Dearest: Not having had a letter from you this morning, I have read over

some back ones, and find in one a bidding which I have never fulfilled, to

tell you what I do all day. Was that to avoid the too great length of my

telling you what I think? Yet you get more of me this way than that.

What I do is every day so much the same: while what I think is always

different. However, since you want a woman of action rather than of brain,

here I start telling you.

I wake punctual and hungry at the sound of Nan-nan's drawing of the

blinds: wait till she is gone (the old darling potters and tattles: it

is her most possessive moment of me in the day, except when I sham

headaches, and let her put me to bed); then I have my hand under my

pillow and draw out your last for a reading that has lost count whether

it is the twenty-second or the fifty-second time;--discover new beauties

in it, and run to the glass to discover new beauties in myself,--find

them; Benjy comes up with the post's latest, and behold, my day is

begun!

Is that the sort of thing you want to know? My days are without an

action worth naming: I only think swelling thoughts, and write some of

them: if ever I do anything worth telling, be sure I run a pen-and-ink

race to tell you. No, it is man who does things; a woman only diddles

(to adapt a word of diminutive sound for the occasion), unless, good,

fortunate, independent thing, she works for her own living: and that is

not me!

I feel sometimes as if a real bar were between me and a whole conception

of life; because I have carpets and curtains, and Nan-nan, and Benjy,

and last of all you--shutting me out from the realities of existence.

If you would all leave me just for one full moon, and come back to me

only when I am starving for you all--for my tea to be brought to me in

the morning, and all the paddings and cushionings which bolster me up

from morning till night--with what a sigh of wisdom I would drop back

into your arms, and would let you draw the rose-colored curtains round

me again!

Now I am afraid lest I have become too happy: I am leaning so far out of

window to welcome the dawn, I seem to be tempting a fall--heaven itself

to fall upon me.

What do I know truly, who only know so much happiness?

Dearest, if there is anything else in love which I do not know, teach it

me quickly: I am utterly yours. If there is sorrow to give, give it me!

Only let me have with it the consciousness of your love.




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