“This morning I vowed it, my own dearest, dearest Pierre
I feel stronger to-day; for to-day I have still more thought of
thine own superhuman, angelical strength; which so, has a
very little been transferred to me. Oh, Pierre, Pierre, with
what words shall I write thee now;—now, when still knowing
nothing, yet something of thy secret I, as a seer, suspect.
Grief,—deep, unspeakable grief, hath made me this seer. I
could murder myself, Pierre, when I think of my previous
blindness; but that only came from my swoon. It was horrible
and most murdersome; but now I see thou wert right in
being so instantaneous with me, and in never afterward writing
to me, Pierre; yes, now I see it, and adore thee the more.
“Ah! thou too noble and angelical Pierre, now I feel that a
being like thee, can possibly have no love as other men love;
but thou lovest as angels do; not for thyself, but wholly for
others. But still are we one, Pierre; thou art sacrificing thyself,
and I hasten to re-tie myself to thee, that so I may catch
thy fire, and all the ardent multitudinous arms of our common
flames may embrace. I will ask of thee nothing, Pierre; thou
shalt tell me no secret. Very right wert thou, Pierre, when, in
that ride to the hills, thou wouldst not swear the fond, foolish
oath I demanded. Very right, very right; now I see it.
“If then I solemnly vow, never to seek from thee any slightest
thing which thou wouldst not willingly have me know; if ever
I, in all outward actions, shall recognize, just as thou dost, the
peculiar position of that mysterious, and ever-sacred being;—
then, may I not come and live with thee? I will be no encumbrance
to thee. I know just where thou art, and how thou art
living; and only just there, Pierre, and only just so, is any further
life endurable, or possible for me. She will never know—
for thus far I am sure thou thyself hast never disclosed it to her
what I once was to thee. Let it seem, as though I were some
nun-like cousin immovably vowed to dwell with thee in thy
strange exile. Show not to me,—never show more any visible
conscious token of love. I will never to thee. Our mortal lives,
oh, my heavenly Pierre, shall henceforth be one mute wooing
of each other; with no declaration; no bridal; till we meet in
the pure realms of God's final blessedness for us;—till we
meet where the ever-interrupting and ever-marring world can
not and shall not come; where all thy hidden, glorious unselfishness
shall be gloriously revealed in the full splendor of that
heavenly light; where, no more forced to these cruelest disguises,
she,
she too shall assume her own glorious place, nor
take it hard, but rather feel the more blessed, when, there, thy
sweet heart, shall be openly and unreservedly mine. Pierre,
Pierre, my Pierre!—only this thought, this hope, this sublime
faith now supports me. Well was it, that the swoon, in which
thou didst leave me, that long eternity ago—well was it, dear
Pierre, that though I came out of it to stare and grope, yet it
was only to stare and grope, and then I swooned again, and then
groped again, and then again swooned. But all this was vacancy;
little I clutched; nothing I knew; 'twas less than a dream, my
Pierre, I had no conscious thought of thee, love; but felt an
utter blank, a vacancy;—for wert thou not then utterly gone
from me? and what could there then be left of poor Lucy?—
But now, this long, long swoon is past; I come out again into
life and light; but how could I come out, how could I any way
be, my Pierre, if not in thee? So the moment I came out of the
long, long swoon, straightway came to me the immortal faith in
thee, which though it could offer no one slightest possible argument
of mere sense in thy behalf, yet was it only the more
mysteriously imperative for that, my Pierre. Know then, dearest
Pierre, that with every most glaring earthly reason to disbelieve
in thy love; I do yet wholly give myself up to the unshakable
belief in it. For I feel, that always is love love, and can not
know change, Pierre; I feel that heaven hath called me to a
wonderful office toward thee. By throwing me into that long,
long swoon,—during which, Martha tells me, I hardly ate altogether,
three ordinary meals,—by that, heaven, I feel now, was
preparing me for the superhuman office I speak of; was wholly
estranging me from this earth, even while I yet lingered in it;
was fitting me for a celestial mission in terrestrial elements.
Oh, give to me of thine own dear strength! I am but a poor
weak girl, dear Pierre; one that didst once love thee but too
fondly, and with earthly frailty. But now I shall be wafted far
upward from that; shall soar up to thee, where thou sittest in
thine own calm, sublime heaven of heroism.
“Oh seek not to dissuade me, Pierre. Wouldst thou slay
me, and slay me a million times more? and never have done
with murdering me? I must come! I must come! God himself
can not stay me, for it is He that commands me.—I know
all that will follow my flight to thee;—my amazed mother, my
enraged brothers, the whole taunting and despising world.—
But thou art my mother and my brothers, and all the world,
and all heaven, and all the universe to me—thou art my Pierre.
One only being does this soul in me serve—and that is thee,
Pierre.—So I am coming to thee, Pierre, and quickly;—to-morrow
it shall be, and never more will I quit thee, Pierre.
Speak thou immediately to her about me; thou shalt know
best what to say. Is there not some connection between our
families, Pierre? I have heard my mother sometimes trace
such a thing out,—some indirect cousinship. If thou approvest,
then, thou shalt say to her, I am thy cousin, Pierre;—thy resolved
and immovable nun-like cousin; vowed to dwell with
thee forever; to serve thee and her, to guard thee and her
without end. Prepare some little corner for me somewhere;
but let it be very near. Ere I come, I shall send a few little
things,—the tools I shall work by, Pierre, and so contribute to
the welfare of all. Look for me then. I am coming! I am
coming, my Pierre; for a deep, deep voice assures me, that all
noble as thou art, Pierre, some terrible jeopardy involves thee,
which my continual presence only can drive away. I am
coming! I am coming!”
