felt and wrote so, and mine as it +now feels and waits. + +All your tenderness then seems to be cruelty now: only _seems_, dearest, +for I still say, I _do_ say that it is not so. I know it is not so: I, +who know nothing else, know that! So I look every day at one of these +monstrous contradictions, and press it to my heart till it becomes +reconciled with the pain that is there always. + +Indeed you loved me: that I see now. Words which I took so much for +granted then have a strange force now that I look back at them. You did +love: and I who did not realize it enough then, realize it now when you +no longer do. + +And the commentary on all this is that one letter of yours which I say +over and over to myself sometimes when I cannot pray: "There is no fault +in you: the fault is elsewhere; I can no longer love you as I did. All +that was between us must be at an end; for your good and mine the only +right thing is to say good-by without meeting. I know you will not +forget me, but you will forgive me, even because of the great pain I +cause you. You are the most generous woman I have known. If it would +comfort you to blame me for this I would beg you to do it: but I know +you better, and ask you to believe that it is my deep misfortune rather +than my fault that I can be no longer your lover, as, God knows, I was +once, I dare not say how short a time ago. To me you remain, what I +always found you, the best and most true-hearted woman a man could pray +to meet." + +This, dearest, I say and say: and write down now lest you have forgotten +it. For your writing of it, and all the rest of you that I have, goes +with me to my grave. How superstitious we are of our own bodies after +death!--I, as if I believed that I should ever rise or open my ears to +any sound again! I do not, yet it comforts me to make sure that certain +things shall go with me to dissolution. + +Truly, dearest, I believe grief is a great deceiver, and that no one +quite quite wishes not to exist. I have no belief in future existence; +yet I wish it so much--to exist again outside all this failure of my +life. For at present I have done you no good at all, only evil. + +And I hope now and then, that writing thus to you I am not writing +altogether in vain. If I can see sufficiently at the last to say--Send +him these, it will be almost like living again: for surely you will love +me again when you see how much I have suffered,--and suffered because I +would not let thought of you go. + +Could you dream, Beloved, reading _this_ that there is bright sunlight +streaming over my paper as I write? + + + + +LETTER LXVII. + + +Do you forgive me for coming into your life, Beloved? I do not know in +what way I can have hurt you, but I know that I have. Perhaps without +knowing it we exchange salves for the wounds we have given and received? +Dearest, I trust those I send reach you: I send them, wishing till I grow +weak. My arms strain and become tired trying to be wings to carry them to +you: and I am glad of that weariness--it seems to be some virtue that has +gone out of me. If all my body could go out in the effort, I think I +should get a glimpse of your face, and the meaning of everything then at +last. + +I have brought in a wild rose to lay here in love's cenotaph, among all +my thoughts of you. It comes from a graveyard full of "little deaths." I +remember once sending you a flower from the same place when love was +still fortunate with us. I must have been reckless in my happiness to do +that! + +Beloved, if I could speak or write out all my thoughts, till I had +emptied myself of them, I feel that I should rest. But there is no +_emptying_ the brain by thinking. Things thought come to be thought +again over and over, and more and fresh come in their train: children +and grandchildren, generations of them, sprung from the old stock. I +have many thoughts now, born of my love for you, that never came when we +were together,--grandchildren of our days of courtship. Some of them are +set down here, but others escape and will never see your face! + +If (poor word, it has the sound but no hope of a future life): still, +IF you should ever come back to me and want, as you would want, +to know something of the life in between,--I could put these letters +that I keep into your hands and trust them to say for me that no day +have I been truly, that is to say _willingly_, out of your heart. When +Richard Feverel comes back to his wife, do you remember how she takes +him to see their child, which till then he had never seen--and its +likeness to him as it lies asleep? Dearest, have I not been as true to +you in all that I leave here written? + +If, when I come to my finish, I get any truer glimpse of your mind, and +am sure of what you would wish, I will leave word that these shall be +sent to you. If not, I must suppose knowledge is still delayed, not that +it will not reach you. + +Sometimes I try still not to wish to die. For my poor body's sake I +wish Well to have its last chance of coming to pass. It is the unhappy +unfulfilled clay of life, I think, which robbed of its share of things +set ghosts to walk: mists which rise out of a ground that has not worked +out its fruitfulness, to take the shape of old desires. If I leave a +ghost, it will take _your_ shape, not mine, dearest: for it will be "as +trees walking" that the "lovers of trees" will come back to earth. +Browning did not know that. Someone else, not Browning, has worded it +for us: a lover of trees far away sends his soul back to the country +that has lost him, and there "the traveler, marveling why, halts on the +bridge to hearken how soft the poplars sigh," not knowing that it is the +lover himself who sighs in the trees all night. That is how the ghosts +of real love come back into the world. The ghosts of love and the ghosts +of hatred must be quite different: these bring fear, and those none. +Come to me, dearest, in the blackest night, and I will not be afraid. + +How strange that when one has suffered most, it is the poets (those who +are supposed to _sing_) who best express things for us. Yet singing is the +thing I feel least like. If ever a heart once woke up to find itself full +of tune, it was mine; now you have drawn all the song out of it, emptied +it dry: and I go to the poets to read epitaphs. I think it is their +cruelty that appeals to me:--they can sing of grief! O hard hearts! + +Sitting here thinking of you, my ears have suddenly become wide open to +the night-sounds outside. A night-jar is making its beautiful burr in +the stillness, and there are things going away and away, telling me the +whereabouts of life like points on a map made for the ear. You, too, are +_somewhere_ outside, making no sound: and listening for you I heard +these. It seemed as if my brain had all at once opened and caught a new +sense. Are you there? This is one of those things which drop to us with +no present meaning: yet I know I am not to forget it as long as I live. + +Good-night! At your head, at your feet, is there any room for me to-night, +Beloved? + + + + +LETTER LXVIII. + + +Dearest: The thought keeps troubling me how to give myself to you most, if +you should ever come back for me when I am no longer here. These poor +letters are all that I can leave: will they tell you enough of my heart? + +Oh, into that, wish any wish that you like, and it is there already! My +heart, dearest, only moves in the wish to be what you desire. + +Yet I am conscious that I cannot give, unless you shall choose to take: +and though I write myself down each day your willing slave, I cry my +wares in a market where there is no bidder to hear me. + +Dearest, though my whole life is yours, it is little you know of it. +My wish would be to have every year of my life blessed by your +consciousness of it. Barely a year of me is all that you have, truly, to +remember: though I think five summers at least came to flower, and +withered in that one. + +I wish you knew my whole life: I cannot tell it: it was too full of +infinitely small things. Yet what I can remember I would like to tell +now: so that some day, perhaps, perhaps, my childhood may here and there +be warmed long after its death by your knowledge coming to it and +discovering in it more than you knew before. + +How I long, dearest, that what I write may look up some day and meet your +eye! Beloved, _then_, however faded the ink may have grown, I think the +spirit of my love will remain fresh in it:--I kiss you on the lips with +every word. The thought of "good-by" is never to enter here: it is _A +reviderci_ for ever and ever:--"Love, love," and "meet again!"--the words +we put into the thrush's song on a day you will remember, when all the +world for us was a garden. + +Dearest, what I can tell you of older days,--little things they must be--I +will: and I know that if you ever come to value them at all, their +littleness will make them doubly welcome:--just as to know that you were +once called a "gallous young hound" by people whom you plagued when a boy, +was to me a darling discovery: all at once I caught my childhood's +imaginary comrade to my young spirit's heart and kissed him, brow and +eyes. + +Good-night, good-night! To-morrow I will find you some earliest memory: +the dew of Hermon be on it when you come to it--if ever! + +Oh, Beloved, could you see into my heart now, or I into yours, time +would grow to nothing for us; and my childhood would stay unwritten! + +From far and near I gather my thoughts of you for the kiss I cannot +give. Good-night, dearest. + + + + +LETTER LXIX. + + +Beloved: I remember my second birthday. I am quite sure of it, because my +third I remember so infinitely well.--Then I was taken in to see Arthur +lying in baby bridal array of lace fringes and gauze, and received in my +arms held up for me by Nan-nan the awful weight and imperial importance of +his small body. + +I think from the first I was told of him as my "brother": cousin I have +never been able to think him. But all this belongs to my third: on my +second, I remember being on a floor of roses; and they told me if I +would go across to a clipboard and pull it open there would be something +there waiting for me. And it was on all-fours that I went all eagerness +across great patches of rose-pattern, till I had butted my way through a +door left ajar, and found in a cardboard box of bright tinsel and +flowers two little wax babes in the wood lying. + +I think they gave me my first sense of color, except, perhaps, the +rose-carpet which came earlier, and they remained for quite a long time +the most beautiful thing I knew. It is strange that I cannot remember +what became of them, for I am sure I neither broke nor lost them,--perhaps +it was done for me: Arthur came afterward, the tomb of many of my early +joys, and the maker of so many new ones. He, dearest, is the one, the only +one, who has seen the tears that belong truly to you: and he blesses me +with such wonderful patience when I speak your name, allowing that perhaps +I know better than he. And after the wax babies I had him for my third +birthday. + + + + +LETTER LXX. + + +Beloved: I think that small children see very much as animals must do: +just the parts of things which have a direct influence on their lives, and +no memory outside that. I remember the kindness or frowns of faces in +early days far more than the faces themselves: and it is quite a distinct +and later memory that I have of standing within a doorway and watching my +mother pass downstairs unconscious of my being there,--and _then_, for the +first time, studying her features and seeing in them a certain solitude +and distance which I had never before noticed:--I suppose because I had +never before thought of looking at her when she was not concerned with me. + +It was this unobservance of actual features, I imagine, which made me +think all gray-haired people alike, and find a difficulty in recognizing +those who called, except generically as callers--people who kissed me, +and whom therefore I liked to see. + +One, I remember, for no reason unless because she had a brown face, I +mistook from a distance for my Aunt Dolly, and bounded into the room +where she was sitting, with a cry of rapture. And it was my earliest +conscious test of politeness, when I found out my mistake, not to cry over +it in the kind but very inferior presence to that one I had hoped for. + +I suppose, also, that many sights which have no meaning to children go, +happily, quite out of memory; and that what our early years leave for us +in the mind's lavender are just the tit-bits of life, or the first blows +to our intelligence--things which did matter and mean much. + +Corduroys come early into my life,--their color and the queer earthy +smell of those which particularly concerned me: because I was picked up +from a fall and tenderly handled by a rough working-man so clothed, whom +I regarded for a long time afterward as an adorable object. He and I +lived to my recognition of him as a wizened, scrubby, middle-aged man, +but remained good friends after the romance was over. I don't know when +the change in my sense of beauty took place as regards him. + +Anything unusual that appealed to my senses left exaggerated marks. My +father once in full uniform appeared to me as a giant, so that I +screamed and ran, and required much of his kindest voice to coax me back +to him. + +Also once in the street a dancer in fancy costume struck me in the same +way, and seemed in his red tunic twice the size of the people who +crowded round him. + +I think as a child the small ground-flowers of spring took a larger hold +upon me than any others:--I was so close to them. Roses I don't remember +till I was four or five; but crocus and snowdrop seem to have been in my +blood from the very beginning of things; and I remember likening the +green inner petals of the snowdrop to the skirts of some ballet-dancing +dolls, which danced themselves out of sight before I was four years old. + +Snapdragons, too, I remember as if with my first summer: I used to feed +them with bits of their own green leaves, believing faithfully that +those mouths must need food of some sort. When I became more thoughtful +I ceased to make cannibals of them: but I think I was less convinced +then of the digestive process. I don't know when I left off feeding +snapdragons: I think calceolarias helped to break me off the habit, for +I found they had no throats to swallow with. + +In much the same way as sights that have no meaning leave no traces, so +I suppose do words and sounds. It was many years before I overheard, in +the sense of taking in, a conversation by elders not meant for me: +though once, in my innocence, I hid under the table during the elders' +late dinner, and came out at dessert, to which we were always allowed to +come down, hoping to be an amusing surprise to them. And I could not at +all understand why I was scolded; for, indeed, I had _heard_ nothing at +all, though no doubt plenty that was unsuitable for a child's ears had +been said, and was on the elders' minds when they upbraided me. + + + +Dearest, such a long-ago! and all these smallest of small things I +remember again, to lay them up for you: all the child-parentage of me whom +you loved once, and will again if ever these come to you. + +Bless my childhood, dearest: it did not know it was lonely of you, as I +know of myself now! And yet I have known you, and know you still, so am +the more blest.--Good-night. + + + + +LETTER LXXI. + + +I used to stand at the foot of the stairs a long time, when by myself, +before daring to start up: and then it was always the right foot that went +first. And a fearful feeling used to accompany me that I was going to meet +the "evil chance" when I got to the corner. Sometimes when I felt it was +there very badly, I used at the last moment to shut my eyes and walk +through it: and feel, on the other side, like a pilgrim who had come +through the waters of Jordan. + +My eyes were always the timidest things about me: and to shut my eyes +tight against the dark was the only way I had of meeting the solitude of +the first hour of bed when Nan-nan had left me, and before I could get +to sleep. + +I have an idea that one listens better with one's eyes shut, and that this +and other things are a remnant of our primitive existence when perhaps the +ears of our arboreal ancestors kept a lookout while the rest of their +senses slept. I think, also, that the instinct I found in myself, and have +since in other children, to conceal a wound is a similar survival. At one +time, I suppose, in the human herd the damaged were quickly put out of +existence; and it was the self-preservation instinct which gave me so keen +a wish to get into hiding when one day I cut my finger badly--something +more than a mere scratch, which I would have cried over and had bandaged +quite in the correct way. I remember I sat in a corner and pretended to be +nursing a rag doll which I had knotted round my hand, till Nan-nan +noticed, perhaps, that I looked white, and found blood flowing into my +lap. And I can recall still the overcoming comfort which fell upon me as I +let resolution go, and sobbed in her arms full of pity for myself and +scolding the "naughty knife" that had done the deed. The rest of that day +is lost to me. + +Yet it is not only occasions of happiness and pain which impress +themselves. When the mind takes a sudden stride in consciousness,--that, +also, fixes itself. I remember the agony of shyness which came on me when +strange hands did my undressing for me once in Nan-nan's absence: the +first time I had felt such a thing. And another day I remember, after +contemplating the head of Judas in a pictorial puzzle for a long time, +that I seized a brick and pounded him with it beyond recognition:--these +were the first vengeful beginnings of Christianity in me. All my history, +Bible and English, came to me through picture-books. I wept tenderly over +the endangered eyes of Prince Arthur, yet I put out the eyes of many +kings, princes, and governors who incurred my displeasure, scratching them +with pins till only a white blur remained on the paper. + +All this comes to me quite seriously now: I used to laugh thinking it +over. But can a single thing we do be called trivial, since out of it we +grow up minute by minute into a whole being charged with capacity for +gladness or suffering? + +Now, as I look back, all these atoms of memory are dust and ashes that I +have walked through in order to get to present things. How I suffer, how +I suffer! If you could have dreamed that a human body could contain so +much suffering, I think you would have chosen a less dreadful way of +showing me your will: you would have given me a reason why I have to +suffer so. + +Dearest, I am broken off every habit I ever had, except my love of you. If +you would come back to me you could shape me into whatever you wished. I +will be different in all but just that one thing. + + + + +LETTER LXXII. + + +Here in my pain, Beloved, I remember keenly now the one or two occasions +when as a small child I was consciously a cause of pain to others. What an +irony of life that once of the two times when I remember to have been +cruel, it was to Arthur, with his small astonished baby-face remaining a +reproach to me ever after! I was hardly five then, and going up to the +nursery from downstairs had my supper-cake in my hand, only a few +mouthfuls left. He had been having his bath, and was sitting up on +Nan-nan's knee being got into his bed clothes; when spying me with my cake +he piped to have a share of it. I dare say it would not have been good for +him, but of that I thought nothing at all: the cruel impulse took me to +make one mouthful of all that was left. He watched it go without crying; +but his eyes opened at me in a strange way, wondering at this sudden +lesson of the hardness of a human heart. "All gone!" was what he said, +turning his head from me up to Nan-nan, to see perhaps if she too had a +like surprise for his wee intelligence. I think I have never forgiven +myself that, though Arthur has no memory of it left in him: the judging +remembrance of it would, I believe, win forgiveness to him for any wrong +he might now do me, if that and not the contrary were his way with me: so +unreasonably is my brain scarred where the thought of it still lies. God +may forgive us our trespasses by marvelous slow ways; but we cannot always +forgive them ourselves. + +The other thing came out of a less personal greed, and was years later: +Arthur and I were collecting eggs, and in the loft over one of the +out-houses there was a swallow's nest too high up to be reached by any +ladder we could get up there. I was intent on getting the _eggs_, and +thought of no other thing that might chance: so I spread a soft fall +below, and with a long pole I broke the floor of the nest. Then with a +sudden stir of horror I saw soft things falling along with the clay, +tiny and feathery. Two were killed by the breakage that fell with them, +but one was quite alive and unhurt. I gathered up the remnants of the +nest and set it with the young one in it by the loft window where the +parent-birds might see, making clumsy strivings of pity to quiet my +conscience. The parent-birds did see, soon enough: they returned, first +up to the rafters, then darting round and round and crying; then to +where their little one lay helpless and exposed, hung over it with a +nibbling movement of their beaks for a moment, making my miserable heart +bound up with hope: then away, away, shrieking into the July sunshine. +Once they came back, and shrieked at the horror of it all, and fled away +not to return. + +I remained for hours and did whatever silly pity could dictate: but of +course the young one died: and I--_cleared away all remains that nobody +might see_! And that I gave up egg-collecting after that was no penance, +but choice. Since then the poignancy of my regret when I think of it has +never softened. The question which pride of life and love of make-believe +till then had not raised in me, "Am I a god to kill and to make alive?" +was answered all at once by an emphatic "No," which I never afterward +forgot. But the grief remained all the same, that life, to teach me that +blunt truth, should have had to make sacrifice in the mote-hung loft of +three frail lives on a clay-altar, and bring to nothing but pain and a +last miserable dart away into the bright sunshine the spring work of two +swift-winged intelligences. Is man, we are told to think, not worth many +sparrows? Oh, Beloved, sometimes I doubt it! and would in thought give my +life that those swallows in their generations might live again. + +Beloved, I am letting what I have tried to tell you of my childhood end +in a sad way. For it is no use, no use: I have not to-day a glimmer of +hope left that your eyes will ever rest on what I have been at such deep +trouble to write. + +If I were being punished for these two childish things I did, I should +see a side of justice in it all. But it is for loving you I am being +punished: and not God himself shall make me let you go! Beloved, +Beloved, all my days are at your feet, and among them days when you held +me to your heart. Good-night; good-night always now! + + + + +LETTER LXXIII. + + +Dearest: I could never have made any appeal _from_ you to anybody: all my +appeal has been _to_ you alone. I have wished to hear reason from no other +lips but yours; and had you but really and deeply confided in me, I +believe I could have submitted almost with a light heart to what you +thought best:--though in no way and by no stretch of the imagination can I +see you coming to me for the last time and _saying_, as you only wrote, +that it was best we should never see each other again. + +You could not have said that with any sound of truth; and how can it +look truer frozen into writing? I have kissed the words, because you +wrote them; not believing them. It is a suspense of unbelief that you +have left me in, oh, still dearest! Yet never was sad heart truer to the +fountain of all its joy than mine to yours. You had only to see me to +know that. + +Some day, I dream, we shall come suddenly together, and you will see, +before a word, before I have time to gather my mind back to the bodily +comfort of your presence, a face filled with thoughts of you that have +never left it, and never been bitter:--I believe never once bitter. For +even when I think, and convince myself that you have wronged yourself--and +so, me also,--even then: oh, then most of all, my heart seems to break +with tenderness, and my spirit grow more famished than ever for the want +of you! For if you have done right, wisely, then you have no longer any +need of me: but if you have done wrong, then you must need me. Oh, dear +heart, let that need overwhelm you like a sea, and bring you toward me on +its strong tide! And come when you will I shall be waiting. + + + + +LETTER LXXIV. + + +Dearest and Dearest: So long as you are still this to my heart I trust to +have strength to write it; though it is but a ghost of old happiness that +comes to me in the act. I have no hope now left in me: but I love you not +less, only more, if that be possible: or is it the same love with just a +weaker body to contain it all? I find that to have definitely laid off all +hope gives me a certain relief: for now that I am so hopeless it becomes +less hard not to misjudge you--not to say and think impatiently about you +things which would explain why I had to die like this. + +Dearest, nothing but love shall explain anything of you to me. When I +think of your dear face, it is only love that can give it its meaning. +If love would teach me the meaning of this silence, I would accept all +the rest, and not ask for any joy in life besides. For if I had the +meaning, however dark, it would be by love speaking to me again at last; +and I should have your hand holding mine in the darkness forever. + +Your face, Beloved, I can remember so well that it would be enough if I +had your hand:--the meaning, just the meaning, why I have to sit blind. + + + + +LETTER LXXV. + + +Dearest: There is always one possibility which I try to remember in all I +write: even where there is no hope a thing remains _possible_:--that your +eye may some day come to rest upon what I leave here. And I would have +nothing so dark as to make it seem that I were better dead than to have +come to such a pass through loving you. If I felt that, dearest, I should +not be writing my heart out to you, as I do: when I cease doing that I +shall indeed have become dead and not want you any more, I suppose. How +far I am from dying, then, now! + +So be quite sure that if now, even now,--for to-day of all days has +seemed most dark--if now I were given my choice--to have known you or +not to have known you,--Beloved, a thousand times I would claim to keep +what I have, rather than have it taken away from me. I cannot forget +that for a few months I was the happiest woman I ever knew: and that +happiness is perhaps only by present conditions removed from me. If I +have a soul, I believe good will come back to it: because I have done +nothing to deserve this darkness unless by loving you: and if _by_ +loving you, I am glad that the darkness came. + +Beloved, you have the yes and no to all this: _I_ have not, and cannot +have. Something that you have not chosen for me to know, you know: it +should be a burden on your conscience, surely, not to have shared it +with me. Maybe there is something I know that you do not. In the way of +sorrow, I think and wish--yes. In the way of love, I wish to think--no. + +Any more thinking wearies me. Perhaps we have loved too much, and have +lost our way out of our poor five senses, without having strength to +take over the new world which is waiting beyond them. Well, I would +rather, Beloved, suffer through loving too much, than through loving too +little. It is a good fault as faults go. And it is _my_ fault, Beloved: +so some day you may have to be tender to it. + + + + +LETTER LXXVI. + + +Dearest: I feel constantly that we are together still: I cannot explain. +When I am most miserable, even so that I feel a longing to fly out of +reach of the dear household voices which say shy things to keep me +cheerful,--I feel that I have you in here waiting for me. Heart's heart, +in my darkest, it is you who speak to me! + +As I write I have my cheek pressed against yours. None of it is true: +not a word, not a day that has separated us! I am yours: it is only the +poor five senses part of us that spells absence. Some day, some day you +will answer this letter which has to stay locked in my desk. Some day, +I mean, an answer will reach me:--without your reading this, your answer +will come. Is not your heart at this moment answering me? + +Dearest, I trust you: I could not have dreamed you to myself, therefore +you must be true, quite independently of me. You as I saw you once with +open eyes remain so forever. You cannot make yourself, Beloved, not to be +what you are: you have called my soul to life if for no other reason than +to bear witness of you, come what may. No length of silence can make a +truth once sounded ever cease to be: borne away out of our hearing it +makes its way to the stars: dispersed or removed it cannot be lost. I too, +for truth's sake, may have to be dispersed out of my present self which +shuts me from you: but I shall find you some day,--you who made me, you +who every day make me! A part of you cut off, I suffer pain because I _am_ +still part of you. If I had no part in you I should suffer nothing. But I +do, I do. One is told how, when a man has lost a limb, he still feels +it,--not the pleasure of it but the pain. Dearest, are you aware of me +now? + +Because I am suffering, you shall not think I am entirely miserable. But +here and now I am all unfinished ends. Desperately I need faith at times +to tell me that each shoot of pain has a point at which it assuages +itself and becomes healing: that pain is not endurance wasted; but that +I and my weary body have a goal which will give a meaning to all this, +somehow, somewhere: never, I begin to fear, here, while this body has +charge of me. + +Dearest, I lay my heart down on yours and cry: and having worn myself +out with it and ended, I kiss your lips and bless God that I have known +you. + +I have not said--I never could say it--"Let the day perish wherein Love +was born!" I forget nothing of you: you are clear to me,--all but one +thing: why we have become as we are now, one whole, parted and sent +different ways. And yet so near! On my most sleepless nights my pillow +is yours: I wet your face with my tears and cry, "Sleep well." + +To-night also, Beloved, sleep well! Night and morning I make you my +prayer. + + + + +LETTER LXXVII. + + +My own one beloved, my dearest dear! Want me, please want me! I will keep +alive for you. Say you wish me to live,--not come to you: don't say that +if you can't--but just wish me to live, and I will. Yes, I will do +anything, even live, if you tell me to do it. I will be stronger than all +the world or fate, if you have any wish about me at all. Wish well, +dearest, and surely the knowledge will come to me. Wish big things of me, +or little things: wish me to sleep, and I will sleep better because of it. +Wish anything of me: only not that I should love you better. I can't, +dearest, I can't. Any more of that, and love would go out of my body and +leave it clay. If you would even wish _that_, I would be happy at finding +a way to do your will below ground more perfectly than any I found on it. +Wish, wish: only wish something for me to do. Oh, I could rest if I had +but your little finger to love. The tyranny of love is when it makes no +bidding at all. That you have no want or wish left in you as regards me +is my continual despair. My own, my beloved, my tormentor and comforter, +my ever dearest dear, whom I love so much! + + + + +LETTER LXXVIII. + + +To-night, Beloved, the burden of things is too much for me. +Come to me somehow, dear ghost of all my happiness, and take me in your +arms! I ache and ache, not to belong to you. I do: I must. It is only +our senses that divide us; and mine are all famished servants waiting +for their master. They have nothing to do but watch for you, and pretend +that they believe you will come. Oh, it is grievous! + +Beloved, in the darkness do you feel my kisses? They go out of me in +sharp stabs of pain: they must go _somewhere_ for me to be delivered of +them only with so much suffering. Oh, how this should make me hate you, +if that were possible: how, instead, I love you more and more, and +shall, dearest, and will till I die! + +I _will_ die, because in no other way can I express how much I love you. +I am possessed by all the despairing words about lost happiness that the +poets have written. They go through me like ghosts: I am haunted by +them: but they are bloodless things. It seems when I listen to all the +other desolate voices that have ever cried, that I alone have blood in +me. Nobody ever loved as I love since the world began. + +There, dearest, take this, all this bitter wine of me poured out until I +feel in myself only the dregs left: and still in them is the fire and +the suffering. + +No: but I will be better: it is better to have known you than not. Give +me time, dearest, to get you to heart again! I cannot leave you like +this: not with such words as these for "good-night!" + +Oh, dear face, dear unforgettable lost face, my soul strains up to look +for you through the blind eyes that have been left to torment me because +they can never behold you. Very often I have seen you looking grieved, +shutting away some sorrow in yourself quietly: but never once angry or +impatient at any of the small follies of men. Come, then, and look at me +patiently now! I am your blind girl: I must cry out because I cannot see +you. Only make me believe that you yet think of me as, when you so +unbelievably separated us, you said you had always found me--"the +dearest and most true-hearted woman a man could pray to meet." Beloved, +if in your heart I am still that, separation does not matter. I can +wait, I can wait. + +I kiss your feet: even to-morrow may bring the light. God bless you! I +pray it more than ever; because to me to-night has been so very dark. + + + + +LETTER LXXIX. + + +Dearest: I have not written to you for three weeks. At last I am better +again. You seem to have been waiting for me here: always wondering when I +would come back. I do come back, you see. + +Dear heart, how are you? I kiss your feet; you are my one only happiness, +my great one. Words are too cold and cruel to write anything for me. +Picture me: I am too weak to write more, but I have written this, and am +so much better for it. + +Reward me some day by reading what is here. I kiss, because of you, this +paper which I am too tired to fill any more. + +Love, nothing but love! Into every one of these dead words my heart has +been beating, trying to lay down its life and reach to you. + + + + +LETTER LXXX. + + +A secret, dearest, that will be no secret soon: before I am done with +twenty-three I shall have passed my age. Beloved, it hurts me more than I +can say that the news of it should come to you from anyone but me: for +this, though I write it, is already a dead letter, lost like a predestined +soul even in the pains that gave it birth. Yes, it does pain me, frightens +me even, that I must die all by myself, and feeling still so young. I +thought I should look forward to it, but I do not; no, no, I would give +much to put it off for a time, until I could know what it will mean for me +as regards you. Oh, if you only knew and _cared,_ what wild comfort I +might have in the knowledge! It seems strange that if I were going away +from the chance of a perfect life with you I should feel it with less pain +than I feel this. The dust and the ashes of life are all that I have to +let fall: and it is bitterness itself to part with them. + +How we grow to love sorrow! Joy is never so much a possession--it goes +over us, incloses us like air or sunlight; but sorrow goes into us and +becomes part of our flesh and bone. So that I, holding up my hand to the +sunshine, see sorrow red and transparent like stained glass between me +and the light of day, sorrow that has become inseparably mine, and is +the very life I am wishing to keep! + +Dearest, will the world be more bearable to you when I am out of it? It is +selfish of me not to wish so, since I can satisfy you in this so soon! +Every day I will try to make it my wish: or wish that it may be so when +the event comes--not a day before. Till then let it be more bearable that +I am still alive: grant me, dearest, that one little grace while I live! + +Bearable! My sorrow _is_ bearable, I suppose, because I do bear it from +day to day: otherwise I would declare it not to be. Don't suffer as I +do, dearest, unless that will comfort you. + +One thing is strange, but I feel quite certain of it: when I heard that I +carried death about in me, scarcely an arm's-length away, I thought +quickly to myself that it was not the solution of the mystery. Others +might have thought that it was: that because I was to die so soon, +therefore I was not fit to be your wife. But I know it was not that. I +know that whatever hopes death in me put an end to, you would have married +me and loved me patiently till I released you, as I am to so soon. + +It is always this same woe that crops up: nothing I can ever think can +account for what has been decreed. That too is a secret: mine comes to +meet it. When it arrives shall I know? + +And not a word, not a word of this can reach you ever! Its uses are +wrung out and drained dry to comfort me in my eternal solitude. + +Good-night; very soon it will have to be good-by. + + + + +LETTER LXXXI. + + +Beloved: I woke last night and believed I had your arms round me, and that +all storms had gone over me forever. The peace of your love had inclosed +me so tremendously that when I was fully awake I began to think that what +I held was you dead, and that our reconciliation had come at that great +cost. + +Something remains real of it all, even now under the full light of day: +yet I know you are not dead. Only it leaves me with a hope that at the +lesser cost of my own death, when it comes, happiness may break in, and +that whichever of us has been the most in poor and needy ignorance will +know the truth at last--the truth which is an inseparable need for all +hearts that love rightly. + +Even now to me the thought of you is a peace passing _all_ understanding. +Beloved, Beloved, Beloved, all the greetings I ever gave you gather here, +and are hungry to belong to you by a better way than I have ever dreamed. +I am yours, till something more than death swallows me up. + + + + +LETTER LXXXII. + + +Dearest: If you will believe any word of mine, you must not believe that I +have died of a broken heart should science and the doctors bring about a +fulfillment of their present prophesyings concerning me. + +I think my heart has held me up for a long time, not letting me know +that I was ill: I did not notice. And now my body snaps on a stem that +has grown too thin to hold up its weight. I am at the end of twenty-two +years: they have been too many for me, and the last has seemed a useless +waste of time. It is difficult not to believe that great happiness might +have carried me over many more years and built up for me in the end a +renewed youth: I asked that quite frankly, wishing to know, and was told +not to think it. + +So, dearest, whatever comes, whatever I may have written to fill up my +worst loneliness, be sure, if you care to be, that though my life was +wholly yours, my death was my own, and comes at its right natural time. +Pity me, but invent no blame to yourself. My heart has sung of you even +in the darkest days; in the face of everything, the blankness of +everything, I mean, it has clung to an unreasoning belief that in spite of +appearances all had some well in it, above all to a conviction that-- +perhaps without knowing it--you still love me. Believing _that,_ it +could not break, could not, dearest. Any other part of me, but not that. + +Beloved, I kiss your face, I kiss your lips and eyes: my mind melts into +kisses when I think of you. However weak the rest of me grows, my love +shall remain strong and certain. If I could look at you again, how in a +moment you would fill up the past and the future and turn even my grief +into gold! Even my senses then would forget that they had ever been +starved. Dear "share of the world," you have been out of sight, but I +have never let you go! Ah, if only the whole of me, the double doubting +part of me as well, could only be so certain as to be able to give wings +to this and let it fly to you! Wish for it, and I think the knowledge +will come to me! + +Good-night! God brings you to me in my first dream: but the longing so +keeps me awake that sometimes I am a whole night sleepless. + + + + +LETTER LXXXIII. + + +I am frightened, dearest, I am frightened at death. Not only +for fear it should take me altogether away from you instead of to you, +but for other reasons besides,--instincts which I thought gone but am +not rid of even yet. No healthy body, or body with power of enjoyment in +it, wishes to die, I think: and no heart with any desire still living +out of the past. We know nothing at all really: we only think we +believe, and hope we know; and how thin that sort of conviction gets +when in our extremity we come face to face with the one immovable fact +of our own death waiting for us! That is what I have to go through. Yet +even the fear is a relief: I come upon something that I can meet at +last; a challenge to my courage whether it is still to be found here in +this body I have worn so weak with useless lamentations. If I had your +hand, or even a word from you, I think I should not be afraid: but +perhaps I should. It is all one. Good-by: I am beginning at last to feel +a meaning in that word which I wrote at your bidding so long-ago. Oh, +Beloved, from face to feet, good-by! God be with you wherever you go and +I do not! + + + + +LETTER LXXXIV. + + +Dearest: I am to have news of you. Arthur came to me last night, and told +me that, if I wished, he would bring me word of you. He goes to-morrow. He +put out the light that I might not see his face: I felt what was there. + +You should know this of him: he has been the dearest possible of human +beings to me since I lost you. I am almost not unblessed when I have him +to speak to. Yet we can say so little together. I guess all he means. An +endless wish to give me comfort:--and I stay selfish. The knowledge that +he would stolidly die to serve me hardly touches me. + +Oh, look kindly in his eyes if you see him: mine will be looking at you +out of his! + + + + +LETTER LXXXV. + + +Good-morning, Beloved; there is sun shining. I wonder if Arthur is with +you yet? + +If faith could still remove mountains, surely I should have seen you +long ago. But if I were to see you now, I should fear that it meant you +were dead. + +That the same world should hold you and me living and unseen by each +other is a great mystery. Will love ever explain it? + +I wish I could bid the sun stand still over your meeting with Arthur so +that I might know. We were so like each other once. Time has worn it +off: but he is like what I was. Will you remember me well enough to +recognize me in him, and to be a little pitiful to my weak longing for a +word this one last time of all? Beloved, I press my lips to yours, and +pray--speak! + + + + +LETTER LXXXVI. + + +Dearest: To-day Arthur came and brought me your message: I have at my +heart your "profoundly grateful remembrances." Somewhere else unanswered +lies your prayer for God to bless me. To answer that, dearest, is not in +His hands but in yours. And the form of your message tells me it will not +be,--not for this body and spirit that have been bound together so long in +truth to you. + +I set down for you here--if you should ever, for love's sake, send +and make claim for any message back from me--a profoundly grateful +remembrance; and so much more, so much more that has never failed. + +Most dear, most beloved, you were to me and are. Now I can no longer +hold together: but it is my body, not my love that has failed. + + * * * * * + +[Transcriber's Notes: + +--Though this book was published anonymously, it was later revealed to be +by Laurence Housman. + +--In Letter XLIII "roughtly" was corrected to "roughly" + +--In Letter XXXVI "sort" was corrected to "short" + +--In Letter LXX, "elder's" was corrected to "elders'" + +--In Letter LXXVIII "unforgetable" was corrected to "unforgettable"] + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's An Englishwoman's Love-Letters, by Anonymous + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN ENGLISHWOMAN'S LOVE-LETTERS *** + +***** This file should be named 15941.txt or 15941.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/9/4/15941/ + +Produced by Bill Tozier, Barbara Tozier, Cally Soukup and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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