New Canaan, Connecticut
7. October. 1927
Oh, Margaret. I do love you. Sometimes I am only a little child almost afraid of life, and not assertive at all, only gentle and often wistful, just as I used to be, with no heart for facing the contest of the world. And sometimes I am very old and wise and understanding and tolerant, not asking anything for self, just as I am going to be some day. In either case, adorable Margaret, it can do you no harm to be loved by such a creature.
First of all though, you most dear, I must tell you how deeply I appreciate all you told me of your own most private life, and of your happy years with our great wise friend.1 I only knew in the most casual way that you had been friends, and when I heard I was glad for him, before I knew you, that he should have had such a one. And as soon as I began to hear from you I was glad you had had him in your life. And it never occurred to me to wonder whether the relation was thus and so, or this and that. I only knew it was all right, whatever way. And when you say how he cared for your youth,—that would be like him, dear man. To have you hurt on such a point by a body blow from a low cad was horrible to me. I want to forget, and I wished you could have come to me to cry in your pain.
Also, my dear, the later wisdom was right too. The spirit is of no age, and the greatest love is inclusive of all things. I understand so well. When there is disparity of years, it is all so confusing, but really no more confusing than all this incarnation of spirit is. The Soul must condescend, to live. And the governance of the creature impulses is the dilemma of humanity. Whether you outrage them or give way to them, you are lost. In either case the Son of Man is crucified afresh—almost it seems so. Yet we have our day to day life; that is all we are asked to face at a time; and the door opens as we near the entrance. Never to be wholly pestiferous is some thing.
Spirit, mind, body.
Love, wisdom, action.
Goodness, truth, beauty.
Yes, my dear dear, I know. I dare say we were sent together, and for some transcendent end. It is all so veracious and beyond the ordinary, I don’t dare think otherwise, although as I told you I have never had any obvious patent deliberate revelation come to me. Butthis—I feel obedient and serious. If you have any definite intimations about it you must tell me. I hardly feel equal to managing it alone, and neither do I want to shirk all the responsibility.
Poor Fairy Prince5 in his desperation. I don’t pity him, fortunate and fine lad. Rather do I greatly esteem. Only I vaguely recall the agonies of my own youth, with its love and temerities and agitations,—which maybe have to go to the making of a true artist. Compared with this era and decade, that far youthful time was a harmless comedy—though it felt so tragic then. So is life, maybe.
So, my dear, I must embrace you and all your loves and dreams—for a moment at least—in these gigantic arms, and in this (fleeting) mood of celestial generosity!
I love you dearly, and all I have to say is—whatever you do, don’t love any man out of pity for his helplessness. Oh, my Lord! So many do that. The mother instinct. Just because women are so unselfish, and must sacrifice themselves! That is who [sic] so many fine, wise, adorable women are mated [to] little shrimps, insufferable boors, and incompetent boobs. T[o] have such lamentable results. Lives, ruined, and neither God nor nature served.
Oh, darling, your gift came this morning. So frail and significant. Thousand loving thanks. Strange you should have thought of it for me. For several days I have thought of sending you an Indian Medicine charm from the southwest—where I felt so strangely at home. You must know more of the Indians and their lore and life. We must visit New Mexico as well as the Kootenay and Blackfeet country of our own West. It is ravishing—the desert.
This time is stolen for your sake. Now I must run to work.
The blessing of Allah and the Great Ones be with you, loving and beloved.