for
months.

February 28, 1889.

One of the most depressing things about my present condition is that I
feel, not only so useless, but so prickly, so ugly, so unlovable. Even
Maud's affection, stronger and more tender than ever, does not help me,
because I feel that she cannot love me for what I am, but for what she
remembers me as being, and hopes that I may be again. I know it is not
so, and that she would love me whatever I did or became; but I cannot
realise that now.

A few days ago an old friend came to see me; and I was so futile, so
fractious, so dull, so melancholy with him that I wrote to him
afterwards to apologise for my condition, telling him that I knew that
I was not myself, and hoped he would forgive me for not making more of
an effort. To-day I have had one of the manliest, tenderest, most
beautiful letters I have ever had in my life. He says, "Of course I saw
that you were not in your usual mood, but if you had pretended to be,
if you had kept me at arm's length, if you had grimaced and made
pretence, we should have been no nearer in spirit. I was proud and
grateful that you should so have trusted me, as to let me see into your
heart and mind; and you must believe me when I say that I never loved
and honoured you more. I understood fully what a deep and insupportable
trial your present state of mind must be; and I will be frank--why
should I not be?--and say that I thought you were bearing it bravely,
and what is better still, simply and naturally. I seemed to come closer
to you in those hours than I have ever done before, and to realise
better what you were. 'To make oneself beloved,' says an old writer,
'is to make oneself useful to others'--and you helped me perhaps most,
when you knew it least yourself. I won't tell you not to brood upon or
exaggerate your trouble--you know that well enough yourself. But
believe me that such times are indeed times of growth and expansion,
even when one seems most beaten back upon oneself, most futile, most
unmanly. So take a little comfort, my old friend, and fare onwards
hopefully."

That is a very beautiful and wise letter, and I cannot say how much it
has meant for me. It is a letter that forges an invisible chain, which
is yet stronger than the strongest tie that circumstance can forge; it
is a lantern for one's feet, and one treads a little more firmly in the
dark path, where the hillside looms formless through the shade.

March 3, 1889.

Bes