From: Love-Letters of Margaret Fuller, 1845-1846
Author:
Published: 1903 New York
DEAREST,
I must begin by “babbling of green fields.” Though it be true, as you say that this region of beautiful symbols is not the highest, I do find such relief in the soft trance, the still rapture they can give. I live in their life and am nourished by it, as the infant from the mother’s breast. Do you not cease to love this region too. You shall upbear me to the stars, when your energies overflow, and I feel sure that you will not find me incompetent to be received in the region of ideas. But let me sometimes hold you by the hand to linger with me here and listen while the grass grows; it does me so much good, the soft warm life close to the earth. Perhaps it is, that I was not enough a child at the right time, and now am too childish; but will you not have patience with that?
The tulips are out now and the crimson ones seem to me like you. They fill gloriously with the sunlight, and the petals glow like gems, while the black stamens in the cup of the Bower look so rich and mystical. I have gathered two and put them in my vase, but the perfume is almost overpowering; there are also two golden ones, that have rooted themselves on the edge of a grassy bank. I do not know how they could get there; it was a strange elopement from the regular Bower-bed, but the effect is beautiful of Bowers so vornehm willing to be wild.
I have been sitting in the twilight in the spot where we have been several times. Always something unpleasant occurred when we were there, but it has all endeared us to one another and ennobled the relation. And now a shrub has starred itself all over with white Bowers and bends over the place. The young moon bent her pure crescent above the rocks, my parapet behind; the waves stole in, vibrating through the silence with insidious murmur. Spülen!—how expressive is the German word; we have none like it. In this enchanting solitude, I thought of thee, of thy great thoughts. I have well understood all that has been told me. Do not hesitate to unfold the whole, only, indeed, in the musical order. I feel sure of being equal to it. Indeed, it seems as if there had been a gradual and steady preparation in me to hear it all. It will not be in vain that we have met. Whatever be your destiny, whether you be born to give form to these ideas, or are only the harbinger, the father of him who is to come,—that they have been uttered on earth and found their due vibration, predicts that their fulfilment is near. Man shall stand upon the earth as Man, and no more content himself with specific titles and partial claims.
My dearest, I feel a deep desire to utter myself, to answer the inspirations of your life from my inmost soul, but I cannot. The easy powers, the superficial eloquence all fail me here. The little wings on my feet upbear me in the world, but they are not strong enough here. You would have to take me to heart and read my silence, but I believe you will.
Since I began to write, I grow more powerless, whether that you are thinking of me now, or from the sense of your thoughts that have been poured upon me, I do not know this time. But often I feel, that you are thinking of me and it takes away all power of thought or motion. You say it will not always be so, that by-and-bye it will stimulate me to be more myself. This may be. There is at present so much for me to assimilate and absorb. Could I indeed but let it rest in me till I grow to the stature of what I feel. You know how it will be, since you have the secret of this vital energy. You must know how it works in all forms of life, especially in mine, with which you are now in conjunction. I feel the most tender reliance, and also faith, that I shall never be a trouble to you. I observe, that it is with you, as it has been with me in many cases. You attract beings so much, that after a while it is too much for their good or your pleasure. Then comes the painful retrograde motion. But I feel confident that my angel will not let it be so with me. I have never been able to go a step, where you did not take me. Now, when I want you most, I feel that I cannot seek you, unless you do me. So not even by a thought shall I be permitted to follow you, where I cannot accompany.
Now there is more and far better to be said, but again I cannot. Yet it is delightful to know that you will read all that is left unsaid. Now why say anything?—but it is sweet to express all one can.
Michelangelo, whenever he paints a great form full of soul, paints young cherubs near, so powerful radiant and gentle; these are the thoughts of that soul at that moment. May such attend you now, my friend! And in love, good-night.
P. S. Do not come into Wall Street for me Sunday morning till twenty minutes past ten and then I will come so soon as I can, but sometimes they will keep me, talking.
If it rains Sunday morning I suppose I shall go to church, as then I could not see you this proposed way. But I do hope for sunshine.
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