After the Fall

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.