I find no answer to that.
It never was what I thought love meant, what they tell you it means.
But if love can mean sinking yourself in another person, living in
and through him, meaning him when you say life, then I did love him.
At any rate, whatever it was, there it is. Yet I'm not very unhappy.
I have a feeling--it will seem strange to you, like all my
feelings--that I have had a great share in something great, that
without me he wouldn't have been what he was, that I gave as well as
took, and brought my part into the common stock. We did odd things,
he and I in our partnership, things never to be told. My poor cheeks
burn still, and you remember that I cried. But we did great things
too, he and I, and at the end we were for a little while together in
heart. It wouldn't have lasted? Perhaps not. As it was it lasted
long enough--till 'it came', as he said, and he died asking me to
tell him that he had spoken well. I'm very glad he knew that I
thought he had spoken well.
So out of this rambling letter comes the end of it.
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