From: Love-Letters of Margaret Fuller, 1845-1846
Author:
Published: 1903 New York
Here I am still, dear friend, although next Saturday will see me in Massachusetts. These are the loveliest days of the American year; the breezes are melody and balm, the sunlight pours in floods through the foliage, itself transparent gold. The water is so very blue and animated, the sail-boats bound along, as if they felt like me. I have been inexpressibly happy these last few days, the weather within has been just the same as without. I am generally serene and rather bright, but these feelings are joy. Even for thee, I seldom feel regret; sometimes indeed I turn suddenly, my heart full of something I want to say, and long to meet thine eye, but oftener I feel, thou art indeed here much of the time and the rest looking on what is beautiful and full of rich suggestions; thou art living and growing and in all this I have my part. Yes, in all that enriches and dignifies thy life I have my part. And say, dear brother, brother of my soul, have I not been much with thee in beautiful Switzerland and Italy? Had I been with thee indeed, often we might have shared the same quick glance, the same full gaze and every joy of sympathy, where nature, at least, and the memories of human greatness are worth sympathy.
But then there would have been many rough and difficult places, where thou must have up – borne me in thy strong arms or else I could not have gone. So I should have been in fact sometimes a burden, but in thought, in memory, I have been altogether a sweet companion, have I not? One who gives no trouble and shares all joys! If I had written you any letters that were good, I should think, you had just received such an one, from this joy I have in being drawn to you. But I know too well, how frivolous, feeble and inexpressive of what I really thought all mine have been. I think it must be merely that you are happy in the grandeur and beauty you have seen and that your feelings of happiness extend to me.
I feel as if we were both within the pure white veil. I have kept my promise and never thought why you gave me that token, but whenever I have these lovely feelings as if we were both in an atmosphere of love and purity, I take it out and look at it, and then again I vow to trust our God, and what is deepest in the impulses he has given. He will protect, and the pure silver haze he will cast around, shall be more efficient than armour of triple brass against all evil powers. And amid that silver haze I am with thee, my brother, and repeat the holy vows I made, when thy generous soul was most made known to mine, and I meet the full look of thy eye, and it is not tearful and thy voice in its rich persuasive tones answers to the vow.
At such times there is no more age or sin or sadness. Oh may the immortal births of them-those creatures of our true selves-grow daily in strength, in sweetness and in purity.
I will not write any more; it is all in vain, I cannot relieve my heart; it craves expression, but cannot find it in words.
This is a most lovely, pensive evening. My willow shakes its long graceful locks with deep sighs, warm breezes sweeping slowly by. I have taken infinite pleasure in that tree and hope it has some consciousness of what it has been to a human heart. I shall see it no more in beauty, for when I return from Massachusetts its leaves will have fallen and will not dress it again by the time we go next spring. For it is decided that we go and no more shall my brother and I meet on the rocks, where the waves lap so gently or in the little paths of our dear wood. I have never been there yet since Sunday 1st June. Last Sunday it looked tempting, but I would not. I have made no vow lest I be forced to break it by some chance, but feel as if I should never go there again, unless with you.
To-night is the anniversary of my father’s death; just about this time he left us and my hand closed his eyes. Never has that hand since been employed in an act so holy, yet it has done so much, it seems as I look on it, almost a separate mind. It is a pure hand thus far from evil; it has given no false ‘tokens of any kind. My father, from that home of higher life you now inhabit, does not your blessing still accompany the hand, that hid the sad sights of this world from your eyes, which had begun to weep at them? My friend, I think it does; I think he thus far would bless his child. We have both upright and pure men to our fathers. Is it not a great happiness? I realize it more and more. Our star had some benign rays.
All Sub-Works of Love-Letters of Margaret Fuller, 1845-1846:
PDF Sub-Works open in a new tab. Close the tab when done viewing to return here.
