Mt. Holyoke.
Dec 5. Midnight.Strange! Cold & sleepy too - but so conscious, as ever, of you & of my longing for you that I want to write -
Miss Edwards, a friend of Mrs. Mead, who has been here for a week, has an attack of quinzy - a very serious one - at least so far as pain is concerned - for she suffers fearfully - & theris [sic] no prospect of her being better for two or three days yet -
So tonight I am staying with her for a while & keeping hot cloths on her poor throat. She says I may not stay after 1 o'clock but I think I shall if I can possibly stay awake - you see I usually go to sleep at 10 o'clock & now, only two hours later, I am wretchedly sleepy - but I know so well how poor Miss Edwards is suffering that I can do it better than anyone else can -
You know what I remember - the last time I had the quinzy - the days when my new-found lover, my betrothed, sat by me & held my hands, & looked tenderest sympathy into my eyes - I could not know I was suffering when you were by me, darling. In a half-vague way I was conscious of the pain in my throat, but hardly felt it till you were gone away. And 'twas there the ruby came - beautiful, glowing passionate gem! twas like those days, dear.
It makes me melancholy to see one suffering this way, & be alone in the night with a sick one - oh I wonder if we shall ever sit watching by each other thro' long painful nights of suffering - God grant not many such may be in store for us! I am afraid of suffering for myself, yet I could bear that if I must - but for you to suffer - !
Darling, is the pain all gone now that troubled you a few weeks ago? oh I hope so - can you do nothing to make it go away, dear boy?
Tues. morning.
I haven't quite so much work as usual today, so shall try to sleep a little, for I didn't leave Miss Edwards till half past two last night & my eyes are very heavy. poor dear soul! it isn't any better yet.
But I want to write one word to you. A letter came from you this morning - but one has been lost - it must have been on the Spree, & so will come later. Some week presently I shall get three letters!
Darling, I am so happy when I have a letter from you - so happy - every word you speak is so precious - I read them over & over, kiss them tenderly, go to sleep with them clasped in my hands. They are never long enough. I always sigh at the end, & begin again & read the dear letter right through.
I long to have you talk to me, George dear - talk long & earnestly, hour after hour, to me alone, over these things we care most for - love & life & death. I long to think about these with you - oh 'tis but little of each other's life we caught thro' the letters - & to know each other's life & to complete it is what we live for. I am I think about this I am almost decided to let you come home to ask you to to come next summer. There are so many reasons tho' why it seems unwise. & twill be only a year longer to wait. We must wait, dear.
I cannot forgive myself for what I said about it in that first letter. I know you do want me more than you will ever want anything else in the world, my darling - I did not mean, then, that I thought you preferred something else to the home-coming, I only meant that I wished you had said you longed to come instead of asking me if I tho't it best. Have you forgiven me - my sweetheart?
Yes, we know each other thro' the senses now - I do not believe it is going to be so always - but I am infinitely content that it should be so now - the next life will be limitless - & you & I shall know it together -
Why no, dearest, I do not know this - 'tis impossible that I should, I suppose - but I have not a fear of its being otherwise - everything about me, everything in me, teaches this. My love for you teaches it most of all - because it, most of all, makes me long for this to be true? Yes, for that very reason perhaps, & because my whole soul tells me that our love is God-given & what it teaches me must be from God.
Oh I know! He is veiled in mystery - no man hath seen Him at any time - yet sometimes He seems very clear to me - & that He is not always is because my heart is not always pure - I hide from Him - not He from me - & so that I cannot always see does not make me doubt -
Tues. Night.
I cannot keep being a little homesick tonight - for you - even very much so, I fear. George, I need you, dear - One of my classes went miserably this afternoon - it often does - poor students - bad hour - not a success. I hate it - I was wretched when I came home from it this afternoon, I wished you were here, to help me be better, & to comfort me - it's hard to live without you, my lover.
Something else has made me homesick for you, dear - homesick because I loved it so.
Demie's old friend, Mary Montague, who lives here you know, has been to call on me - She has had a lame ankle all the fall, been ill, & so hasn't been at the college before - We talked about Demie first of course, then I asked if she knew any other members of the family - & she said she had met Alice & George. I made an innocent remark which elicited some comment & she added how much she liked you. She thought you were delightful, & you are "so sensible" too. I said all I dared - & to hear you talked of was such a joy - I prolonged the conversation upon the Rogers family just as long as possible. Miss Montague knows about you all - I told her about Stubbie & I made her almost weep - There! if I don't like dogs! as I do though - Shall you want more than one, dear?
Now really, George - I dont believe you will want a dog at all, when we have our home. As for something to entertain yourself with, suppose you try me? And any little demonstration of affection which must be demonstrated, why perhaps we could arrange that too, - and we surely dont want a watch-dog to guard us, for I wont be guarded by a dog, you are going to protect me - What do we want of a dog - unless you want it to love you & think I cant spare time from my Greek to do enough of that.
It is our home evenings that I picture most often - the winter evenings, each other, our books, our work. I am so lonely without you. My room seems so dreary. I wish I could go to New York this evening - even - if I cannot have you. How I should love to have that baby in my arms - such a smile! with the infinite in it - a smile that enters one's very soul. Wonderful mystery - a new life! it raises all the sacred passion & eternal longing of my woman's-heart. Darling, do you know I would gladly give my life - if 'twere not your life - for one moment of the mother-bliss? oh my boy, my boy - 'tis all spent upon you! Is there any depth or anguish of the mother-love in your own mother's heart which I do not know? Then I pray God to give it to me.
The next instant after I write this comes a flash of homesickness again - my mood is changed - I am a trembling child alone. I long to flee to the refuge ever waiting for me - to cast all burdens off, to let you guide & keep me - to be care-free & happy & gay. I am yours - as much in the one mood as the other -
Yours - forever -
Lisa.Thurs. Dec 8.
We are in the midst of Exams now, dear, changing to the work of the winter term, & I am very busy.
In here darling, what are you going to do for Christmas? - oh dear! Christmas "Wobbie" as Gerald says - What a Christmas that was - we gave ourselves to each other then - divine gift. I hope you will go to Pirna & will travel some, & rest & be gay. I want you to be happy sweetheart. I shall send a little Christmas parcel - just a little gift. I hope 'twill reach you just before Christmas - & you must not open it, darling, till Christmas morning. Dearest, won't you buy a flower for your buttonhole that day? a white pink, or a little bunch of English violets, if you can find them, or a white rosebud & I shall wear - let me see, in the morning just a dark blue dress with a white rosebud, & for dinner & evening my blue cloth & a full-blown rose, the kind of roses you would give me if you were there - Besides Roses. & I will send you some petals.
Darling I have found it at last a frame for your picture - for two - the '88 one & the last cabinet, all present, tho' I may change them occasionally.
I have been waiting to get one I liked, & never have seen any which looked like you - never any which were quite your style - photograph frames are made mostly for women's pictures. I wanted something which was not heavy nor cumbersome, nor ugly, nor fanciful, nor fussy, nor gay, nor rich nor showy.
Well yesterday, among some lovely articles decorated with sea mosses which were on sale in our chapel, I found it - cream color, for two pictures, so arranged as to shut up quickly when the girls knock, & oh such exquisite little sprays of sea moss trailing over it, in dainty browns - all gentle & harmonious & simple - its a mere trifle - it cost only 75 cts, but I am so happy over it. I arranged you in your new home right away & keep you in front of me as I work tho' I hide you when anyone knocks. When I went to sleep last night I put you on the chair near my bed that I might see you as soon as I opened my eyes this morning - Don't be too much flattered - I did that with my new hat, a month ago - its really the latest new article that I honor thus - you see - tho' I must confess that I like the picture there better than anything else. George 'tis funny to tell you this - but I dont mind - its half silly, & half beautiful. Did you ever know a picture to become so much a presence that its truly as if the person were there? I mean in funny little practical matters? When I had your picture before me all the time, as I did at Science Hill, I used to give a little jump
whenif I found it facing me as I put my hair up without my dress on - I always turned it round to the wall while I made my toilet - as dutifully & regularly as possible - & I took special delight in seeing that loving gaze follow me when I was dressed as I knew you liked me to be -This is all now -
My own lover Good bye -
Lisa.