AN ENGLISHWOMAN'S LOVE-LETTERS DELUXE EDITION LOVE-LETTERS 71

I used to stand at the foot of the stairs a long time, when by myself,
before daring to start up: and then it was always the right foot that went
first. And a fearful feeling used to accompany me that I was going to meet
the "evil chance" when I got to the corner. Sometimes when I felt it was
there very badly, I used at the last moment to shut my eyes and walk
through it: and feel, on the other side, like a pilgrim who had come
through the waters of Jordan.

My eyes were always the timidest things about me: and to shut my eyes
tight against the dark was the only way I had of meeting the solitude of
the first hour of bed when Nan-nan had left me, and before I could get
to sleep.

I have an idea that one listens better with one's eyes shut, and that this
and other things are a remnant of our primitive existence when perhaps the
ears of our arboreal ancestors kept a lookout while the rest of their
senses slept. I think, also, that the instinct I found in myself, and have
since in other children, to conceal a wound is a similar survival. At one
time, I suppose, in the human herd the damaged were quickly put out of
existence; and it was the self-preservation instinct which gave me so keen
a wish to get into hiding when one day I cut my finger badly  something
more than a mere scratch, which I would have cried over and had bandaged
quite in the correct way. I remember I sat in a corner and pretended to be
nursing a rag doll which I had knotted round my hand, till Nan-nan
noticed, perhaps, that I looked white, and found blood flowing into my
lap. And I can recall still the overcoming comfort which fell upon me as I
let resolution go, and sobbed in her arms full of pity for myself and
scolding the "naughty knife" that had done the deed. The rest of that day
is lost to me.

Yet it is not only occasions of happiness and pain which impress
themselves. When the mind takes a sudden stride in consciousness,  that,
also, fixes itself. I remember the agony of shyness which came on me when
strange hands did my undressing for me once in Nan-nan's absence: the
first time I had felt such a thing. And another day I remember, after
contemplating the head of Judas in a pictorial puzzle for a long time,
that I seized a brick and pounded him with it beyond recognition:  these
were the first vengeful beginnings of Christianity in me. All my history,
Bible and English, came to me through picture-books. I wept tenderly over
the endangered eyes of Prince Arthur, yet I put out the eyes of many
kings, princes, and governors who incurred my displeasure, scratching them
with pins till only a white blur remained on the paper.

All this comes to me quite seriously now: I used to laugh thinking it
over. But can a single thing we do be called trivial, since out of it we
grow up minute by minute into a whole being charged with capacity for
gladness or suffering?

Now, as I look back, all these atoms of memory are dust and ashes that I
have walked through in order to get to present things. How I suffer, how
I suffer! If you could have dreamed that a human body could contain so
much suffering, I think you would have chosen a less dreadful way of
showing me your will: you would have given me a reason why I have to
suffer so.

Dearest, I am broken off every habit I ever had, except my love of you. If
you would come back to me you could shape me into whatever you wished. I
will be different in all but just that one thing.










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