_Salem_, Feby. 27th, 1842--Forenoon
_Thou dearest Heart,_
As it is uncertain whether I shall return to Boston tomorrow, I write
thee a letter; for I need to commune with thee; and even if I should
bring the scroll of my thoughts and feelings with me, perhaps thou
wilt not refuse to receive it. It is awful, almost (and yet I would
not have it otherwise, for the world) to feel how necessary thou hast
become to my well-being, and how my spirit is disturbed at a
separation from thee, and stretches itself out through the dimness and
distance to embrace its other self. Thou art my quiet and
satisfaction--not only my chiefest joy, but the condition of all other
enjoyments. When thou art away, vague fears and misgivings sometimes
steal upon me; there are heart-quakes and spirit-sinkings for no real
cause, and which never trouble me when thou art with me.
Belovedest, I have thought much of thy parting injunction to tell my
mother and sisters that thou art her daughter and their sister. I do
not think that thou canst estimate what a difficult task thou didst
propose to me--not that any awful and tremendous effect would be
produced by the disclosure; but because of the strange reserve, in
regard to matters of feeling, that has always existed among us. We are
conscious of one another's feelings, always; but there seems to be a
tacit law, that our deepest heart-concernments are not to be spoken
of. I cannot gush out in their presence--I cannot take my heart in my
hand, and show it to them. There is a feeling within me (though I know
it is a foolish one) as if it would be as indecorous to do so, as to
display to them the naked breast. And they are in the same state as
myself. None, I think, but delicate and sensitive persons could have
got into such a position; but doubtless this incapacity of free
communion, in the hour of especial need, is meant by Providence as a
retribution for something wrong in our early intercourse.
Then it is so hard to speak of thee--_really_ of thee--to anybody! I
doubt whether I ever have _really_ spoken of thee to any person. I
have spoken the name of Sophia, it is true; but the idea in my mind
was apart from thee--it embraced nothing of thine inner and essential
self; it was an outward and faintly-traced shadow that I summoned
up, to perform thy part, and which I placed in the midst of thy
circumstances; so that thy sister Mary, or Mrs. Ripley, or even
Margaret, were deceived, and fancied that I was talking about thee.
But there didst thou lie, thy real self, in my deepest, deepest heart,
while far above, at the surface, this distant image of thee was the
subject of talk. And it was not without an effort which few are
capable of making, that I could ever do so much; and even then I felt
as if it were profane. Yet I spoke to persons from whom, if from any,
I might expect true sympathy in regard to thee.
I tell thee these things, in order that my Dove, into whose infinite
depths the sunshine falls continually, may perceive what a cloudy veil
stretches over the abyss of my nature. Thou wilt not think that it is
caprice or stubbornness that has made me hitherto resist thy wishes.
Neither. I think, is it a love of secrecy and darkness. I am glad to
think that God sees through my heart; and if any angel has power to
penetrate into it, he is welcome to know everything that is there.
Yes; and so may any mortal, who is capable of full sympathy, and
therefore worthy to come into my depths. But he must find his own way
there. I can neither guide him nor enlighten him. It is this
involuntary reserve, I suppose, that has given the objectivity to my
writings. And when people think that I am pouring myself out in a tale
or essay, I am merely telling what is common to human nature, not what
is peculiar to myself. I sympathise with them--not they with me.
Feb. 28th--Forenoon.--Sweetest, thou shalt have this letter instead of
thy husband, to-night. Dost thou love me? I shall not find any letter
from thee at the Post Office, because thou dost expect to hear my
footsteps on thy staircase, at six o'clock this evening. Oh, but
another day will quickly pass; and then this yearning of the soul will
be appeased, for a little while at least. I wonder, I wonder, I
wonder, where on earth we are to set up our tabernacle. God
knows;--but I want to know too.
Dearest love, I am very well, and comfortable as I desire to be, in
thy absence. After all, it is a happiness to need thee, to sigh for
thee, to feel the nothingness of all things without thee. But do not
thou think so--thou must be happy always, not independently of thy
husband, but with a bliss equally pervading presence and absence.
Belovedest, I have employed most of my time here in collecting
curiosities, and have so many on my hands that I begin to fear it
will require a volume to contain the catalogue. I would we had such a
museum in reality. And now good-bye, most true Heart. Methinks this is
the longest letter that I have written thee for a great while. Shalt
thou expect me to write during my journey to New York?--or, were it
not better to allow thee to forget me entirely, during that interval
of a week? God bless thee, thou unforgettablest and unforgettingest,