October 12, 1891.
This book has been my companion through some very strange, sad,
terrible, and joyful hours; my faithful companion, my silent
friend, my true confessor. I have felt the need of utterance, the
imperative instinct--the most primitive, the most childish of
instincts--to tell my pains and hopes and dreams. I could not utter
them, at the time, to another. I could not let the voice of my
groaning reach the ears of any human being. Perhaps it would have
been better for us both, if I could have said it all to my dearest
Maud. But a sort of courtesy forbade my redoubling my monotonous
lamentations; her burden was heavy enough without that. I can
hardly dignify it with the name of manliness or chivalry, because
my frame of mind during those first months, when I lost the power
of writing, was purely despicable; and then, too, I did not want
sympathy; I wanted help; and help no one but God could give me;
half my time was spent in a kind of dumb prayer to Him, that He
would give me some sort of strength, some touch of courage; for a
helpless cowardice was the note of my frame of mind. Well, He has
sent me strength--I recognise that now--not by lightening the load,
but by making it insupportably heavy and yet showing me that I had
the strength to carry it; I am still in the dark as to why I
deserved so sore a punishment, and I cannot yet see that the
loneliness to which He has condemned me is the help that is
proportioned to my need.
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