FullReads

I am a little surprised now that I had so much patience with the Unknown. I was too important, at least, to be played with; too mature to be! subjected to a longer test; too earnest, as I had proved, to be doubted, or thrown aside without a further explanation.

Growing tired, at last, of silent waiting, I bethought me of advertising. A carefully written “Personal,” in which Ignotus informed Ignota of the necessity of his communicating with her, appeared simultaneously in the “Tribune,” “Herald,” “World,” and “Times.” I renewed the advertisement as the time expired without an answer, and I think it was about the end of the third week before one came, through the post, as before.

Ah, yes! I had forgotten. See! my advertisement is pasted on the note, as a heading or motto for the manuscript lines. I don’t know why the printed slip should give me a particular feeling of humiliation as I look at it, but such is the fact. What she wrote is all I need read to you:

“I could not, at first, be certain that this was meant for
me. If I were to explain to you why I have not written for
so long a time, I might give you one of the few clews which
I insist on keeping in my own hands. In your public
capacity, you have been ( so far as a woman may judge)
upright, independent, wholly manly in your relations with
other men I learn nothing of you that is not honorables
toward women you are kind, chivalrous, no doubt, overflowing
with the usual social refinements, but–Here, again, I
run hard upon the absolute necessity of silence. The way to
me, if you care to traverse it, is so simple, so very simple!
Yet, after what I have written, I can not even wave my
hand in the direction of it, without certain self-contempt.
When I feel free to tell you, we shall draw apart and remain
unknown forever.

“You desire to write? I do not prohibit it. I have
heretofore made no arrangement for hearing from you, in
turn, because I could not discover that any advantage would
accrue from it. But it seems only fair, I confess, and you
dare not think me capricious. So, three days hence, at six
o’clock in the evening, a trusty messenger of mine will call
at your door. If you have anything to give her for me, the
act of giving it must be the sign of a compact on your part
that you will allow her to leave immediately, unquestioned
and unfollowed.”

You look puzzled, I see: you don’t catch the real drift of her words? Well, that’s a melancholy encouragement. Neither did I, at the time: it was plain that I had disappointed her in some way, and my intercourse with or manner toward women had something to do with it. In vain I ran over as much of my later social life as I could recall. There had been no special attention, nothing to mislead a susceptible heart; on the other side, certainly no rudeness, no want of “chivalrous” (she used the word!) respect and attention. What, in the name of all the gods, was the matter?

In spite of all my efforts to grow clearer, I was obliged to write my letter in a rather muddled state of mind. I had so much to say! sixteen folio pages, I was sure, would only suffice for an introduction to the case; yet, when the creamy vellum lay before me and the moist pen drew my fingers toward it, I sat stock dumb for half an hour. I wrote, finally, in a half-desperate mood, without regard to coherency or logic. Here’s a rough draft of a part of the letter, and a single passage from it will be enough: