But the truth is, I was nearly
killed by that hideous Book on Friedrich,--twelve years in
continuous wrestle with the nightmares and the subterranean
hydras;--nearly _killed,_ and had often thought I should be
altogether, and must die leaving the monster not so much as
finished! This is one truth, not so evident to any friend or
onlooker as it is to myself: and then there is another, known to
myself alone, as it were; and of which I am best not to speak to
others, or to speak to them no farther. By the calamity of April
last, I lost my little all in this world; and have no soul left
who can make any corner of this world into a _home_ for me any
more. Bright, heroic, tender, true and noble was that lost
treasure of my heart, who faithfully accompanied me in all the
rocky ways and climbings; and I am forever poor without her.
She was snatched from me in a moment,--as by a death from the
gods. Very beautiful her death was; radiantly beautiful (to
those who understand it) had all her life been _quid plura?_ I
should be among the dullest and stupidest, if I were not among
the saddest of all men.
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