And we spoke a great
deal of Christ, groping and seeking in the dawning truths, trying to
help and to understand each other. And at every parting I felt again
that something had remained unspoken, whereof she would yet have heard
so gladly. And never did I leave her without a sense of the blessing
that I had her, and without a heavy heart because I must let her wait
and suffer.
For she suffered, she suffered as only pure, tender womanly natures
made for love can suffer. And by degrees I could not hide from myself
that she suffered more than she could bear. The power of endurance of a
pure, delicate soul like hers is infinite as long as in the kernel of
her being, in her love life, she is satisfied and contented. But the
sorrow that touches the kernel consumes her both body and soul.
Remorse is a bad thing, a weakness, a morbid symptom. I permit no
remorse in myself, for I know that it harms and weakens the best that
is in us. But against the self-reproach which is the punishment for
these years of wavering, I struggle in vain.
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