I can conceive of no simpler way to you than the knowledge
of your name and address. I have drawn airy images of you,
but they do not become incarnate, and I am not sure that I
should recognize you in the brief moment of passing. Your
nature is not of those which are instantly legible. As an
abstract power, it has wrought in my life and it continually
moves my heart with desires which are unsatisfactory because
so vague and ignorant. Let me offer you, personally, my
gratitude, my earnest friendship: you would laugh if I were
now to offer more.
Stay! here is another fragment, more reckless in tone:
"I want to find the woman whom I can love—who can love me.
But this is a masquerade where the features are hidden, the
voice disguised, even the hands grotesquely gloved. Come! I
will venture more than I ever thought was possible to me.
You shall know my deepest nature as I myself seem to know
it. Then, give me the commonest chance of learning yours,
through an intercourse which shall leave both free, should
we not feel the closing of the inevitable bond!"
After I had written that, the pages filled rapidly. When the appointed hour arrived, a bulky epistle, in a strong linen envelope, sealed with five wax seals, was waiting on my table. Precisely at six there was an announcement: the door opened, and a little outside, in the shadow, I saw an old woman, in a threadbare dress of rusty black.
"Come in!" I said.
"The letter!" answered a husky voice. She stretched out a bony hand, without moving a step.
"It is for a lady—very important business," said I, taking up the letter; "are you sure that there is no mistake?"
She drew her hand under the shawl, turned without a word, and moved toward the hall door.
"Stop!" I cried: "I beg a thousand pardons! Take it—take it! You are the right messenger!"
She clutched it, and was instantly gone.