Jena, Nov. 29th.
My darling, forgive me. If I could only get it back! I who hate
unreasonableness, who hate bitterness, who hate exacting women, petty
women, jealous women, to write a thing so angry. How horrible this
letter-writing is. If I had said all that to you in a sudden flare of
wrath I would have been sorry so immediately, and at once have made
everything fair and sweet again with a kiss. And I never would have got
beyond the first words, never have reached my step-mother's silly and
rude remarks, never have dreamed of repeating the unkind, unjust things.
Now, Roger, listen to me: my faith in you is perfect, my love for you is
perfect, but I am so undisciplined, so new to love, that you must be
patient, you must be ready to forgive easily for a little while, till I
have had time to grow wise. Just think, when you feel irritated, of the
circumstances of my life. Everything has come so easily, so naturally to
you. But I have been always poor, always second-rate--oh, it's
true--shut out from the best things and people, lonely because the
society I could have was too little worth having, and the society I
would have liked didn't want me. How could it? It never came our way,
never even knew we were there. I have had a shabby, restricted,
incomplete life; I mean the last ten years of it, since my father
married again. Before that, if the shabbiness was there I did not see
it; there seemed to be sunshine every day, and room to breathe, and
laughter enough; but then I was a child, and saw sunshine everywhere. Is
there not much excuse for some one who has found a treasure, some one
till then very needy, if his anxiety lest he should be robbed makes
him--irritable? You see, I put it mildly. I know very well that
irritable isn't the right word. I know very well what are the right
words, and how horrid they are, and how much ashamed I am of their
bitter truth. Pity me. A person so unbalanced, so stripped of all
self-control that she writes things she knows must hurt to the being she
loves so utterly, does deserve pity from better, serener natures. I do
not understand you yet. I do not understand the ways yet of people who
live as you do. I am socially inferior, and therefore sensitive and
suspicious. I am groping about, and am so blind that only sometimes can
I dimly feel how dark it really is. I have built up a set of ideals
about love and lovers, absurd crude things, clumsy fabrics suited to the
conditions of Rauchgasse, and the first time you do not exactly fit them
I am desperately certain that the world is coming to an end. But how
hopeless it is, this trying to explain, this trying to undo. How shall I
live till you write that you do still love me?