"But look here, liebchen,—is it true that while I had the light, I didn't have it at all,—didn't know what it meant? Did I have to lose it in order to get it? For isn't it having a thing to understand it—more than it's having it to really have it and not understand? See what I mean? Those are some of the things circling around on the outside.
"Sometimes I think so. Sometimes I think the light was shut out that the greater light might come. Sometimes I think we scientists haven't the right line on the world at all. Why, Ernestine, sometimes I think it's miles deeper than we ever dreamed! A hodge-podge—this letter. Like my life, starting out one thing, and ending up another, or rather not ending up anything at all—a going to pieces in the midst of my philosophy—a not being sure of anything—a constant 'perhaps.'"
"I'm lonesome. I'm tired. I don't feel well. The old ladies would say I'm 'under the weather.' Why, I can't even keep feeling right when you're away.
"I want you. I want you—here—now. I can't talk to you on this infernal machine, my hands groping around just as senselessly as my thoughts. I tell you, liebchen, blindness is bad business. It sounds well in a poem, but it's a bad thing to live with. It's bad to wake up in the night sometimes and think that it will be daylight soon and then remember that it will never be daylight for you again!
"I wish you were here. I'm just in the mood for talking—not talking, perhaps, but having you close to me, and understanding.
"There's one thing that there's no perhaps about. That's you. There's no perhaps when it comes to our love. There's no perhaps—
"Now, that made me fall a-dreaming. I stopped writing and lighted my pipe and sat a long time, thinking of you. It's 'our hour'—I know that, because I heard the clock strike. Where are you? Why aren't you here?
"I want you. Believe I said that before, but if I said it a thousand times, I couldn't make it strong enough. I don't know why I want you like this—this soul want. It isn't just your kisses, your sweetness, the dear things about you. I want you to be here to understand—for you would—you do.
"My light in the darkness, my Ernestine! I shall never let you go away again. The darkness is too dark without you.
"Evening now, for again I stopped; too tired, too quiet, someway, to feel like writing. I am going to bed. I wish you were here for your good-night kiss. I wish you were here just to tell me that you understand all these things I have not been able to say. I wish you were here to tell me—what in my heart I know—that you are going to bring me the light, that love will light the way. I wish you were here to tell me that what my eyes cannot tell you, as they used to, you can read now just by the beating of my heart, just through the fullness of our silences.