Jena, Dec. 2d.
These scraps of letters are not worth the postman's trouble, are not
worth the stamps; but if I did not talk to you a little every day I do
not think I could live. Yesterday you got my angry letter. If you were
not at Clinches I could have had an answer to-morrow; as it is, I must
wait till Wednesday. Roger, I am really a cheerful person. You mustn't
suppose that it is my habit to be so dreary. I don't know what has come
over me. Every day I send you another shred of gloom, and deepen the
wrong impression you must be getting of me. I know very well that nobody
likes to listen to sighs, and that no man can possibly go on for long
loving a dreary woman. Yet I cannot stop. A dreary man is bad enough,
but he would be endured because we endure every variety of man with so
amazing a patience; but a dreary woman is unforgivable, hideous. Now am
I not luminously reasonable? But only in theory. My practice lies right
down on the ground, wet through by that icy fog that is freezing me into
something I do not recognize. You do remember I was cheerful once?
During the whole of your year with us I defy you to recollect a single
day, a single hour of gloom. Well, that is really how I always am, and I
can only suppose that I am going to be ill. There is no other way of
accounting for the cold terror of life that sits crouching on my heart.