Stuart to Edith
Nov. 13 1917
Dearest,
This must be very short this morning, but I hope it will be sweet. Do you like something even it is not very nice? I do; I like to read your thoughts whatever they are, for I want to know you perfectly and I want you to know me as well, and there will then be little chance of making a mistake.
I talk a good deal of making mistakes don’t I? but you must not think that I am in any way doubtful – I am not; I am as sure of myself as I am of you, I feel that our love is the deepest and the best that there could be. I pray that it may continue to be so that we shall, as the days go by, find out more and more of its depths and the blessings and happiness we may each derive from it.
The future seems to hold so much happiness in store that I am almost afraid to look forward to it. The thought came to me last evening after I had gone to bed, that if I decide eventually not to be ordained, we shall not have to wait very long. Only until your school career has finished, and is that 5 or 4 years? I see that possibly “Bill” may not be gone[1], but I fancy you will not mind that, but that will be for you to say and after all this is at present, only a dream.
I must leave off, as the “hooter” has gone and I must not be late; I have written now because I shall be very late to-night, too late to bring you any thing, and – would you not rather have it in the morning?
Good bye, Belovéd, be happy all day (I am so glad you like it better) – one day nearer.
Goodbye, my Dearest. You have helped me so much; may I be as much of a help to you.
[1] Maurice Ernest Mills 21 May 1905 to 17 June 1921, known as Billy.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Friday, 2 October 2009
Thursday, 1 October 2009
12 November 1917 Stuart to Edith - Letter #22
Stuart to Edith
Nov. 12 1917
My Belovéd,
I hardly know what to write to you to-night, for I feel that I have reached that stage which you wanted me to reach; I am more happy than I have been for a long time, and, as I said this morning, feel as if I had thrown off a great burden. I do not know why it should be so, unless it is because of the decision I have made with regard to my home life.
Whether that decision is best and the right one is doubtful to me; it seems such an easy way out, but no other appears to be of any use, so perhaps no harm will be done by letting them have a fairly free hand; I certainly feel very much better which is something.
It makes me very happy too, to know what a difference I have helped to make in your life, to know you feel so much happier and that life is not the burden it was; I hope I may always retain and use that power of making you happy.
Such a result will be helped, I think, if you will keep “up to the mark” and tell me as you have already done of things which I may omit to do; I think you will do so, because it will help to reach that happy, perfect ideal to which we are both so keenly looking forward.
You know now that my ideas of the future are very hazy and that I have yet made no definite decision; what I really want to do is to help others as much as possible to what I feel is the best, and I am not sure how that can be reached.
As a parson in England, one seems bound with so many conventions and much “red tape” that one cannot work as one would; I think that is why I looked further and turned to the Mission Field, where it seems to me, there is the opportunity for spreading Gospel in its truth and not hidden under so many other things.
Do doubt I could do good work as a layman but there seems so little time for that. If I remain at the Press, my hours will never be shorter than now and so I wonder what it best. I feel certain I shall be shown presently; my duty for the present is to do my best for my brothers and sister; when that is done, then I shall expect to see the next step.
I must write no more except to thank you for those last words of trust and confidence, I hope you will always feel so and more so as time goes on.
Goodbye – I like that “God be with you” – Belovéd, goodbye till morning.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Nov. 12 1917
My Belovéd,
I hardly know what to write to you to-night, for I feel that I have reached that stage which you wanted me to reach; I am more happy than I have been for a long time, and, as I said this morning, feel as if I had thrown off a great burden. I do not know why it should be so, unless it is because of the decision I have made with regard to my home life.
Whether that decision is best and the right one is doubtful to me; it seems such an easy way out, but no other appears to be of any use, so perhaps no harm will be done by letting them have a fairly free hand; I certainly feel very much better which is something.
It makes me very happy too, to know what a difference I have helped to make in your life, to know you feel so much happier and that life is not the burden it was; I hope I may always retain and use that power of making you happy.
Such a result will be helped, I think, if you will keep “up to the mark” and tell me as you have already done of things which I may omit to do; I think you will do so, because it will help to reach that happy, perfect ideal to which we are both so keenly looking forward.
You know now that my ideas of the future are very hazy and that I have yet made no definite decision; what I really want to do is to help others as much as possible to what I feel is the best, and I am not sure how that can be reached.
As a parson in England, one seems bound with so many conventions and much “red tape” that one cannot work as one would; I think that is why I looked further and turned to the Mission Field, where it seems to me, there is the opportunity for spreading Gospel in its truth and not hidden under so many other things.
Do doubt I could do good work as a layman but there seems so little time for that. If I remain at the Press, my hours will never be shorter than now and so I wonder what it best. I feel certain I shall be shown presently; my duty for the present is to do my best for my brothers and sister; when that is done, then I shall expect to see the next step.
I must write no more except to thank you for those last words of trust and confidence, I hope you will always feel so and more so as time goes on.
Goodbye – I like that “God be with you” – Belovéd, goodbye till morning.
(c) DearestBeloved 2009
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
8 November 1917 Edith to Stuart - Letter #21
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
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
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
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