Edith to Stuart
08.11.17
My Belovéd,
It is time to write to you once again. The days slip by so quickly, that no sooner is it morning, than the evening comes close upon it, and then it is morning again. This term is simply rushing by. Do you remember that I told you, the day before we started school, when we were on the river, that I was already looking forward to the Christmas holidays? That seemed like looking years ahead, then. But, now, the sixteen weeks are passing like a flash. Why? – You. Before we found each other, the hours in school seemed interminable, and I used to come home, really tired out, to drag through a long evening of preparation for the next day, which I knew would be as big a failure as the last. Then to bed, often to do what you used to do, cry myself to sleep, because I was so sick of it all. Can you imagine me doing that? I know a good many folks who would not believe it. But I have not had a real cry now for months, not since before the summer holidays, on a certain night when ___ no, I shall not tell you when, and you would never guess. Never mind, I think women are the silliest creatures on the earth. Now, instead of looking forward to a time five years distant, when I shall be able to leave school, and look forward, not more than one day, to the time when I’ll be with you next. And I believe that is what makes the days fly past so quickly. Of course, I look forward as well to that other time. I wonder if you have any definite ideas about that time. I used to have, before I heard from you yourself your hopes of being ordained. Then I imagined you still at the Press[1], and living in the same little house. But now, I can’t quite picture what it will be like, but I know it will be --- just right.
Now, I am afraid this is a very selfish note, all about myself. But I must not stop to write more, now. So, Good-night, My Belovéd, and – Good-bye.
[1] The Oxford University Press
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
Tuesday, 29 September 2009
6 November 1917 Edith to Stuart - Letter #20
Edith to Stuart
6.11.17
My Belovéd,
You must be content with a very short note tonight. I seem to have made a failure of my attempts at writing lately, especially last Thursday. What a terrible shock you must have had when you read all that stuff! And don’t ever say again that your “power of expression is not so great as your power of thought”, because I do not seem to have any power of expression at all, or, at least, I have the power of expression just the opposite of what I want to. I did not mean a bit what you thought I did, but I shall not try to explain, because I should only get into a great muddle still. I will just say this, though; - that your answers show that you think almost as I do on the subject, and there I will let it rest.
Your three “wonders whether” were partly correct. I do love an Ideal, but the Ideal is You. Haven’t I sent you a little bit out of a book about the ideal people we love. I believe that there is an Ideal to which every person may attain, but it just depends on themselves whether they attain it, or just muddle on as common clay. But I am getting deep again, and shall make another great blunder, so I’ll stop.
I am truly sorry that last night’s note hurt you, and, if it would do any good, I would recall every word I wrote. But you have read it now, so it is too late. Please forgive me, Dearest, for my thoughtlessness. I seem to betting worse instead of better.
I told you why I wrote all that last night, and now, it seems a most unlikely reason. But for the same reason, because I love you, I am not going to write any more to-night, except a tiny poetry piece.
So, Goodnight, my Dearest, and Goodbye, until the morning.
Is your place a small place?
Tend it with care! ---
He set you there.
Is you place a large place?
Guard it with care! ---
He set you there.
Whate’er your place, it is
Not yours alone, but His
Who set you there.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
6.11.17
My Belovéd,
You must be content with a very short note tonight. I seem to have made a failure of my attempts at writing lately, especially last Thursday. What a terrible shock you must have had when you read all that stuff! And don’t ever say again that your “power of expression is not so great as your power of thought”, because I do not seem to have any power of expression at all, or, at least, I have the power of expression just the opposite of what I want to. I did not mean a bit what you thought I did, but I shall not try to explain, because I should only get into a great muddle still. I will just say this, though; - that your answers show that you think almost as I do on the subject, and there I will let it rest.
Your three “wonders whether” were partly correct. I do love an Ideal, but the Ideal is You. Haven’t I sent you a little bit out of a book about the ideal people we love. I believe that there is an Ideal to which every person may attain, but it just depends on themselves whether they attain it, or just muddle on as common clay. But I am getting deep again, and shall make another great blunder, so I’ll stop.
I am truly sorry that last night’s note hurt you, and, if it would do any good, I would recall every word I wrote. But you have read it now, so it is too late. Please forgive me, Dearest, for my thoughtlessness. I seem to betting worse instead of better.
I told you why I wrote all that last night, and now, it seems a most unlikely reason. But for the same reason, because I love you, I am not going to write any more to-night, except a tiny poetry piece.
So, Goodnight, my Dearest, and Goodbye, until the morning.
Is your place a small place?
Tend it with care! ---
He set you there.
Is you place a large place?
Guard it with care! ---
He set you there.
Whate’er your place, it is
Not yours alone, but His
Who set you there.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Monday, 28 September 2009
5 November 1917 Stuart to Edith- Letter #19
Stuart to Edith
Nov. 5 1917
Dearest and Best Belovéd,
I wrote a short note this morning but as I did not see you I thought it best to keep it; was I right?
I had thought over your last note and although I cannot pretend that this is a carefully considered or adequate answer , yet a few of my own thoughts will, I hope do no harm.
There are few to whom I would write on such a subject, but I think you will not allow anything I say to hurt you nor will you think I am setting up my opinion above others.
I was not able to follow your argument very clearly, but it seemed to me that you were trying to show that if a person is possessed of free will, he cannot live a life in accordance with the will of God. If that is what your idea was, I cannot agree with it at all, for I do not see that the two things are inconsistent.
It is admitted that we are all endowed with free will, but if a person chooses to do what he believes to be God’s will, I do not see that the power of free will is lessened. A choice has always to be made, between good and evil, duty and selfishness, and because a person deliberately chooses the right, I think it shows that he exercises his free will.
Perhaps I have not made it plain, you know my “power of thought is greater than my power of expression” but perhaps we may soon feel that we can talk freely on such subjects. I hope it may be so, for if I am ordained, I expect I shall often need your help; I look to you as my help mate in the work to which I hope to give what is left of my life, just in the same way as I hope to be able to help you, so that each may help to make up the wants of the other.
Ideal? I have always aimed at the ideal; there is no need for me to say – and often, generally failed. It may be possible the reason why to some extent I have not succeeded here at home as I should have like; I have perhaps aimed too high. But, Belovéd, I have aimed at the highest, that I might reach high.
I look forward and hope our life will be ideal, and that in whatever position we may be, we shall be happy: you have made me happier than you know, you have been several times the power which has held me to my duty.
This has been written in two parts and since writing the former, I have read last night’s note from you, but I have not yet carefully pondered it. It is good and kind of you to give me so much thought and I hope I may be worthy of all this attention. Among the thoughts which have passed through my mind since reading it, are, whether you love an ideal (and not me really), whether you hope I shall reach that ideal of yours, and whether you will find eventually I am but clay.
My dearest, you hurt ‘tis true, but I am glad you did, I am glad you had the pluck to write as you did and I will try to do what I can to follow out your ideas. We come back to the old point, don’t we? that the cause of what I consider my failure at home is myself, and the things I have neglected. Belovéd, I will try to be more thoughtful and considerate; please always keep me up to the mark, help me to reach the ideal you want me to attain.
Good bye, Dearest, one more day gone, goodbye, Belovéd, and good night.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Nov. 5 1917
Dearest and Best Belovéd,
I wrote a short note this morning but as I did not see you I thought it best to keep it; was I right?
I had thought over your last note and although I cannot pretend that this is a carefully considered or adequate answer , yet a few of my own thoughts will, I hope do no harm.
There are few to whom I would write on such a subject, but I think you will not allow anything I say to hurt you nor will you think I am setting up my opinion above others.
I was not able to follow your argument very clearly, but it seemed to me that you were trying to show that if a person is possessed of free will, he cannot live a life in accordance with the will of God. If that is what your idea was, I cannot agree with it at all, for I do not see that the two things are inconsistent.
It is admitted that we are all endowed with free will, but if a person chooses to do what he believes to be God’s will, I do not see that the power of free will is lessened. A choice has always to be made, between good and evil, duty and selfishness, and because a person deliberately chooses the right, I think it shows that he exercises his free will.
Perhaps I have not made it plain, you know my “power of thought is greater than my power of expression” but perhaps we may soon feel that we can talk freely on such subjects. I hope it may be so, for if I am ordained, I expect I shall often need your help; I look to you as my help mate in the work to which I hope to give what is left of my life, just in the same way as I hope to be able to help you, so that each may help to make up the wants of the other.
Ideal? I have always aimed at the ideal; there is no need for me to say – and often, generally failed. It may be possible the reason why to some extent I have not succeeded here at home as I should have like; I have perhaps aimed too high. But, Belovéd, I have aimed at the highest, that I might reach high.
I look forward and hope our life will be ideal, and that in whatever position we may be, we shall be happy: you have made me happier than you know, you have been several times the power which has held me to my duty.
This has been written in two parts and since writing the former, I have read last night’s note from you, but I have not yet carefully pondered it. It is good and kind of you to give me so much thought and I hope I may be worthy of all this attention. Among the thoughts which have passed through my mind since reading it, are, whether you love an ideal (and not me really), whether you hope I shall reach that ideal of yours, and whether you will find eventually I am but clay.
My dearest, you hurt ‘tis true, but I am glad you did, I am glad you had the pluck to write as you did and I will try to do what I can to follow out your ideas. We come back to the old point, don’t we? that the cause of what I consider my failure at home is myself, and the things I have neglected. Belovéd, I will try to be more thoughtful and considerate; please always keep me up to the mark, help me to reach the ideal you want me to attain.
Good bye, Dearest, one more day gone, goodbye, Belovéd, and good night.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Saturday, 26 September 2009
5 November 1917 Stuart to Edith - Letter #18
Stuart to Edith
Nov. 5 1917
My Belovéd,
I fear I have not prepared an answer to your last note, although I have been thinking very much about it. I do not quite follow your argument or line of thought, but it seems to me that you are seeking to point out that since we are endowed with free will, it follows that our will cannot be in accordance with the will of God.
I must admit I was not convinced. My thoughts ran something like this – We admit a person has free will, but if he chooses to serve God and to seek to do His will and pleasure, I do not think he loses his free will. Nor is it so with regard to any of the everyday things of life, he simply says that “in all these I choose to do what You would have me do” and he does it willingly. He has made a choice, willingly, and he has always to make the choice, between good and evil, duty and selfishness, and he chooses the good and wishes to do the right, but I do not think his free will is lessened.
Nor does it seem to me so in the case when we ask God to choose friends, position; we wish not to make the choice without His approval and so ask for His guidance; we need not have done so and therefore I think we can say it is done of our free-will.
I may not have made myself clear, because I have written hurriedly; one day perhaps we shall be able to discuss these things.
I can think of nothing nice to say this morning; it is all just “I love you, I love you”. I told you once and it is still true, that I was afraid of loving too much; I am afraid I shall neglect my duty to these at home, and to others.
What your father[1] says is so true, it grows and grows rapidly; I wonder where it will reach in the end.
I must say Good-bye, but not without writing “I love you” again, everyday there comes to me the thought you suggested – One day less to wait till Goodnight will not be Goodbye.
Good bye, Belovéd, Goodbye, Goodbye.
[1] Charles Henry Brown, 29 May 1858 to 24 August 1946 (Edith's father, Sheriff of Oxford 1923, Mayor of Oxford 1932)
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Nov. 5 1917
My Belovéd,
I fear I have not prepared an answer to your last note, although I have been thinking very much about it. I do not quite follow your argument or line of thought, but it seems to me that you are seeking to point out that since we are endowed with free will, it follows that our will cannot be in accordance with the will of God.
I must admit I was not convinced. My thoughts ran something like this – We admit a person has free will, but if he chooses to serve God and to seek to do His will and pleasure, I do not think he loses his free will. Nor is it so with regard to any of the everyday things of life, he simply says that “in all these I choose to do what You would have me do” and he does it willingly. He has made a choice, willingly, and he has always to make the choice, between good and evil, duty and selfishness, and he chooses the good and wishes to do the right, but I do not think his free will is lessened.
Nor does it seem to me so in the case when we ask God to choose friends, position; we wish not to make the choice without His approval and so ask for His guidance; we need not have done so and therefore I think we can say it is done of our free-will.
I may not have made myself clear, because I have written hurriedly; one day perhaps we shall be able to discuss these things.
I can think of nothing nice to say this morning; it is all just “I love you, I love you”. I told you once and it is still true, that I was afraid of loving too much; I am afraid I shall neglect my duty to these at home, and to others.
What your father[1] says is so true, it grows and grows rapidly; I wonder where it will reach in the end.
I must say Good-bye, but not without writing “I love you” again, everyday there comes to me the thought you suggested – One day less to wait till Goodnight will not be Goodbye.
Good bye, Belovéd, Goodbye, Goodbye.
[1] Charles Henry Brown, 29 May 1858 to 24 August 1946 (Edith's father, Sheriff of Oxford 1923, Mayor of Oxford 1932)
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Friday, 25 September 2009
5 November 1917 Edith to Stuart - Letter #17
Edith to Stuart
5.11.17
My Belovéd,
You have been very much in my thoughts this week-end – partly, I suppose, because I have had so much time in which to think. I have been wondering whether it is wise to write as I am going to, but, after all, it is not of much use for me to think about you, and your difficulties, if I do not let you know some of the results of my meditation.
First and foremost, comes the question of your own personal happiness. I know you are not happy, not perfectly happy, are you, my dearest? There is none, or, at most, very little, of the “wild joy of living” in you. I can see this in many ways, even in the way in which you walk along the street and (may I make a confession?), I have been just a wee bit disappointed because I have not been able to make you happy, as other men have been made happy. I have been trying, and shall still try, to find the cause of my failure, and you may be sure that it will not exist for long, once I have found it. But, meanwhile, is it not possible that the ordinary happiness of men may be yours? All that you say about being a failure is untrue, and if you think about it, you will find that it is so. You admit yourself that you have succeeded in your business. You have kept together a home for Gladys and the boys, when many older men have been unable to keep things going. You have given Corrie and Reg as good a start in life as any boys have had. And yet you say you are a failure. Of course, your work is not perfect, because no man’s is, and listen to this:-
“Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what’s a Heaven for?”
I wonder if you think too much about yourself. I do not mean in a selfish way, but rather in the sense of brooding over things you have done in the past, or might have done in the future, had circumstances been different. You have a good deal of time for such thoughts on your journeys to and from your work, and at other times. Now, if this is the case, will you just try this plan for a little while, and see how it acts? Whenever you begin to think about yourself, say, “No, I won’t”, and push those thoughts out of your mind. Then, begin at once to think about something else. May I suggest what? Just think about the last person you were with, and all that took place between you. Find out if there was any thing, no matter how small, which you might have done for that person, which you did not do, and make up your mind that, should such an opportunity occur again, you will not let it pass by. I do not advise this because I think you are lax in this respect, for I know (how often you have proved it to me) how much you consider other people, and are willing to help them. But as soon as you get your mind full of thoughts of others, there will be no room for those despondent thoughts about yourself, and you will be much happier.
How are you taking all this Dearest? Am I presuming too much? If I am, please, in kindness to me, do not read any further, but, if you are the least bit displeased, put this letter in the fire at once. If not, I can go on to say a little about Gladys. I do not know her very well, in fact, scarcely at all, so that I may be quite wrong in what I think about her. I must leave you to judge. You told me once that no-one had kissed you since your Mother died. Could Gladys say the same thing? Or could she say that neither of her brothers kiss her? I have been trying, Dearest, to imagine myself in Gladys’s place, and the more I think about her, the more I want to put my arms round her, and – cry over her. You see, I can understand better than you can what she has missed in love and companionship all these years. You have found it hard that you have had no one to love and care for you, and you are a man. How much harder must it be for a woman, to whom life, if it is worth anything, means love? I think, perhaps, you might have been a great comfort to one another, if only you had understood each other a little more. I see that you do not yet understand the working of woman’s mind. You remember our walk last Sunday week, when you waited for me to ask for something. I did not ask, and I did not receive. But the whole walk was one big longing, which prevented me from talking to you, (really talking, I mean,) and from enjoying the walk. In fact I was relieved to get home, although very much disappointed. Yet, you will say, it was such a little thing, and mine for the asking. Yes, but the things which seem small to a man, are very, very big to a woman, and the more earnestly she wants them, the more impossible is it for her to ask for them. Am I right, Dearest, in thinking that some such thing has happened between you and Gladys? Did you, right back in the beginning find that the responsibility thrown upon you was so heavy, that you had neither time nor spirit to keep up the little signs of affection between you and Gladys? Did you wait for her to make the advances, thinking that, when your long day’s work was finished, no more should be expected of you? I have shown you, that the more Gladys needed your love and not only your love, but the outward signs of it, the less likely would she be to show her need. So, Dearest, why not begin, at once, to establish between you those affectionate relations which should be between brother and sister. I do not mean that you should fall on her neck and kiss her; she would probably think you had taken leave of your senses if you did. But watch her carefully, and do for her any little thing which will save her trouble. Never let her go upstairs to fetch anything, if you can fetch it for her, and I am sure she will be grateful to you. Men do not know what a journey upstairs sometimes means to a woman who is not feeling exactly fit. You will find many little things you can do if you keep a good look-out for them, and sometimes, very occasionally take her some little thing just for herself, a special cake, or a bit of something in the chocolate line, even if this means you must let the plate go past you on Sunday – your money will have been put to a much better use. So, Dearest, let her see that you really love her, by the little things which you do for her, (and they are the most important,) and see if matters do not improve between you.
Now I really must stop, for I am afraid, even now, that you won’t find this tonight. Good-night, my Dearest, Good-night, and don’t be angry with me, for I would not have written all this if I had not loved you very, very much – Good-night.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
5.11.17
My Belovéd,
You have been very much in my thoughts this week-end – partly, I suppose, because I have had so much time in which to think. I have been wondering whether it is wise to write as I am going to, but, after all, it is not of much use for me to think about you, and your difficulties, if I do not let you know some of the results of my meditation.
First and foremost, comes the question of your own personal happiness. I know you are not happy, not perfectly happy, are you, my dearest? There is none, or, at most, very little, of the “wild joy of living” in you. I can see this in many ways, even in the way in which you walk along the street and (may I make a confession?), I have been just a wee bit disappointed because I have not been able to make you happy, as other men have been made happy. I have been trying, and shall still try, to find the cause of my failure, and you may be sure that it will not exist for long, once I have found it. But, meanwhile, is it not possible that the ordinary happiness of men may be yours? All that you say about being a failure is untrue, and if you think about it, you will find that it is so. You admit yourself that you have succeeded in your business. You have kept together a home for Gladys and the boys, when many older men have been unable to keep things going. You have given Corrie and Reg as good a start in life as any boys have had. And yet you say you are a failure. Of course, your work is not perfect, because no man’s is, and listen to this:-
“Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what’s a Heaven for?”
I wonder if you think too much about yourself. I do not mean in a selfish way, but rather in the sense of brooding over things you have done in the past, or might have done in the future, had circumstances been different. You have a good deal of time for such thoughts on your journeys to and from your work, and at other times. Now, if this is the case, will you just try this plan for a little while, and see how it acts? Whenever you begin to think about yourself, say, “No, I won’t”, and push those thoughts out of your mind. Then, begin at once to think about something else. May I suggest what? Just think about the last person you were with, and all that took place between you. Find out if there was any thing, no matter how small, which you might have done for that person, which you did not do, and make up your mind that, should such an opportunity occur again, you will not let it pass by. I do not advise this because I think you are lax in this respect, for I know (how often you have proved it to me) how much you consider other people, and are willing to help them. But as soon as you get your mind full of thoughts of others, there will be no room for those despondent thoughts about yourself, and you will be much happier.
How are you taking all this Dearest? Am I presuming too much? If I am, please, in kindness to me, do not read any further, but, if you are the least bit displeased, put this letter in the fire at once. If not, I can go on to say a little about Gladys. I do not know her very well, in fact, scarcely at all, so that I may be quite wrong in what I think about her. I must leave you to judge. You told me once that no-one had kissed you since your Mother died. Could Gladys say the same thing? Or could she say that neither of her brothers kiss her? I have been trying, Dearest, to imagine myself in Gladys’s place, and the more I think about her, the more I want to put my arms round her, and – cry over her. You see, I can understand better than you can what she has missed in love and companionship all these years. You have found it hard that you have had no one to love and care for you, and you are a man. How much harder must it be for a woman, to whom life, if it is worth anything, means love? I think, perhaps, you might have been a great comfort to one another, if only you had understood each other a little more. I see that you do not yet understand the working of woman’s mind. You remember our walk last Sunday week, when you waited for me to ask for something. I did not ask, and I did not receive. But the whole walk was one big longing, which prevented me from talking to you, (really talking, I mean,) and from enjoying the walk. In fact I was relieved to get home, although very much disappointed. Yet, you will say, it was such a little thing, and mine for the asking. Yes, but the things which seem small to a man, are very, very big to a woman, and the more earnestly she wants them, the more impossible is it for her to ask for them. Am I right, Dearest, in thinking that some such thing has happened between you and Gladys? Did you, right back in the beginning find that the responsibility thrown upon you was so heavy, that you had neither time nor spirit to keep up the little signs of affection between you and Gladys? Did you wait for her to make the advances, thinking that, when your long day’s work was finished, no more should be expected of you? I have shown you, that the more Gladys needed your love and not only your love, but the outward signs of it, the less likely would she be to show her need. So, Dearest, why not begin, at once, to establish between you those affectionate relations which should be between brother and sister. I do not mean that you should fall on her neck and kiss her; she would probably think you had taken leave of your senses if you did. But watch her carefully, and do for her any little thing which will save her trouble. Never let her go upstairs to fetch anything, if you can fetch it for her, and I am sure she will be grateful to you. Men do not know what a journey upstairs sometimes means to a woman who is not feeling exactly fit. You will find many little things you can do if you keep a good look-out for them, and sometimes, very occasionally take her some little thing just for herself, a special cake, or a bit of something in the chocolate line, even if this means you must let the plate go past you on Sunday – your money will have been put to a much better use. So, Dearest, let her see that you really love her, by the little things which you do for her, (and they are the most important,) and see if matters do not improve between you.
Now I really must stop, for I am afraid, even now, that you won’t find this tonight. Good-night, my Dearest, Good-night, and don’t be angry with me, for I would not have written all this if I had not loved you very, very much – Good-night.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Thursday, 24 September 2009
1 November 1917 Edith to Stuart - Letter #16
Edith to Stuart
1.11.17
My Dearest,
You make a mistake when you think that I always want to do what it is right I should do, I generally do what I want to do, but very often it would be much better, if I did not. However, there is an ideal time to which I look forward, when God’s will, and our wills, will be one and the same. This ideal, like all others, will never be attained in this life, but – it will come, and meanwhile, we can strive to get nearer and nearer, until at last our struggles cease, and we reach the desired country. To me, all that we hear about “giving up our wills” and so forth, seems mere cant. To all of us God gave a free-will, and I am sure He intended us to use it. People blame those men who take their own lives, saying “God gave the life, and we should wait until He takes it away”. Yet the same people will commit mental suicide, or rather, try to, and think it a very pious action. On the contrary, they are only making more enemies than they need, for instead of making an ally of the free-will God has given, they are continually struggling to get rid of it. Whenever we have a certain hymn in Church, (you know the one I mean) I always want to tell the people to stop singing for there is a far better way to Heaven that that. However, I expect this is all wrong, and most probably you, who have read ore, and thought more, than I have, can prove to me that it is so. I can only think of one sentence in the Bible that can be said to give any proof, and that was said in such circumstances as no man will ever be placed in. Dearest, I hope this won’t frighten you, but if I do not let you know what is inside me, how can you ever start to get it our? This is more “preachy stuff”, and I am afraid you will be even more disappointed with tonight’s scribble than you were last night. Oh, my Dearest, I wish I could write the most beautiful things for you, but, as I cannot, I am afraid you must be content with this.
And so, Goodnight, my Dearest, We are on day nearer the time when “Goodnight” will not be “Goodbye”.
Good-night, Belovéd, Good-night.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
1.11.17
My Dearest,
You make a mistake when you think that I always want to do what it is right I should do, I generally do what I want to do, but very often it would be much better, if I did not. However, there is an ideal time to which I look forward, when God’s will, and our wills, will be one and the same. This ideal, like all others, will never be attained in this life, but – it will come, and meanwhile, we can strive to get nearer and nearer, until at last our struggles cease, and we reach the desired country. To me, all that we hear about “giving up our wills” and so forth, seems mere cant. To all of us God gave a free-will, and I am sure He intended us to use it. People blame those men who take their own lives, saying “God gave the life, and we should wait until He takes it away”. Yet the same people will commit mental suicide, or rather, try to, and think it a very pious action. On the contrary, they are only making more enemies than they need, for instead of making an ally of the free-will God has given, they are continually struggling to get rid of it. Whenever we have a certain hymn in Church, (you know the one I mean) I always want to tell the people to stop singing for there is a far better way to Heaven that that. However, I expect this is all wrong, and most probably you, who have read ore, and thought more, than I have, can prove to me that it is so. I can only think of one sentence in the Bible that can be said to give any proof, and that was said in such circumstances as no man will ever be placed in. Dearest, I hope this won’t frighten you, but if I do not let you know what is inside me, how can you ever start to get it our? This is more “preachy stuff”, and I am afraid you will be even more disappointed with tonight’s scribble than you were last night. Oh, my Dearest, I wish I could write the most beautiful things for you, but, as I cannot, I am afraid you must be content with this.
And so, Goodnight, my Dearest, We are on day nearer the time when “Goodnight” will not be “Goodbye”.
Good-night, Belovéd, Good-night.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
1 November 1917 Stuart to Edith - Letter #15
Stuart to Edith
Nov. 1 1917
My Belovéd,
I fear I cannot write very much this morning as time is very short. I must, however, thank you for all that you said in Tuesday’s note; I feel fairly certain that what you advise is best and will do what I can to follow along those lines.
I am very glad the suggestion of “deep” talks was pleasing to you. We will get on to them shortly, only when I am with you I m not always in the mood. I just feel happy, too happy to talk very much and what I do say is generally very light, is it not? We shall, however, get over that I expect and one of these days I will set “the ball rolling”.
There are so many subjects on which I should like advice that I fear I may overwhelm you when I do start, but if I do, you have only to say and if you can offer little in the shape of advice, I know that I have always your love and sympathy to help me.
I could not help thinking after I had got home last night, of that time to which we refer sometimes, when we shall be together; it seemed to me too good to realize, such happiness as I imagine it seems almost too great, it overwhelms me, and I went to sleep thinking of it.
The thoughts, however, cheer me on, I work now with a definite end in view and I think I am more cheerful than formerly.
I must leave off. This is not so nice as it might be, I expect because it is hurried, but you know I am always thinking of you and loving you.
Goodbye, my Best Belovéd, Goodbye, may you be happy and joyful, may we always be a help and comfort to one another.
Once more, Goodbye, my Love, Goodbye.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Nov. 1 1917
My Belovéd,
I fear I cannot write very much this morning as time is very short. I must, however, thank you for all that you said in Tuesday’s note; I feel fairly certain that what you advise is best and will do what I can to follow along those lines.
I am very glad the suggestion of “deep” talks was pleasing to you. We will get on to them shortly, only when I am with you I m not always in the mood. I just feel happy, too happy to talk very much and what I do say is generally very light, is it not? We shall, however, get over that I expect and one of these days I will set “the ball rolling”.
There are so many subjects on which I should like advice that I fear I may overwhelm you when I do start, but if I do, you have only to say and if you can offer little in the shape of advice, I know that I have always your love and sympathy to help me.
I could not help thinking after I had got home last night, of that time to which we refer sometimes, when we shall be together; it seemed to me too good to realize, such happiness as I imagine it seems almost too great, it overwhelms me, and I went to sleep thinking of it.
The thoughts, however, cheer me on, I work now with a definite end in view and I think I am more cheerful than formerly.
I must leave off. This is not so nice as it might be, I expect because it is hurried, but you know I am always thinking of you and loving you.
Goodbye, my Best Belovéd, Goodbye, may you be happy and joyful, may we always be a help and comfort to one another.
Once more, Goodbye, my Love, Goodbye.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Tuesday, 22 September 2009
30 October 1917 Edith to Stuart - Letter #14
Edith to Stuart
30.10.17
My Belovéd
I have kept you waiting a long time for an answer to the note you gave me on Friday, but I have been thinking a great deal about what you wrote. I wish I could help you in your difficulty; in fact, it would please me more than anything else to know that you were quite happy at home. But I do not see what you can do to make things better. I think that what is wanted now is a little effort on the other side; for no matter how much you try to make yourself sociable, you will not succeed, unless the others are willing to respond, even a little bit. When you are at home you should be yourself, as much as possible. It is often necessary, during the day, when you are out among comparative strangers, to stifle your own feelings, and to act in ways contrary to your nature. But you must let all this drop when you get home, and just be yourself. You might think it would be for the good of the others if you kept up the deception at home, and pretended to be some-one who you are not. But I am sure this is not right, for the continual effort would only lead, in the end, to bad-temper, or ill-health, or something else. Your home is the place where you are to rest, to let yourself go, and nothing will go right unless you do get enough rest. I do not only mean sleep, but rest in other ways as well. Even suppose you succeed in your efforts, and are “sociable” enough to please Gladys and the boys, there will probably come a time when you cannot keep up the deception, either through ill-health, or some other trouble, then, when you want their help and comradeship more than at any time, they will fail you, because they will find out that it is not you they like, but the person you pretended to be. Do as much for Gladys and the boys as you can, show them that you are interested in what they do, and the things they like, in short, be a loving older brother to them, and then – “just leave the rest to Him”.
I am glad that you have suggested “deep talks”, because I feel, as you do, that they would be very helpful. Only, it’s difficult to lead up to them, isn’t it? But I expect you know the way, or, if you do not, they will come naturally very soon. I think of many things I should like to talk about, but when we are together, they all go.
Now, Good-night, Belovéd, I wish this were a better letter, because you deserve better, but, perhaps I’ll learn how to write them some day.
Goodnight, Belovéd, Goodnight.
All’s Well
Is the pathway dark and dreary?
God’s in His heaven!
Are you broken, heart-sick, weary?
God’s in His heaven!
Dreariest roads shall have an ending,
Broken hearts are for Gods, mending
All’s well! All’s well!
All’s ---well!
Is the burden past your bearing?
God’s in His heaven!
Hopeless! – Friendless? – No one caring?
God’s in His heaven!
Burdens shared are light to carry,
Love shall come, though long He tarry.
All’s well! All’s well!
All’s ---well!
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
30.10.17
My Belovéd
I have kept you waiting a long time for an answer to the note you gave me on Friday, but I have been thinking a great deal about what you wrote. I wish I could help you in your difficulty; in fact, it would please me more than anything else to know that you were quite happy at home. But I do not see what you can do to make things better. I think that what is wanted now is a little effort on the other side; for no matter how much you try to make yourself sociable, you will not succeed, unless the others are willing to respond, even a little bit. When you are at home you should be yourself, as much as possible. It is often necessary, during the day, when you are out among comparative strangers, to stifle your own feelings, and to act in ways contrary to your nature. But you must let all this drop when you get home, and just be yourself. You might think it would be for the good of the others if you kept up the deception at home, and pretended to be some-one who you are not. But I am sure this is not right, for the continual effort would only lead, in the end, to bad-temper, or ill-health, or something else. Your home is the place where you are to rest, to let yourself go, and nothing will go right unless you do get enough rest. I do not only mean sleep, but rest in other ways as well. Even suppose you succeed in your efforts, and are “sociable” enough to please Gladys and the boys, there will probably come a time when you cannot keep up the deception, either through ill-health, or some other trouble, then, when you want their help and comradeship more than at any time, they will fail you, because they will find out that it is not you they like, but the person you pretended to be. Do as much for Gladys and the boys as you can, show them that you are interested in what they do, and the things they like, in short, be a loving older brother to them, and then – “just leave the rest to Him”.
I am glad that you have suggested “deep talks”, because I feel, as you do, that they would be very helpful. Only, it’s difficult to lead up to them, isn’t it? But I expect you know the way, or, if you do not, they will come naturally very soon. I think of many things I should like to talk about, but when we are together, they all go.
Now, Good-night, Belovéd, I wish this were a better letter, because you deserve better, but, perhaps I’ll learn how to write them some day.
Goodnight, Belovéd, Goodnight.
All’s Well
Is the pathway dark and dreary?
God’s in His heaven!
Are you broken, heart-sick, weary?
God’s in His heaven!
Dreariest roads shall have an ending,
Broken hearts are for Gods, mending
All’s well! All’s well!
All’s ---well!
Is the burden past your bearing?
God’s in His heaven!
Hopeless! – Friendless? – No one caring?
God’s in His heaven!
Burdens shared are light to carry,
Love shall come, though long He tarry.
All’s well! All’s well!
All’s ---well!
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Monday, 21 September 2009
30 October 1917 Stuart to Edith - Letter #13
Stuart to Edith
Oct. 30 1917
Belovéd,
What an unexpected pleasure it was to see you last night! I was particularly glad because I had not been able to write any thing for your for last evening, and although I am not much of a writer, I am conceited enough to think that you like to have either me or a note.
What I shall write this morning I hardly know. Many thoughts come into my head during the day, but when they turn towards you everything else seems to fly away and all I think of is YOU (in very big capitals).
The unexpected pleasures that have come to me through you are manifold, each perhaps small in itself but very large in the bulk; they have helped to put a new joy in life, to give me fresh energy in my preparation for the future, to make me more confident of decisions which I often make with regard to my own conduct.
It will seem very strange to you, perhaps, for me to say that I have never before, I think, met any one who understands my point of view as you do.
Those to whom I have spoken in the past all seemed to advise what they thought was best for me personally, generally the easy thing. And their opinion seemed to me often the selfish one. I am so please to find you do not take this line, but advise what you think to be right. I candidly admit that more than once you frightened me when you said you always did what you wanted, but you opened my eyes and made me realize how high you had reached when you told me that it was your duty you wanted to do, and which though distasteful maybe at first, come to be pleasing.
I am afraid this is what you, in one of your notes, called “preachy stuff”. If you don’t like it, please forgive me; you know it was not written in that spirit, it is just an expression of a thought which ran through my head as I sat here writing and thinking of you.
I must say Good-bye now, as it is nearly time to meet you. Good-bye, be happy, (I am so pleased to think I have helped to make you happier), may our love never grow less, but increase and grow stronger until it is perfect, my Own, my Love.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Oct. 30 1917
Belovéd,
What an unexpected pleasure it was to see you last night! I was particularly glad because I had not been able to write any thing for your for last evening, and although I am not much of a writer, I am conceited enough to think that you like to have either me or a note.
What I shall write this morning I hardly know. Many thoughts come into my head during the day, but when they turn towards you everything else seems to fly away and all I think of is YOU (in very big capitals).
The unexpected pleasures that have come to me through you are manifold, each perhaps small in itself but very large in the bulk; they have helped to put a new joy in life, to give me fresh energy in my preparation for the future, to make me more confident of decisions which I often make with regard to my own conduct.
It will seem very strange to you, perhaps, for me to say that I have never before, I think, met any one who understands my point of view as you do.
Those to whom I have spoken in the past all seemed to advise what they thought was best for me personally, generally the easy thing. And their opinion seemed to me often the selfish one. I am so please to find you do not take this line, but advise what you think to be right. I candidly admit that more than once you frightened me when you said you always did what you wanted, but you opened my eyes and made me realize how high you had reached when you told me that it was your duty you wanted to do, and which though distasteful maybe at first, come to be pleasing.
I am afraid this is what you, in one of your notes, called “preachy stuff”. If you don’t like it, please forgive me; you know it was not written in that spirit, it is just an expression of a thought which ran through my head as I sat here writing and thinking of you.
I must say Good-bye now, as it is nearly time to meet you. Good-bye, be happy, (I am so pleased to think I have helped to make you happier), may our love never grow less, but increase and grow stronger until it is perfect, my Own, my Love.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Sunday, 20 September 2009
26 October 1917 Stuart to Edith - Letter #12
Stuart to Edith
Oct. 26 1917
Best Belovéd,
I think it is quite time you had another note from me, and although I hope to see you to-night, I will try to write one now before I get up.
I wish I could thank you sufficiently for all your kindness to me during the last fortnight, but I cannot; I wonder if you realize anything of what it has meant to me to see you so often, to think of you more often, to love you always.
Since I have been at home, I have been thinking very seriously about many things, and if you can, I want you to help me. I expect you have realized that my great difficulty is my family, not so much financially (although that is difficulty enough) but because I am not one of them.
My brother, with whom I have had some correspondence on the subject, suggests that it is largely caused by my own disposition and behaviour, that I am too austere, grim and stern, and that if I would unbend a little more, I should find an improvement. Corrie said a very similar thing yesterday, his words were “You have got your own sphere and you won’t budge out of it”.
Yet I do not quite see what to do. I told Harold[1] I would give his suggestion a trial, as I am extremely anxious that all here should be happy, but so far my efforts have failed. Wednesday night was a good example.
I came home to keep Gladys company as she was alone; I was unable to find an interesting topic of conversation, games were negatived, so I got out some books and wrote some letters, hoping that by talking now and again I should do right. The result was an absolute failure. Gladys said she had never spent a worse evening. Nor had she been so bored in her life.
Can you tell me why it is? Is it through any fault of my own, or is it that our dispositions and tastes are so entirely different, that they will not blend. Gladys tells me I can’t be sociable, and that when I try I become silly, with which statement the boys agreed. Corrie instancing my behaviour at Harpenden at Whitsun and Reggie[2] my behaviour in Bagley Wood when we went primrosing, when they both said they were “disgusted” with me.
You know me fairly well, I think; can you help me? Would it be better for me to try to be sociable or shall I be myself? It is a big and difficult problem, I know, Belovéd, and I don’t want you to worry yourself about it, but two heads are better than one very often, especially when the second head is in sympathy with the first.
This has been very very serious so far, my Belovéd, has it not? but I have not finished yet.
There is no need for me to say that you have been very much in my thoughts, and one particular thought has come to me very often. We love each other deeply, as truly and as purely as possible, we believe; but we do not yet know each other intimately. We are each, I think, reluctant (or we find it difficult, at least) to express our deepest and most real thoughts except on paper. I think I know the reason of this; that we are different from other people, and we have rarely found a person quite in sympathy with us, not even in our own families, that by degrees, we have hidden our deepest thoughts and it is now difficult to dig them up.
It seems to me that it would be a great joy and help if we, who hope to spend our lives together helping one another, could contrive to have deep talks together about things which one is apt to hide; such as religion, our own ideas of life, and - I expect you know what I mean.
Hasn’t this been serious? Not too much so, I hope; and I hope it will not hurt at all, my belovéd. I don’t think it will, but I fear I am somewhat of a blunderer and speak too bluntly at times. Whenever I hurt, please tell me and I will be more careful, for you know, my love, I would not hurt you one little bit, for I love you so much.
Now Goodbye, Best Belovéd, my Helper and Comforter, Good bye for a little while.
PSM
[1] Harold Christopher Mills, 7 January 1895 to 14 January 1974 (Stuart's brother)
[2] Reginald Leslie Mills, 13 December 1902 to (Stuart's brother)
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Oct. 26 1917
Best Belovéd,
I think it is quite time you had another note from me, and although I hope to see you to-night, I will try to write one now before I get up.
I wish I could thank you sufficiently for all your kindness to me during the last fortnight, but I cannot; I wonder if you realize anything of what it has meant to me to see you so often, to think of you more often, to love you always.
Since I have been at home, I have been thinking very seriously about many things, and if you can, I want you to help me. I expect you have realized that my great difficulty is my family, not so much financially (although that is difficulty enough) but because I am not one of them.
My brother, with whom I have had some correspondence on the subject, suggests that it is largely caused by my own disposition and behaviour, that I am too austere, grim and stern, and that if I would unbend a little more, I should find an improvement. Corrie said a very similar thing yesterday, his words were “You have got your own sphere and you won’t budge out of it”.
Yet I do not quite see what to do. I told Harold[1] I would give his suggestion a trial, as I am extremely anxious that all here should be happy, but so far my efforts have failed. Wednesday night was a good example.
I came home to keep Gladys company as she was alone; I was unable to find an interesting topic of conversation, games were negatived, so I got out some books and wrote some letters, hoping that by talking now and again I should do right. The result was an absolute failure. Gladys said she had never spent a worse evening. Nor had she been so bored in her life.
Can you tell me why it is? Is it through any fault of my own, or is it that our dispositions and tastes are so entirely different, that they will not blend. Gladys tells me I can’t be sociable, and that when I try I become silly, with which statement the boys agreed. Corrie instancing my behaviour at Harpenden at Whitsun and Reggie[2] my behaviour in Bagley Wood when we went primrosing, when they both said they were “disgusted” with me.
You know me fairly well, I think; can you help me? Would it be better for me to try to be sociable or shall I be myself? It is a big and difficult problem, I know, Belovéd, and I don’t want you to worry yourself about it, but two heads are better than one very often, especially when the second head is in sympathy with the first.
This has been very very serious so far, my Belovéd, has it not? but I have not finished yet.
There is no need for me to say that you have been very much in my thoughts, and one particular thought has come to me very often. We love each other deeply, as truly and as purely as possible, we believe; but we do not yet know each other intimately. We are each, I think, reluctant (or we find it difficult, at least) to express our deepest and most real thoughts except on paper. I think I know the reason of this; that we are different from other people, and we have rarely found a person quite in sympathy with us, not even in our own families, that by degrees, we have hidden our deepest thoughts and it is now difficult to dig them up.
It seems to me that it would be a great joy and help if we, who hope to spend our lives together helping one another, could contrive to have deep talks together about things which one is apt to hide; such as religion, our own ideas of life, and - I expect you know what I mean.
Hasn’t this been serious? Not too much so, I hope; and I hope it will not hurt at all, my belovéd. I don’t think it will, but I fear I am somewhat of a blunderer and speak too bluntly at times. Whenever I hurt, please tell me and I will be more careful, for you know, my love, I would not hurt you one little bit, for I love you so much.
Now Goodbye, Best Belovéd, my Helper and Comforter, Good bye for a little while.
PSM
[1] Harold Christopher Mills, 7 January 1895 to 14 January 1974 (Stuart's brother)
[2] Reginald Leslie Mills, 13 December 1902 to (Stuart's brother)
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Saturday, 19 September 2009
19 October 1917 Edith to Stuart - Letter #11
Edith to Stuart
19.10.17
My Dearest
You must have just a brief note this morning, because I want to thank you for – everything. You do not know what a difference you have made to me, or else you would not say that you do not see how you are to help me. You have given me something to look forward to at the end of the day, you have given me something to look forward to at the end of school-life, (not the little school-house, where I would live by myself) you have given me something beautiful, to think about always, you have given me an aim that I am continually striving to reach. More than all this, you have given me the most precious thing on earth, yourself. Dearest, I can never thank you for all this, but you know I would, don’t you?
I was speaking to Katie about what you wanted to give me last night, and she said that the red cover is on Gladys’s bed. If it is, Dearest, you must not take it off. I would very much like to have it, but not from her bed. I can have it at some other time, can’t I? I thank you for both things, and I hope you will never have them back again.
You asked me, Dearest, in your “bluey letter”, to pray for you. Now I’ll tell you something which will show you what a queer person I am. I have prayed for you regularly, two or three times a day, for at least three years. I have not known you all that time, but I knew that there was a Man, somewhere, and at times I wanted him very badly. Shall I tell you what I called him? I knew he would not be walking out with any other girl, so I called him, “The Man who walks by himself”. Now God has sent him to me, and his old name does not apply. Are you happy, Dearest?
Goodbye, My Belovéd, until this evening. Goodbye.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
19.10.17
My Dearest
You must have just a brief note this morning, because I want to thank you for – everything. You do not know what a difference you have made to me, or else you would not say that you do not see how you are to help me. You have given me something to look forward to at the end of the day, you have given me something to look forward to at the end of school-life, (not the little school-house, where I would live by myself) you have given me something beautiful, to think about always, you have given me an aim that I am continually striving to reach. More than all this, you have given me the most precious thing on earth, yourself. Dearest, I can never thank you for all this, but you know I would, don’t you?
I was speaking to Katie about what you wanted to give me last night, and she said that the red cover is on Gladys’s bed. If it is, Dearest, you must not take it off. I would very much like to have it, but not from her bed. I can have it at some other time, can’t I? I thank you for both things, and I hope you will never have them back again.
You asked me, Dearest, in your “bluey letter”, to pray for you. Now I’ll tell you something which will show you what a queer person I am. I have prayed for you regularly, two or three times a day, for at least three years. I have not known you all that time, but I knew that there was a Man, somewhere, and at times I wanted him very badly. Shall I tell you what I called him? I knew he would not be walking out with any other girl, so I called him, “The Man who walks by himself”. Now God has sent him to me, and his old name does not apply. Are you happy, Dearest?
Goodbye, My Belovéd, until this evening. Goodbye.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Friday, 18 September 2009
18 October 1917 Edith to Stuart - Letter #10
Edith to Stuart
18.10.17
My Dearest
You shall not be disappointed again this morning, as you were yesterday, but I do not know if I can write in the morning. It is very awkward writing at night in our house, for if I write downstairs, the others are all talking and laughing, and may quite possibly see what I am writing; and if I write upstairs, I am unsociable, or keep my candle burning too long, or something. So here’s an experiment.
Now, I must go right back to your first letter, in which you asked me how your picture of the future appeals to me. As such a call has come to you, I think it is the highest and noblest work which you can do. I came across this little bit in a book I was reading yesterday, “He who adds the least touch of beauty to a sacred life does more than he who paints a master-piece; but he who brings a lost soul to the Saviour, who seeks and finds a wandering sheep, and bears it back to the fold, does the noblest, greatest work possible on this earth”. You intend to devote your whole life to this “noblest, greatest work”, either in England, or the Mission Field, and it makes me very happy, dearest, to think of the time when you will have attained that part of your aim. There are some things I think about Missionary work which I will tell you later. Meanwhile, dearest, be happy in the thought that God has called you to nobler work than He gives to most, to the same work for which He sent His Son to live upon this earth.
I cannot tell you, Dearest, exactly how you have helped me in my school life, but you have a great deal. I do not mind it at all now, and there are some lessons which I really enjoy. I expect, as time goes on, I will get to like them all, so, Dearest, do not be uneasy about me, and believe that I am speaking the absolute truth when I tell you that I am getting on all right. If things do go wrong, I will tell you, Dearest.
Now I shall have to stop, though there is a great deal more I want to say. Be happy today, Dearest, and get strong and well quickly, so that you can soon come to school with me again.
Goodbye, My Dearest, my Own, Goodbye.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
18.10.17
My Dearest
You shall not be disappointed again this morning, as you were yesterday, but I do not know if I can write in the morning. It is very awkward writing at night in our house, for if I write downstairs, the others are all talking and laughing, and may quite possibly see what I am writing; and if I write upstairs, I am unsociable, or keep my candle burning too long, or something. So here’s an experiment.
Now, I must go right back to your first letter, in which you asked me how your picture of the future appeals to me. As such a call has come to you, I think it is the highest and noblest work which you can do. I came across this little bit in a book I was reading yesterday, “He who adds the least touch of beauty to a sacred life does more than he who paints a master-piece; but he who brings a lost soul to the Saviour, who seeks and finds a wandering sheep, and bears it back to the fold, does the noblest, greatest work possible on this earth”. You intend to devote your whole life to this “noblest, greatest work”, either in England, or the Mission Field, and it makes me very happy, dearest, to think of the time when you will have attained that part of your aim. There are some things I think about Missionary work which I will tell you later. Meanwhile, dearest, be happy in the thought that God has called you to nobler work than He gives to most, to the same work for which He sent His Son to live upon this earth.
I cannot tell you, Dearest, exactly how you have helped me in my school life, but you have a great deal. I do not mind it at all now, and there are some lessons which I really enjoy. I expect, as time goes on, I will get to like them all, so, Dearest, do not be uneasy about me, and believe that I am speaking the absolute truth when I tell you that I am getting on all right. If things do go wrong, I will tell you, Dearest.
Now I shall have to stop, though there is a great deal more I want to say. Be happy today, Dearest, and get strong and well quickly, so that you can soon come to school with me again.
Goodbye, My Dearest, my Own, Goodbye.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Thursday, 17 September 2009
14 October 1917 Edith to Stuart - Letter #9
Edith to Stuart
14.10.17
My Dearest
Please forgive me for disappointing you so much this afternoon. I thought I did right in telling you, and in coming away, but now I am not at all sure. There’s something inside me feels very sure about it. I would give anything to be with you just now, but I will come tomorrow evening, whether you are up or not. You must not get up unless you are really feeling well enough to, I will come up to see you as I did on Saturday, unless you think I had better not. If you do not send down for me, I will understand, and come home again.
I have been to Church this evening, all by myself, and I don’t think I ever felt so lonely before. I am afraid I did not get much of Mr Williamson’s sermon. Do you remember last Sunday evening, especially after supper? I suppose it really was you and I by the fire.
Dearest, make haste and get well. I want you so much, and please, tell me something I can do to help you. Your sorrow makes me sorrowful, so that, if I could ease your burden at all, I should be doing just as much for myself. Tell me something, Please, and the harder it is the better, only, be sure it’s something.
Do you know I have been called down three times while I have been writing this bit of a note, and now I must not finish it, or Corrie[1] will be gone before I go downstairs. I must not stop to write the “Poetry-piece”. I was going to give you the rest of “All’s Well”. Instead, read Psalm 73, verses 23-25[2], part of this evening’s Psalms.
Goodnight, My Belovéd. May God send you sound sleep tonight, and joy in the morning.
Goodnight, Belovéd, Goodnight.
[1] Gordon Corrie Mills, 2 February 1900 to 12 December 1967 (Stuart's brother)
[2] Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion for ever.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
14.10.17
My Dearest
Please forgive me for disappointing you so much this afternoon. I thought I did right in telling you, and in coming away, but now I am not at all sure. There’s something inside me feels very sure about it. I would give anything to be with you just now, but I will come tomorrow evening, whether you are up or not. You must not get up unless you are really feeling well enough to, I will come up to see you as I did on Saturday, unless you think I had better not. If you do not send down for me, I will understand, and come home again.
I have been to Church this evening, all by myself, and I don’t think I ever felt so lonely before. I am afraid I did not get much of Mr Williamson’s sermon. Do you remember last Sunday evening, especially after supper? I suppose it really was you and I by the fire.
Dearest, make haste and get well. I want you so much, and please, tell me something I can do to help you. Your sorrow makes me sorrowful, so that, if I could ease your burden at all, I should be doing just as much for myself. Tell me something, Please, and the harder it is the better, only, be sure it’s something.
Do you know I have been called down three times while I have been writing this bit of a note, and now I must not finish it, or Corrie[1] will be gone before I go downstairs. I must not stop to write the “Poetry-piece”. I was going to give you the rest of “All’s Well”. Instead, read Psalm 73, verses 23-25[2], part of this evening’s Psalms.
Goodnight, My Belovéd. May God send you sound sleep tonight, and joy in the morning.
Goodnight, Belovéd, Goodnight.
[1] Gordon Corrie Mills, 2 February 1900 to 12 December 1967 (Stuart's brother)
[2] Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion for ever.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
10 October 1917 Edith to Stuart - Letter #8
Edith to Stuart
10.10.17
My Dearest
There is a great deal to write about tonight, in fact, I expect some will have to wait until tomorrow.
Your letter yesterday was a real, real joy. I have wanted a little bit of writing from you badly, a bit that was really intended for me alone. Do you remember the first bit I ever had? You sent it from Tring. I carried it about a good deal, at first, but I used to have such a queer (not very nice) feeling inside when I saw it was for Katie[1] as well as me, that at last I put it away in a drawer, and it is still there. But it is alone now, and it used to have company. Guess? A certain book, which now has a little bit of writing all on it’s own, and so it is not doomed to live in a drawer any longer. Now I’ve got on this subject, I will tell you another funny little thing, which will make you laugh, I guess. You made a statement of accounts for me to fill in, about teas, and dinners, and Didcot. On the other side of the paper was a list of Greek words. Do you remember I did not fill it in, but gave you another. Do you know why?
Now I must just have one little grumble. You wrote one dreadful thing in your “experiment”. Listen. “I am fearful … that your affections may cool.” If you had been near me when I read that you would have had – something. Suppose anyone else had read that, what a fickle sort of person they would think I was. Never mind, I’ll let it pass this time, because I love you, Dearest.
I am just going to explain, in the words of a book I am fond of reading, the difference between what you are, and what I think you to be. “To idealise is not to follow a delusion, to mistake clay for alabaster, but it is to see more clearly, to discern that finer significance, that he who runs may not read. It is only the exceptional nature that can be what the world calls idealised, which is to imply recognition for what is actually there, and not in the least a process of investing it with qualities it does not possess. It is the inner vision that sees ‘the beauty hid from common sight’”.
This is another little bit from the same book – “ What you love in your friend, (please read another word here) is not himself, as ordinarily seen or estimated, but his higher self, that few see, or that you alone discern. It is to his higher self that you are responding, and it is that which in some mysterious manner is responsive to you. What he is to the world, or the world to him, you do not care. It is what he is to you that is of importance.”
Now I hope you are answered, for I think this expresses what I mean better than I could.
You say that sometimes you feel I want something more than you give. People can’t help wanting, can they? I want something I can’t have, but I’ll tell you, because you want it too. It is the time when “we shall not part when we say, ‘Good-night’”. I want it most of all in those moments when we are closest to each other, and I expect that is when you feel it. Can you imagine what it will be like when it does come! Oh, it takes my breath away to think of it.
Now, Goodnight, Belovéd, I must leave the rest until tomorrow.
Goodnight, Dearest, Goodnight.
[1] Sarah Catherine Lucy Brown, 12 December 1885 to 26 October 1977 (Edith's sister)
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
10.10.17
My Dearest
There is a great deal to write about tonight, in fact, I expect some will have to wait until tomorrow.
Your letter yesterday was a real, real joy. I have wanted a little bit of writing from you badly, a bit that was really intended for me alone. Do you remember the first bit I ever had? You sent it from Tring. I carried it about a good deal, at first, but I used to have such a queer (not very nice) feeling inside when I saw it was for Katie[1] as well as me, that at last I put it away in a drawer, and it is still there. But it is alone now, and it used to have company. Guess? A certain book, which now has a little bit of writing all on it’s own, and so it is not doomed to live in a drawer any longer. Now I’ve got on this subject, I will tell you another funny little thing, which will make you laugh, I guess. You made a statement of accounts for me to fill in, about teas, and dinners, and Didcot. On the other side of the paper was a list of Greek words. Do you remember I did not fill it in, but gave you another. Do you know why?
Now I must just have one little grumble. You wrote one dreadful thing in your “experiment”. Listen. “I am fearful … that your affections may cool.” If you had been near me when I read that you would have had – something. Suppose anyone else had read that, what a fickle sort of person they would think I was. Never mind, I’ll let it pass this time, because I love you, Dearest.
I am just going to explain, in the words of a book I am fond of reading, the difference between what you are, and what I think you to be. “To idealise is not to follow a delusion, to mistake clay for alabaster, but it is to see more clearly, to discern that finer significance, that he who runs may not read. It is only the exceptional nature that can be what the world calls idealised, which is to imply recognition for what is actually there, and not in the least a process of investing it with qualities it does not possess. It is the inner vision that sees ‘the beauty hid from common sight’”.
This is another little bit from the same book – “ What you love in your friend, (please read another word here) is not himself, as ordinarily seen or estimated, but his higher self, that few see, or that you alone discern. It is to his higher self that you are responding, and it is that which in some mysterious manner is responsive to you. What he is to the world, or the world to him, you do not care. It is what he is to you that is of importance.”
Now I hope you are answered, for I think this expresses what I mean better than I could.
You say that sometimes you feel I want something more than you give. People can’t help wanting, can they? I want something I can’t have, but I’ll tell you, because you want it too. It is the time when “we shall not part when we say, ‘Good-night’”. I want it most of all in those moments when we are closest to each other, and I expect that is when you feel it. Can you imagine what it will be like when it does come! Oh, it takes my breath away to think of it.
Now, Goodnight, Belovéd, I must leave the rest until tomorrow.
Goodnight, Dearest, Goodnight.
[1] Sarah Catherine Lucy Brown, 12 December 1885 to 26 October 1977 (Edith's sister)
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
10 October 1917 Stuart to Edith - Letter #7
Stuart to Edith
Oct. 10 1917
My Best belovéd,
It is not quite so late to-night, but I expect this will be quite short for I am rather “bluey”. Your words have more than sufficed, they have helped me a little out of the Slough of Despond.
I have been to Mrs Turner’s[1], and while I am sure she is not offended, yet she has made me feel that all my life is a FAILURE. In fact, so hard has she hit and so deeply hurt me that I think it was only the thoughts of you that made it easier to come home. I felt like “chucking” it for all; in fact, I told her that but for one thing (which was you, of course – polite wasn’t it, to call you a thing?) I wish I had never been exempted but had gone out to France and been killed.
It does hurt, my belovéd, to feel that these my brothers and my sister have cast me off, that they only put up with me because I am able to bring home the money they want.
I very nearly came in to see you just that I might kiss you and feel that there was one who loved me but I thought “better not”. Why are we (my brothers and sister and I) so far apart? Is it largely my fault? If it is, please do tell me, do show me how I can be more in sympathy with the boys and Gladys.
I must not write much more for I have hurt you I fear. Now I must try to heal it a little. Those three words of yours have just changed things, my grief is partly gone; and those lines have bid me “Never Despair”; how often do these clouds come between us and our Father, and now I, who have perhaps more reason than any one else to remember, how I forgot that He rules over all.
I sometimes feel that I am getting out of touch, that I neither pray nor read nor think as I ought; I hope I am mistaken, but I am afraid not.
One thing I want to ask. You do it already I expect and that is, please pray for me that I may have all the strength and patience I need and that I may bring to a successful conclusion this work of bringing up and caring for my brothers and sister.
Thank-you again for your note. Those 2 messages were just what I needed.
Good night, Belovéd, I am with you in spirit though not in the flesh, and in the spirit I say good-night to you, my dearest and my best.
[1] Mr and Mrs Turner had a smallholding at the end of Kennington Lane and were friends of the Mills boys. Mr Turner had a milk round and some of the boys would occasionally help.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Oct. 10 1917
My Best belovéd,
It is not quite so late to-night, but I expect this will be quite short for I am rather “bluey”. Your words have more than sufficed, they have helped me a little out of the Slough of Despond.
I have been to Mrs Turner’s[1], and while I am sure she is not offended, yet she has made me feel that all my life is a FAILURE. In fact, so hard has she hit and so deeply hurt me that I think it was only the thoughts of you that made it easier to come home. I felt like “chucking” it for all; in fact, I told her that but for one thing (which was you, of course – polite wasn’t it, to call you a thing?) I wish I had never been exempted but had gone out to France and been killed.
It does hurt, my belovéd, to feel that these my brothers and my sister have cast me off, that they only put up with me because I am able to bring home the money they want.
I very nearly came in to see you just that I might kiss you and feel that there was one who loved me but I thought “better not”. Why are we (my brothers and sister and I) so far apart? Is it largely my fault? If it is, please do tell me, do show me how I can be more in sympathy with the boys and Gladys.
I must not write much more for I have hurt you I fear. Now I must try to heal it a little. Those three words of yours have just changed things, my grief is partly gone; and those lines have bid me “Never Despair”; how often do these clouds come between us and our Father, and now I, who have perhaps more reason than any one else to remember, how I forgot that He rules over all.
I sometimes feel that I am getting out of touch, that I neither pray nor read nor think as I ought; I hope I am mistaken, but I am afraid not.
One thing I want to ask. You do it already I expect and that is, please pray for me that I may have all the strength and patience I need and that I may bring to a successful conclusion this work of bringing up and caring for my brothers and sister.
Thank-you again for your note. Those 2 messages were just what I needed.
Good night, Belovéd, I am with you in spirit though not in the flesh, and in the spirit I say good-night to you, my dearest and my best.
[1] Mr and Mrs Turner had a smallholding at the end of Kennington Lane and were friends of the Mills boys. Mr Turner had a milk round and some of the boys would occasionally help.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Monday, 14 September 2009
9 October 1917 Edith to Stuart - Letter #6
Edith to Stuart
9.10.17
My Dearest
It is rather early to say “Good-night”, but I am a day behind, and if I do not hurry, you will not have this to-night. I am afraid it will not be very nice, for things done in a hurry never are.
I would like to thank you for something I have in my pocket, but I do not know how to. I will tell you what I think about it tomorrow. Only you must not sit up writing for me any more. I know how long it takes to write even a little bit. You must look at it this way. You belong to me now, and you want me to have the best. Am I right? I can hear you saying “That does not need an answer”. Then you must see that I get it, and if you stop up late at night I shall not. There are enough head-aches, and other aches, that cannot be avoided, so we must have no unnecessary ones. All the same, I would like just a wee note when you can really spare a minute.
Don’t I preach a lot? You must excuse it, Dearest, for I spend the day at it, and it will come out a bit at night. I just wish it wouldn’t, but it will.
Through the day I have thought of many things I wanted to say to you, but they are all gone now, but one tiny, tiny little. Can you guess? It’s just this, “I love you”. It keeps coming over and over again, and I am afraid the other things will have to wait, because they have been pushed out. Only I might have made a decent note out of those, and I cannot out of that little bit of a sentence. Can you make it do for to-night? You see, the time has not come when I feel talky. Now Elsie[1] has just called me to supper, and I must bring this along first.
Good-night, my Dearest. Go to bed quickly, and don’t get up too early. Think all nice things, for there are heaps to think about, and the nasty ones are not worth your thought.
Good-night – Belovéd, Good-night.
Is the light for ever failing?
God’s in His Heaven!
Is the faint heart ever quailing?
God’s in His Heaven!
God’s strong arms are all around you,
In the dark He sought and found you,
All’s well! All’s well!
All’s - - - well!
[1] Elsie Mary Brown, 25 September 1897 to 4 March 1974 (Edith's sister)
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
9.10.17
My Dearest
It is rather early to say “Good-night”, but I am a day behind, and if I do not hurry, you will not have this to-night. I am afraid it will not be very nice, for things done in a hurry never are.
I would like to thank you for something I have in my pocket, but I do not know how to. I will tell you what I think about it tomorrow. Only you must not sit up writing for me any more. I know how long it takes to write even a little bit. You must look at it this way. You belong to me now, and you want me to have the best. Am I right? I can hear you saying “That does not need an answer”. Then you must see that I get it, and if you stop up late at night I shall not. There are enough head-aches, and other aches, that cannot be avoided, so we must have no unnecessary ones. All the same, I would like just a wee note when you can really spare a minute.
Don’t I preach a lot? You must excuse it, Dearest, for I spend the day at it, and it will come out a bit at night. I just wish it wouldn’t, but it will.
Through the day I have thought of many things I wanted to say to you, but they are all gone now, but one tiny, tiny little. Can you guess? It’s just this, “I love you”. It keeps coming over and over again, and I am afraid the other things will have to wait, because they have been pushed out. Only I might have made a decent note out of those, and I cannot out of that little bit of a sentence. Can you make it do for to-night? You see, the time has not come when I feel talky. Now Elsie[1] has just called me to supper, and I must bring this along first.
Good-night, my Dearest. Go to bed quickly, and don’t get up too early. Think all nice things, for there are heaps to think about, and the nasty ones are not worth your thought.
Good-night – Belovéd, Good-night.
Is the light for ever failing?
God’s in His Heaven!
Is the faint heart ever quailing?
God’s in His Heaven!
God’s strong arms are all around you,
In the dark He sought and found you,
All’s well! All’s well!
All’s - - - well!
[1] Elsie Mary Brown, 25 September 1897 to 4 March 1974 (Edith's sister)
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Sunday, 13 September 2009
9 October 1917 Stuart to Edith - Letter #5
Stuart to Edith
Oct. 9 1917
My Belovéd
You have, I expect, read my last night’s scribble and I wonder what you think. I wonder if in the morning you will say it was not nice or that it hurt. I fear you expected more than you really found, for I could see that I had pleased you by giving it to you.
What shall I write to-night? I hardly know. I fear this is not a good time for me to express anything nice, I feel too tired. It is after 11; I did my 2 drills and an hour’s Greek, besides some knitting at supper; I desire now more than ever to push on with the Greek so that I may not keep you (and myself) waiting longer than is necessary; I am sure the minimum will be quite long enough, it will be for me and I expect it will for you.
If I needed more inducement, I should be spurred on still more by what you told me about your school life. I don’t worry over it (I promised I would not) but I wish I could see some way in which to help you. Never mind, my beloved, hang on, keep on smiling, there are I feel sure great days before us yet, when all the sadness of the past will be forgotten.
I am half afraid to tell you the story of my past life; it is so full of pain and sorrow that I fear I shall sadden you very much for a time, but one day I will tell you all, and soon I hope, and you will understand even more why it is I am so different to other men of my own age, so older than my years.
Just before I met you at dinner time to-day, I had been re-reading your three messages and I was thinking of what you said about how you had “kept the lid on” and about what you must not do.
I too, had “kept the lid on”. Many a time as we sat over on the bank above Ferry Hinksey, I longed to take you and kiss you, but I dare not. I was not certain it would be right and I still kept myself under strict control. You remember I thought you referred to a certain night; the night of which I was thinking was when I nearly took your arm and, I will admit it, tempted you take mine. We neither fell, and I wondered again just where we were. If you would give me no more than friendship (and that was all I expected) I was willing to be satisfied – half a loaf is better than no bread to a starving man, and for years I was hungry for someone to love and to love me. In the past, I have often cried myself to sleep with the loneliness of it all, so you can see perhaps why I was willing to be satisfied with a little, and now you have given me all.
Oh, best beloved, what hopes I have for the future. May the wish you once expressed that we should never quarrel be fully realized. I wonder sometimes what will happen when our wishes and ideas clash (if ever they do) for we are both strong-willed I think, but I expect that, loving one another and knowing that the other is trying to do what is right, we shall come through safe and sound.
Now just a few words about the other subjects. When I said “You must not do that” it was not because it was in any way wrong, but because I felt it was a false position, it was as though a queen had kissed her subject’s hand, I felt you must not do homage (that was exactly my thought) to me, but that I ought to you – I wonder if you understand.
I found the following lines to-day – do you like them?
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.”
Now Good night; may God bless you always and make me worthy of you, my belovéd. (it is 11.45)
SM
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Oct. 9 1917
My Belovéd
You have, I expect, read my last night’s scribble and I wonder what you think. I wonder if in the morning you will say it was not nice or that it hurt. I fear you expected more than you really found, for I could see that I had pleased you by giving it to you.
What shall I write to-night? I hardly know. I fear this is not a good time for me to express anything nice, I feel too tired. It is after 11; I did my 2 drills and an hour’s Greek, besides some knitting at supper; I desire now more than ever to push on with the Greek so that I may not keep you (and myself) waiting longer than is necessary; I am sure the minimum will be quite long enough, it will be for me and I expect it will for you.
If I needed more inducement, I should be spurred on still more by what you told me about your school life. I don’t worry over it (I promised I would not) but I wish I could see some way in which to help you. Never mind, my beloved, hang on, keep on smiling, there are I feel sure great days before us yet, when all the sadness of the past will be forgotten.
I am half afraid to tell you the story of my past life; it is so full of pain and sorrow that I fear I shall sadden you very much for a time, but one day I will tell you all, and soon I hope, and you will understand even more why it is I am so different to other men of my own age, so older than my years.
Just before I met you at dinner time to-day, I had been re-reading your three messages and I was thinking of what you said about how you had “kept the lid on” and about what you must not do.
I too, had “kept the lid on”. Many a time as we sat over on the bank above Ferry Hinksey, I longed to take you and kiss you, but I dare not. I was not certain it would be right and I still kept myself under strict control. You remember I thought you referred to a certain night; the night of which I was thinking was when I nearly took your arm and, I will admit it, tempted you take mine. We neither fell, and I wondered again just where we were. If you would give me no more than friendship (and that was all I expected) I was willing to be satisfied – half a loaf is better than no bread to a starving man, and for years I was hungry for someone to love and to love me. In the past, I have often cried myself to sleep with the loneliness of it all, so you can see perhaps why I was willing to be satisfied with a little, and now you have given me all.
Oh, best beloved, what hopes I have for the future. May the wish you once expressed that we should never quarrel be fully realized. I wonder sometimes what will happen when our wishes and ideas clash (if ever they do) for we are both strong-willed I think, but I expect that, loving one another and knowing that the other is trying to do what is right, we shall come through safe and sound.
Now just a few words about the other subjects. When I said “You must not do that” it was not because it was in any way wrong, but because I felt it was a false position, it was as though a queen had kissed her subject’s hand, I felt you must not do homage (that was exactly my thought) to me, but that I ought to you – I wonder if you understand.
I found the following lines to-day – do you like them?
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.”
Now Good night; may God bless you always and make me worthy of you, my belovéd. (it is 11.45)
SM
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Saturday, 12 September 2009
8 October 1917 Stuart to Edith - Letter # 4
Stuart to Edith
Oct. 8 1917
My Belovéd
This is somewhat of an experiment. I am hoping it may be as pleasing and cheering to you to have something from me to read on those evening when we cannot see one another as it is to me.
What to write I hardly know, my brain does not seem in good order. I think though, I must try to convey to you my thanks for the love and confidence you have given me. I wonder if you have any idea what it means to me to feel there is one who loves and cares, for I have so often felt that love was not for me. Love and care for my brothers as I might, I think they could not return it and I feared my sternness and grimness would prevent any one loving me.
And now you have given me all that I hoped for; I pray daily that I may prove worthy of it. You have set me on a pedestal, in your heart. You imagine me better than most, if not best of all, and I am fearful sometimes that when you find, as you will, that I am full, so full of faults and imperfections, that your affections may cool. I hope not, I trust not, but I realize so vividly the tremendous difference between what I am and what you think me to be.
I must thank you too for being so ready to wait for such a time. It must I suppose be nearly 6 years. I do not see how it can be much less, and then what have I to offer you? Very little it seems to me, then my love.
If I realize my aim and become ordained, I hope I shall not be one of the easy-going lazy parsons of which we see many. I hope rather I shall be hard-worked. Or it may be as I told you once, that the Mission field may call me. I wonder how all this appeals to you? I wonder if you feel I am painting a black future; to me it is the reverse.
You say in one of your “expressions of heart and thought” that I must have the best. This is what seems to me the best life and that is why I aim at it, I feel it is my duty after all that has been done for me and mine to give my life to some such work.
I hope you like the prospects (I wonder if you do?) and that you will help me to carry it out.
You have helped me much already, I feel I have more control over certain faults that I had, and I hope you will still continue to give me your help unconsciously it may be, so that together we may reach the perfect life at which we both aim.
How I am to help you I fail to see, and yet if I can you know I will, my beloved. Sometimes when you are in my arms I feel you want me to say or do something to help you in some way, and it hurts me to be unable to realize what you want, perhaps this is all foolishness, but I often feel it to be so.
I am nearly asleep, Gladys[1] has gone to bed and I have the room to myself to think of you and to write down thoughts for you.
I wonder whether you are tired of reading all this; I fear it will not be the pleasure to you that yours have been to me. Nor is there a “Poetry piece” for which I thank you. I do indeed like poetry, especially deep poetry, which I often find most inspiring.
I must say “Goodnight” to you my best beloved; I wonder when the time will come when we shall not part when we say Goodnight. May God bless you and make you always happy, may He give you strength to overcome all troubles. Good night, my beloved, by dearest, good night, good night.
SM
[1] Gladys Elizabeth Mills, 30 March 1897 to 5 May 1946 (Stuart's sister)
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Oct. 8 1917
My Belovéd
This is somewhat of an experiment. I am hoping it may be as pleasing and cheering to you to have something from me to read on those evening when we cannot see one another as it is to me.
What to write I hardly know, my brain does not seem in good order. I think though, I must try to convey to you my thanks for the love and confidence you have given me. I wonder if you have any idea what it means to me to feel there is one who loves and cares, for I have so often felt that love was not for me. Love and care for my brothers as I might, I think they could not return it and I feared my sternness and grimness would prevent any one loving me.
And now you have given me all that I hoped for; I pray daily that I may prove worthy of it. You have set me on a pedestal, in your heart. You imagine me better than most, if not best of all, and I am fearful sometimes that when you find, as you will, that I am full, so full of faults and imperfections, that your affections may cool. I hope not, I trust not, but I realize so vividly the tremendous difference between what I am and what you think me to be.
I must thank you too for being so ready to wait for such a time. It must I suppose be nearly 6 years. I do not see how it can be much less, and then what have I to offer you? Very little it seems to me, then my love.
If I realize my aim and become ordained, I hope I shall not be one of the easy-going lazy parsons of which we see many. I hope rather I shall be hard-worked. Or it may be as I told you once, that the Mission field may call me. I wonder how all this appeals to you? I wonder if you feel I am painting a black future; to me it is the reverse.
You say in one of your “expressions of heart and thought” that I must have the best. This is what seems to me the best life and that is why I aim at it, I feel it is my duty after all that has been done for me and mine to give my life to some such work.
I hope you like the prospects (I wonder if you do?) and that you will help me to carry it out.
You have helped me much already, I feel I have more control over certain faults that I had, and I hope you will still continue to give me your help unconsciously it may be, so that together we may reach the perfect life at which we both aim.
How I am to help you I fail to see, and yet if I can you know I will, my beloved. Sometimes when you are in my arms I feel you want me to say or do something to help you in some way, and it hurts me to be unable to realize what you want, perhaps this is all foolishness, but I often feel it to be so.
I am nearly asleep, Gladys[1] has gone to bed and I have the room to myself to think of you and to write down thoughts for you.
I wonder whether you are tired of reading all this; I fear it will not be the pleasure to you that yours have been to me. Nor is there a “Poetry piece” for which I thank you. I do indeed like poetry, especially deep poetry, which I often find most inspiring.
I must say “Goodnight” to you my best beloved; I wonder when the time will come when we shall not part when we say Goodnight. May God bless you and make you always happy, may He give you strength to overcome all troubles. Good night, my beloved, by dearest, good night, good night.
SM
[1] Gladys Elizabeth Mills, 30 March 1897 to 5 May 1946 (Stuart's sister)
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Thursday, 10 September 2009
4 October 1917 Edith to Stuart - Letter #3
Edith to Stuart
4.10.17
Dearest,
After what you said last night about “Best Belovéd”, I thought I would have to find a new name for you. But I’m thinking it’s all right. “Best Belovéd” implies others, but then, of course, there are others. They are not the same, but we love them, and they are “dear”; so “Dear-est”, and “Best Belovéd” are all right, aren’t they?
I am very sorry I do not say the things you want me to say; but if you had held the lid on as long as I have, and as tightly as I have, you would understand why it won’t come off very easily now. You see, Dearest, right back near the beginning things, even before Whitsuntide, I knew how it was with me. But I did not know about you. Sometimes I thought I did, but I was not sure for a long time. On a certain Saturday evening, in our kitchen, you said something to me, and I am sure, Stuart, if you had known how much it would hurt, you would never, never, never have said it, although you knew it had been deserved. You see, that’s why it hurt, because there was a great deal of truth in it, and it struck home. But I made up my mind that it should never be deserved again, and from that time I watched every word and act as closely as I could, lest anything should slip out. You do not how hard it was, especially towards the end. One night, I nearly did it. We had been over to Ferry Hinksey, sitting on a bank which you know, and soon after we started back, you came towards me quite suddenly. I do not know what I thought you were going to do, but I thought you were going to do something, and if it had not been a little bit dark, you would have noticed. However, I think I came safely through, but I knew that unless you did something soon, I would have to tell you I could not come out. You see, I was beginning to feel that I could not keep the lid on any longer. Am I unkind to tell you all this, Dearest? Only I want you to understand why I find it so hard to let myself go now. Even now, there are some things which are right, and some which are wrong. On Sunday, I thought, for a long time, “Shall I? or shall I not?” Then I thought again, “He said I might do anything now, and I have wanted to do this for so long, I will do it”. And directly afterwards came the thunder-bolt, “You should not have done that.” At once, I thought of that Saturday. I couldn’t help it Dearest, really, and ______ Oh, dear, I know I’m stupid, and won’t write any more of this. Forgive me, please, Stuart, and remember, I am not even a woman yet, and women are silly enough.
Good-night, Belovéd, don’t think much about this letter. In fact, I don’t know whether I will give it to you or not, for I would not hurt you the least little bit if I could help it, and I think I know some of the places where your skin is thin. If I do give it you, and it hurts at all, please, please tell me, and ___ I’ll do something.
Good-night, My Own Man, My Love.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
4.10.17
Dearest,
After what you said last night about “Best Belovéd”, I thought I would have to find a new name for you. But I’m thinking it’s all right. “Best Belovéd” implies others, but then, of course, there are others. They are not the same, but we love them, and they are “dear”; so “Dear-est”, and “Best Belovéd” are all right, aren’t they?
I am very sorry I do not say the things you want me to say; but if you had held the lid on as long as I have, and as tightly as I have, you would understand why it won’t come off very easily now. You see, Dearest, right back near the beginning things, even before Whitsuntide, I knew how it was with me. But I did not know about you. Sometimes I thought I did, but I was not sure for a long time. On a certain Saturday evening, in our kitchen, you said something to me, and I am sure, Stuart, if you had known how much it would hurt, you would never, never, never have said it, although you knew it had been deserved. You see, that’s why it hurt, because there was a great deal of truth in it, and it struck home. But I made up my mind that it should never be deserved again, and from that time I watched every word and act as closely as I could, lest anything should slip out. You do not how hard it was, especially towards the end. One night, I nearly did it. We had been over to Ferry Hinksey, sitting on a bank which you know, and soon after we started back, you came towards me quite suddenly. I do not know what I thought you were going to do, but I thought you were going to do something, and if it had not been a little bit dark, you would have noticed. However, I think I came safely through, but I knew that unless you did something soon, I would have to tell you I could not come out. You see, I was beginning to feel that I could not keep the lid on any longer. Am I unkind to tell you all this, Dearest? Only I want you to understand why I find it so hard to let myself go now. Even now, there are some things which are right, and some which are wrong. On Sunday, I thought, for a long time, “Shall I? or shall I not?” Then I thought again, “He said I might do anything now, and I have wanted to do this for so long, I will do it”. And directly afterwards came the thunder-bolt, “You should not have done that.” At once, I thought of that Saturday. I couldn’t help it Dearest, really, and ______ Oh, dear, I know I’m stupid, and won’t write any more of this. Forgive me, please, Stuart, and remember, I am not even a woman yet, and women are silly enough.
Good-night, Belovéd, don’t think much about this letter. In fact, I don’t know whether I will give it to you or not, for I would not hurt you the least little bit if I could help it, and I think I know some of the places where your skin is thin. If I do give it you, and it hurts at all, please, please tell me, and ___ I’ll do something.
Good-night, My Own Man, My Love.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Wednesday, 9 September 2009
2 October 1917 Edith to Stuart - Letter #2
Edith to Stuart
2.10.17
Dearest,
It is quite likely that you will never read this, for tomorrow you may tell me it is not at all proper, and so I shall not give it to you. But I am going to write a little bit all the same, because it feels better inside afterwards. Last night, I almost felt that I had really said “Good-night” to you.
I am sure I have never thanked you really, properly and enough for this ring which you have given me. It looks lovely now in the candle-light, but you are right in saying that it looks better still in day-light, and it looks best of all when the sun shines upon it. Then the middle stone in bluer than anything I ever saw. When I look at it, I hope that all things between us may be as beautiful as this is. Here’s one who will try her hardest to make it so, and I know you will do your best. Between us we may, God grant that we shall, do better than most people we know.
Now I am going to say something very seriously – Nothing is good enough for you but the Best – You must not say of anything, “It’s good enough for me”, if there is better to be had, not even a flower. If there is on the plant a better daisy than the one I give you, then the one I give is not good enough for you. (You know I always try to find the best, don’t I?) it’s the same with everything else, the big things and the little things. Now, I wonder if you are laughing, and say, “Then what about yourself”. I know I am like a good many other things, not good enough, and so, I am afraid my own preaching falls through, for I cannot tell you that you must find some-one better than me, because – You know why, don’t you? This is horrid, preachy stuff I am writing, and not a bit what I want to say, so I am going to stop and just give you a little poetry piece. I wonder if you know what I’m driving at, I hardly know myself, but I don’t like to hear you say, “That’s good enough for me”, as if you were any sort of man, instead of what you are, one of the finest, no, that wrong, The Finest.
Yes, we may hope!
For we are seeds,
Dropped into earth for heavenly blossoming.
Perchance, when comes the time of harvesting,
His loving care.
May find some use for even a humble tare.
We know not what we shall be – only this –
That we shall be made like Him – as He is.
Good-night, Dearest. Sleep well, and wake up in the morning - happy.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
2.10.17
Dearest,
It is quite likely that you will never read this, for tomorrow you may tell me it is not at all proper, and so I shall not give it to you. But I am going to write a little bit all the same, because it feels better inside afterwards. Last night, I almost felt that I had really said “Good-night” to you.
I am sure I have never thanked you really, properly and enough for this ring which you have given me. It looks lovely now in the candle-light, but you are right in saying that it looks better still in day-light, and it looks best of all when the sun shines upon it. Then the middle stone in bluer than anything I ever saw. When I look at it, I hope that all things between us may be as beautiful as this is. Here’s one who will try her hardest to make it so, and I know you will do your best. Between us we may, God grant that we shall, do better than most people we know.
Now I am going to say something very seriously – Nothing is good enough for you but the Best – You must not say of anything, “It’s good enough for me”, if there is better to be had, not even a flower. If there is on the plant a better daisy than the one I give you, then the one I give is not good enough for you. (You know I always try to find the best, don’t I?) it’s the same with everything else, the big things and the little things. Now, I wonder if you are laughing, and say, “Then what about yourself”. I know I am like a good many other things, not good enough, and so, I am afraid my own preaching falls through, for I cannot tell you that you must find some-one better than me, because – You know why, don’t you? This is horrid, preachy stuff I am writing, and not a bit what I want to say, so I am going to stop and just give you a little poetry piece. I wonder if you know what I’m driving at, I hardly know myself, but I don’t like to hear you say, “That’s good enough for me”, as if you were any sort of man, instead of what you are, one of the finest, no, that wrong, The Finest.
Yes, we may hope!
For we are seeds,
Dropped into earth for heavenly blossoming.
Perchance, when comes the time of harvesting,
His loving care.
May find some use for even a humble tare.
We know not what we shall be – only this –
That we shall be made like Him – as He is.
Good-night, Dearest. Sleep well, and wake up in the morning - happy.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Tuesday, 8 September 2009
1 October 1917 Edith to Stuart - Letter #1
Edith to Stuart
1.10.17
Dearest _
Please don’t think this is a letter, I’m just going to write down a few of the “thinks” which I think, and then, if you like, you can read them, and if not, ________
It is bed-time, and every night I say “Good-night” to you the very last, only you don’t hear. So tonight, I thought I would say it so that you could see it; only you won’t be able to see it to-night. It will be just twenty-four hours late. Besides saying “Good-night” to you, I will write out for you my “Poetry-piece”. I read a little bit almost every night, sometimes lots of little bits until I find a nice one that I really like, and then I read it over and over. I only had to read one to-night, because it was a nice one first time, and now I have written it for you I almost know it by heart. I wonder if you’ll like it, or if you don’t like “Poetry pieces”. I hope you do, because they are nice, especially some.
Now this is my “think”. You often ask me if I am afraid. I don’t know what you think there is for me to be afraid of, but I will just tell you the honest truth. Sometimes, I am very much afraid, and sort of want to run away from you, only I know inside that I should soon want to run back to you again. I was afraid last night, when you did what you said I should not do. I understand now why I have so often longed to do that; - it is because the lowest one should do it, and the lowest one is this one. And when you will not admit that I am the lowest, then I am afraid. Because I know that some day you will find out, you will know what I really am, and then – what will you do? Please, Stuart, don’t say any thing more about it now, and I will try my hardest, and you must help me, to come a little nearer to you.
Now, dearest, it really must be “Good-night”. There’s a big hug for you, only you won’t feel it, because I’m giving it to a little frame with a picture in it. (Here’s a secret. That little picture has had one every night since you gave it to me. Would you have believed that?)
Good-night.
I hope this is not another improper thing for me to do, for I have done enough already. Tell me, if it is so, and I won’t do it again.
(c)DearestBeloved 2009
1.10.17
Dearest _
Please don’t think this is a letter, I’m just going to write down a few of the “thinks” which I think, and then, if you like, you can read them, and if not, ________
It is bed-time, and every night I say “Good-night” to you the very last, only you don’t hear. So tonight, I thought I would say it so that you could see it; only you won’t be able to see it to-night. It will be just twenty-four hours late. Besides saying “Good-night” to you, I will write out for you my “Poetry-piece”. I read a little bit almost every night, sometimes lots of little bits until I find a nice one that I really like, and then I read it over and over. I only had to read one to-night, because it was a nice one first time, and now I have written it for you I almost know it by heart. I wonder if you’ll like it, or if you don’t like “Poetry pieces”. I hope you do, because they are nice, especially some.
Now this is my “think”. You often ask me if I am afraid. I don’t know what you think there is for me to be afraid of, but I will just tell you the honest truth. Sometimes, I am very much afraid, and sort of want to run away from you, only I know inside that I should soon want to run back to you again. I was afraid last night, when you did what you said I should not do. I understand now why I have so often longed to do that; - it is because the lowest one should do it, and the lowest one is this one. And when you will not admit that I am the lowest, then I am afraid. Because I know that some day you will find out, you will know what I really am, and then – what will you do? Please, Stuart, don’t say any thing more about it now, and I will try my hardest, and you must help me, to come a little nearer to you.
Now, dearest, it really must be “Good-night”. There’s a big hug for you, only you won’t feel it, because I’m giving it to a little frame with a picture in it. (Here’s a secret. That little picture has had one every night since you gave it to me. Would you have believed that?)
Good-night.
I hope this is not another improper thing for me to do, for I have done enough already. Tell me, if it is so, and I won’t do it again.
(c)DearestBeloved 2009
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