Jena, Nov. 25th. Monday Night.
The last post has been. No letter. If you had posted it in London on
Saturday after the examination I ought to have had it by now. I am
tortured by the fear that something has happened to you. Such dreadful
things do happen. Those great, blundering, blind fists of Fate, laying
about in mechanical cruelty, crushing the most precious lives as
indifferently as we crush an ant in an afternoon walk, how they terrify
me. All day I have been seeing foolish, horrible pictures--your train to
London smashing up, your cab coming to grief--the thousand things that
might so easily happen really doing it at last. I sent my two letters to
Jermyn Street, supposing you would have left Clinches, but now somehow I
don't think you did leave it, but went up from there for the exam. Do
you know it is three days since I heard from you? That wouldn't matter
so much--for I am determined never to bother you to write, I am
determined I will never be an exacting woman--if it were not for the
all-important examination. You said that if you passed it well and got a
good place in the Foreign Office you would feel justified in telling
your father about us. That means that we would be openly engaged. Not
that I care for that, or want it except as the next step to our meeting
again. It is clear that we cannot meet again till our engagement is
known. Even if you could get away and come over for a few days I would
not see you. I will not be kissed behind doors. These things are too
wonderful to be handled after the manner of kitchen-maids. I am willing
to be as silent as the grave for as long as you choose, but so long as I
am silent we shall not meet. I tell you I am incurably honest. I cannot
bear to lie. And even these letters, this perpetual writing when no one
is likely to look, this perpetual watching for the postman so that no
one will be likely to see, does not make me love myself any better. It
is true I need not have watched quite so carefully lately, need I? Oh
Roger, why don't you write? What has happened? Think of my wretched
plight if you are ill. Just left to wonder at the silence, to gnaw away
at my miserable heart. Or, if some one took pity on me and sent me
word,--your servant, or the doctor, or the kind Nancy--what could I do
even then but still sit here and wait? How could I, a person of whom
nobody has heard, go to you? It seems to me that the whole world has a
right to be with you, to know about you, except myself. I cannot wait
for the next post. The waiting for these posts makes me feel physically
sick. If the man is a little late, what torments I suffer lest he should
not be coming at all. Then I hear him trudging up the stairs. I fly to
the door, absolutely vainly trying to choke down hope. 'There will be no
letter, no letter, no letter,' I keep on crying to my thumping heart so
that the disappointment shall not be quite so bitter; and it takes no
notice, but thumps back wildly, 'Oh, there will, there will.' And what
the man gives me is a circular for Papa.
It is quite absurd, madly absurd, the anguish I feel when that happens.
My one wish, my only wish, as I creep back again down the passage to my
work, is that I could go to sleep, and sleep and sleep and forget that I
have ever hoped for anything; sleep for years, and wake up quiet and
old, with all these passionate, tearing feelings gone from me for ever.