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When I look back, the Garden is a dream to me. It was beautiful,surpassingly beautiful, and now it is lost, and I shall not see it anymore. The Garden is lost, but I have found him, and am content. He loves me as well as he can; I love him with all the strength of my passionate nature, as is appropriate to my gender. If I ask myself why I love him, I find I do not know, and do not really much care to know. I love certain birds because of their song; but I do not love Adam on account of his singing-no,it is not that;the more he sings the more I get reconciled to it.Yet I ask him to sing, because I wish to learn to like everything he is interested in. I am sure I can learn to like it, because at first I could not stand it, but now I can. It sours the milk, but I can get used to that kind of milk. It is not on account of his brightness that I love him---no, it is not that. He is not to blame for his brightness, in time it will develop, though I think it will not be sudden. It is not on account of his education that I love him, not it is not that. He knows a great many things, but they are not so. At bottom he is good, and I love him for that, but I could love him without it. If he should beat me and abuse me, I should go on loving him. He is strong and handsome, and I love him for that, and I admire him and am proud of him, but I could love him without those qualities. If he were plain, I should love him; if he were a wreck, I should love him; and I would work for him, and slave over him, and pray for him, and watch by his bedside until I died. Then why is it that I love him? Merely because he is mine. There is no other reason, I suppose. This kind of love is not a product of reasoning and statistics… it just comes, and cannot explain itself. And doesn’t need to. It was what I think. |
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