When I look back, the Garden is a dream to me.
It was beautiful, surpassingly beautiful, enchantingly
beautiful; and now it is lost, and I shall not see
it any more.
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,
and this, I think, is proper to my youth and sex.
If I ask myself why I love him, I find I do not know,
and do not really much care to know; so I suppose that
this kind of love is not a product of reasoning and
statistics, like one’s love for other reptiles
and animals. I think that this must be so.
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 do not
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, because at first I
could not stand it, but now I can. It sours
the milk, but it doesn’t matter; 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, such as it is, for he
did not make it himself; he is as God make him, and
that is sufficient. There was a wise purpose
in it, that I know. In time it will develop,
though I think it will not be sudden; and besides,
there is no hurry; he is well enough just as he is.
It is not on account of his gracious and considerate
ways and his delicacy that I love him. No, he
has lacks in this regard, but he is well enough just
so, and is improving.
It is not on account of his industry that I love him—no,
it is not that. I think he has it in him, and
I do not know why he conceals it from me. It
is my only pain. Otherwise he is frank and open
with me, now. I am sure he keeps nothing from
me but this. It grieves me that he should have
a secret from me, and sometimes it spoils my sleep,
thinking of it, but I will put it out of my mind;
it shall not trouble my happiness, which is otherwise
full to overflowing.
It is not on account of his education that I love
him—no, it is not that. He is self-educated,
and does really know a multitude of things, but they
are not so.
It is not on account of his chivalry that I love him—no,
it is not that. He told on me, but I do not blame
him; it is a peculiarity of sex, I think, and he did
not make his sex. Of course I would not have
told on him, I would have perished first; but that
is a peculiarity of sex, too, and I do not take credit
for it, for I did not make my sex.
Then why is it that I love him? Merely
because he is masculine, I think.
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.
I know it. It is a matter of sex, I think.
