THE LETTER
What was that story the old Greeks told about love being the union--or
reunion--of the two halves of an originally perfect whole? The envious
gods--who were a very bad lot--cut the original perfect being in two.
Then love is a finding of one's own--also, a getting ahead of the gods. I
have more respect for the old Greeks to-night than I ever had before! But
you cannot know just how it is. You are younger than I, and I do not
believe the fear of life passing you by ever entered and chilled your
heart. You were always sure it was coming some time, weren't you, my
new-found little one? You could not have had that calm, sweet look in
those big eyes of yours had you feared the best of life might be withheld
from you. But can you fancy what it would mean to have felt for many
years that somewhere there was a cool, sweet spring of eternal joy, and
to become fearful your footsteps might never lead you to those blessed
waters? And then can you fancy the profound thankfulness that would fill
one's being, when after long wandering, after several mistakes and
disappointments, the music of those waters was borne to the ear? And
when, almost fearful to believe, and yet very, very sure, one stepped a
little nearer, can you fancy the joy in finding the cooling breeze from
that eternal spring upon one's face, of seeing it there as one had ever
dreamed of it, knowing that beside it one could drink deep--long and very
deep--of those life-giving, soul-satisfying waters? Can you fancy the
all-pervading thankfulness, almost unbelievable joy, in that first hour
of standing beside the long-desired, the half-despaired of water of life?
"Thank God I was not weak enough to resign the whole for the half! There
was once a voice said to me: 'This is a pretty good spring. There is
not much chance of your finding the other. Why not take this?' But
something--your voice from a far distance?--called me on.
"A strange enough letter for a man to be writing the girl who has just
promised to marry him! Conventionally, I suppose, I should say to you:
'I never knew anything like this before.' And instead I am saying: 'There
was something once of somewhat similar exterior. But I was mistaken. I
was disappointed.' But doesn't this make you see--dear new love--dear
_real_ love--how happy I am, and why?
"But you poor little girl--how I've cheated you! Why, liebchen--God bless
the Germans for inventing that name for you--you were entitled to weeks
and weeks of beautiful, delicate courtship. Will you forgive me for
jumping right over those days when I should have sent you roses and nice
pretty notes, and prepared you in proper and approved way for all of
this? But I had been waiting for you so long that when I found you, I
just couldn't wait a minute longer.
"And it was Georgia--my red-headed, freckled, foolish cousin Georgia
did this! Why, liebchen, I'll take my oath right this minute Georgia
hasn't a freckle! I'm even willing--(oh Lord, _am_ I?--Yes, by the gods I
_am_)--to read every abominable line she writes for that abominable
paper. Am I an ingrate? Didn't Georgia bring me to _you?_--and is
anything too much, even to the reading of her stuff--yes, by Jove, and
_liking_ it?
"Now prepare yourself to receive the sympathy of every one you know when
you tell them you are going to marry me. Some kind of divine
hallucination is upon you, acting for my good, and you do not see how
profoundly you are to be pitied. But other people will see, and will tell
you about it, only you will think _they_ are under a hallucination, which
is one of the phases of _yours_. The truth is I am a grubbing old
scientist. I prowl around in laboratories and don't know much of anything
else, and more than half the time my hands are stained with unaesthetic
colours you won't like at all. And they tell me I have a foolish way of
sitting and thinking about one thing, and that sometimes I don't do
things I say I am going to--meet my appointments and things like that,
although of course that won't apply to you. And here you might have
married some artist chap, or society fellow who would know all about the
proper thing!
"But never mind, poor little girl--I'll make it up to you. You may miss
some of the lesser, but you'll have the greater. You'll have the
love that enfolds one's whole being--the love that is eternal. Yes,
dear--eternal. The mariner has his compass, the astronomer his stars, the
Swiss peasant has his Alps--and we have our love. It must mean all those
eternal things to us. Don't you feel that it will?
"This train is rushing along jostling my hand so I can scarcely write.
But then my heart is rushing on jostling my brain so I can scarcely
think, so perhaps my handwriting matches my thoughts.
"And we'll work! We'll work to prove how much we love--is there better
reason for working than that? I can work now as I never did before, for
don't I want to prove to this old world that I appreciate its bringing me
to you? And you'll teach me about this art of yours, won't you, my little
girl with the long, serious name? I'm ignorant, sweetheart, I don't know
much about pictures, but don't you think that I can learn? Why, liebchen,
I'm learning already! I never knew what they meant by lights and shadows
until I saw your face.
"But tell me, how does it happen your hair grows back from your temples
that way? Why, no one else's hair does that. And where did you learn
about tilting your chin forward like that and looking straight out of
your eyes at one? It is so strange--no one else does any of those things.
I've often thought of the many things in science I do not understand and
never will, but they are the very simplest things imaginable in
comparison with that puzzling way you smile, the wonderful way your face
lights up when you are happy.
"Are you looking up at the stars? I think you are. And in the heavens do
you see one newly discovered, unvanishable star? That is the star of our
love, dear,--the star which has changed heaven and earth. Are you
dreaming about it all?--Oh but I know you are. I will fulfill those
dreams, dear girl. I have waited for you too long, I prize you too
inestimably not to consecrate my life to the fulfilling of those dreams."