From: Love-Letters of Margaret Fuller, 1845-1846
Author:
Published: 1903 New York
I was disappointed, dear friend, to receive no token from you this morning, for it had seemed, as if you, like myself, would not be happy till our minds were again tuned to acknowledged harmony. Perhaps you think I did not myself do what I ought last night to produce this result. Indeed I wished to do so. Long before you went I felt that the tone, which had for a moment repelled me, was caused by the mood of the hour, the trials of the day, and-above all, by the presence of a third person. Had we been alone, I should have dropped a few tears, and then the sun would have shone again and have lighted to the higher ground, far more natural to us. But as it was, I could not act as I felt, and the warm tide of sympathy, with which I had begun the evening, was turned back upon me and seemed to oppress my powers of speech and motion. Yet it was very sad to me to have you go forth from the place, whither you came in hope and trust, into the dark night and howling wind. So far as the fault of this was mine, forgive me dear friend. I feel as if such difficulties would not occur after longer acquaintance had tempered us to one another, and made that faith, which is already so deep, pervade the character more thoroughly. But perhaps it might not be so; perhaps I am, as you say, too sensitive, and, in that case, it is well we are to separate now, for we are already too near to be easy or well, if the unison be broken.
You reproached me for not stating with distinctness the difference betwixt us last night. I did not feel able to do so then, but will try now. The view you stated had undoubtedly a foundation of nobleness, of manly honour and independence. It would well become a relation, which began from without, where the parties were to become acquainted by gradual test and trial. But you have proposed to me to become related from within. You have claimed me on the score of spiritual affinity and I have yielded to this claim. You have claimed to read my thoughts, to count the pulses of my being, often to move them by your heart or will. You have approached me personally nearer than any other person, and have said to me words most unusual and close, to which I have willingly listened.
After this, could there remain doubts that we should sympathize with the griefs of one another; would it indeed be possible to conceal them if there is that unity you have supposed? If there is that faith you have demanded could we wish it? I felt that you went back from ground to which you had led. I also felt that it was not well to talk of there being only one perfect relation, in these parting hours, when I naturally wish to do all I can for you. I want to cast soft light over these hours; why say to your moon, that there might be a better light? She admits it, but when told that hers is of no use even at present, what can she do but veil in cloud the pallid beams?
Yet I speak of this with reluctance, for again I say, it was the mood of the hour and not your deepest self, I believe. You would really wish to trust me just as I wish to trust you, and do in fact hold me as dear as at any hour you ever thought you did. Your mind will not repent but revert with joy to what has been sweet and generous in our intercourse, to the confidence you have put in me as to the ills that beset, the thoughts that engaged you, to the hidden aspirations of your soul. Nor will the flowers we have been enabled to gather from the moment be forgotten. If not perfect, they were lovely and innocent; nor must the violet be cast aside, because she is not a rose.
This is probably my last letter, and I have written it with the inclosed pen, which I wish to give you, and hope it will pen down some fine thoughts and passages of life during your journeyings. It also contains a pencil. I send it to-day, thinking you will have your initials put upon it, that you may be the less likely to lose my parting gift. A small copy of Shelley’s poems I wish also to make your companion, but keep that till I give it into your hand and point out some passages.
I feel, as you may see, rather subdued to-night, having been unwell all day. But it seems as if to-morrow would be better. With you, at any rate, may it be so; with you be energy and light and peace and love!
You, in your turn, have patience with the Psyche, and draw the best music you can from the Lyre.
Reading over my letter it seems too restrained. Believe that my whole soul utters God bless you, and feels that your whole soul returns the same. May we meet as we feel!
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