The Complete Collection: Love Letters of Great Men

(00:00:00) Welcome to Rest
(00:00:49) Introducing tonight's story
(00:01:22) Sleep Story: The Complete Collection - Love Letters of Great Men

Host: Jessika Gössl 🌙 

Writer: Various Historical Figures✍️ 

Includes mentions of: Love, History, Letters, Historical Figures, Romance, Poetry, Devotion, Marriage ❤️ 

Welcome back my friend. Tonight's special release combines Parts I and II of 'Love Letters of Great Men' into one seamless anthology. Whether you’re revisiting these cherished words or discovering them for the first time, let their eloquence inspire and soothe your tired mind.

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:01):
Good evening and welcome to Rest, your sanctuary for peaceful
sleep and relaxation. Whether you're escaping daily stresses or seeking
a nightly companion, you're in the right place. My name
is Jessica, and I'll be your host this evening. Before

(00:27):
we begin, why don't you turn off your screens and
turn down your volume. Now that's done, let's unwind and
help you ease into a blessed rest. Welcome back to

(00:52):
our anthology of love letters. We'll continue our journey through
the intimate thoughts of some of the greatest minds in history.
Allow these letters to lovingly soothe your tired mind and

(01:14):
gently carry you to the peaceful land of undisturbed sleep.
John Keats to Fanny Brawne, Wednesday morning, Kentish Town, eighteen twenty,

(01:35):
My dearest girl, I have been a walk this morning
with a book in my hand, but as usual I
have been occupied with nothing but you. I wish I
could say in an agreeable manner. I am tormented day

(02:00):
and night. They talk of my going to Italy. Tis
certain I shall never recover if I am to be
so long separate from you. Yet with all this devotion
to you, I cannot persuade myself into any confidence of you.

(02:25):
You are to me an object intensely desirable. The air
I breathe in a room empty of you is unhealthy.
I am not the same to you. No, you can wait.

(02:47):
You have a thousand activities. You can be happy without me,
any party, anything to fill up The day has been enough.
How have you passed this month? Who have you smiled with? All?

(03:10):
This may seem savage in me. You do not feel
as I do. You do not know what it is
to love One day you may your time is not
yet come. I cannot live without you, and not only you,

(03:37):
but chaste you, virtuous you. The sun rises and sets,
the day passes, and you follow the bent of your
inclination to a certain extent. You have no conception of

(03:59):
the quantity of miserable feeling that passes through me in
a day. Be serious. Love is not a plaything. And again,
do not write unless you can do it with a
crystal conscience. I would sooner die for want of you

(04:24):
than yours forever. Jake Keats, March eighteen twenty. Sweetest Fanny,
you fear sometimes I do not love you so much
as you wish. My dear girl, I love you ever

(04:50):
and ever and without reserve. The more I have known you,
the more have I loved In every way. Even my
jealousies have been agonies of love. In the hottest fit

(05:11):
I have ever had, I would have died for you.
I have vexed you too much, But for love can
I help it? You are always new. The last of
your kisses was ever, the sweetest, the last smile, the brightest,

(05:38):
the last movement, the gracefullest. When you passed my window
home yesterday, I was filled with as much admiration as
if I had then seen you for the first time.
You uttered a half complaint once that I only loved

(06:03):
your beauty. Have I nothing else then to love in you?
But that do not I see a heart naturally furnished
with wings, imprison itself with me. No ill prospect has

(06:23):
been able to turn your thoughts a moment from me.
This perhaps should be as much as subject of sorrow
as joy, but I will not talk of that. Even
if you did not love me, I could not help

(06:45):
an entire devotion to you. How much more deeply then
must I feel for knowing you love me? My mind
has been the most discontented and restless one that ever

(07:05):
was put into a body too small for it. I
never felt my mind repose upon anything with complete and
undistracted enjoyment. Upon no person but you. When you are

(07:26):
in the room, my thoughts never fly out of window.
You always concentrate my whole senses. The anxiety shone about
our love in your last note is an immense pleasure

(07:46):
to me. However, you must not suffer such speculations to
molest you anymore, nor will I any more believe you
can have the least pique against me. Brown is gone out,

(08:08):
but here is Missus Wiley. When she is gone, I
shall be awake for you. Remembrances to your mother, your
affectionate Jake Eats Robert Schumann to Clara Vike eighteen thirty eight. Clara,

(08:36):
how happy your last letters have made me those since
Christmas Eve. I should like to call you by all
the endearing epithets, and yet I can find no lovelier
word than the simple one, dear. But there is a

(09:02):
particular way of saying it, My dear one. Then I
have wept for joy to think that you are mine,
and often wonder if I deserve you. One would think

(09:22):
that no man's heart and brain could stand all the
things that are crowded into one day. Where do these
thousands of thoughts, wishes, sorrows, joys and hopes come from?

(09:44):
Day in, day out? The procession goes on. But how
lighthearted I was yesterday and the day before shone out
of your letters. So noble a spirit, such faith, such

(10:09):
a wealth of love? What would I not do for
love of you, my own Clara? The knights of old
were better off. They could go through fire or slay
dragons to win their ladies. But we of today have

(10:33):
to content ourselves with more prosaic methods, such as smoking
fewer cigars and the like. After all, though we can
love nights or no knights, and so as ever, only

(10:56):
the times change, not men hearts. You cannot think how
your letter has raised and strengthened me. You are splendid,
and I have much more reason to be proud of

(11:17):
you than you of me. I have made up my mind, though,
to read all your wishes in your face. Then you
will think, even though you don't say it, that your
Robert is a really good sort, that he is entirely yours,

(11:45):
and he loves you more than words can say. You
shall indeed have cause to think so in the happy future.
Still see you as you looked in your little cap
that last evening. I still hear you call me do Clara.

(12:12):
I had heard nothing of what you said, but that do.
Don't you remember? But I see you in many another
unforgettable guys. Once you were in a black dress going

(12:33):
to the theater with Amelia List. It was during our separation.
I know you will not have forgotten. It is vivid
with me. Another time you were walking in the Thomas
Goshion with an umbrella up, and you avoided me in desperation.

(12:59):
And yet at another time, as you were putting on
your hat after a concert, our eyes happened to meet,
and yours were full of the old unchanging love. I
picture you in all sorts of ways as I have

(13:22):
seen you since. I did not look at you much,
but you charmed me so immeasurably. Ah. I can never
praise you enough for yourself or for your love of me,

(13:44):
which I don't really deserve. Robert Napoleon Bonaparte to Josephine
de Bourne, seventeen ninety six. My waking thoughts are all

(14:05):
of the your portrait and the remembrance of last night's
delirium have robbed my senses of repose. Sweet and incomparable, Chassphine,
what an extraordinary influence you have over my heart? Are

(14:31):
you vexed? Do I see you sad? Are you ill
at ease? My soul is broken with grief, and there
is no rest for your lover? But is there more
for me? When delivering ourselves up to the deep feelings

(14:55):
which master me, I breathe out a on your lips,
upon your heart, a flame which burns me up. Ah,
it was this past night I realized that your portrait

(15:16):
was not you. You start at noon. I shall see
you in three hours. Meanwhile, Mio dolceermord, accept a thousand kisses,
but give me none, for they fire my blood. N b.

(15:44):
March fourteenth, seventeen ninety six. I wrote you at Chatillon
and sent you a power of attorney to enable you
to receive very sums of money in course of remittance

(16:04):
to me. Every moment separates me further from you, my beloved,
and every moment I have less energy to exist so
far from you. You are the constant object of my thoughts.

(16:27):
I exhaust my imagination in thinking of what you are doing.
If I see you unhappy, my heart is torn and
my grief grows greater. If you are gay and lively

(16:48):
among your friends, I reproach you with having so soon
forgotten the sorrowful separation three days ago. Thence you must
be fickle, and henceforward stirred by no deep emotions. So

(17:09):
you see, I am not easy to satisfy, But my dear,
I have quite different sensations. When I fear that your
health may be affected, or that you have cause to
be annoyed, then I regret the haste with which I

(17:35):
was separated from my darling. I feel, in fact that
your natural kindness of heart exists no longer for me.
And it is only when I am quite sure you
are not vexed, that I am satisfied. If I were

(18:01):
asked how I slept, I feel that before replying I
should have to get a message to tell me that
you had had a good night. The ailments the passions
of men influence me only when I imagine they may

(18:23):
reach you, My dear, May my good genius, which has
always preserved me in the midst of great dangers surround you,
enfold you, while I will face my fate unguarded. Ah

(18:48):
be not gay but a trifle melancholy. And especially may
your soul be free from worries, as you your body
from illness. You know what our good Ossian says on
this subject. Write me dear and at full length, and

(19:16):
accept the thousand and one kisses of your most devoted
and faithful friend. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart to Constanza Weber, April
twenty ninth, seventeen eighty two. Vienna, my dearest little wife,

(19:47):
I have a great many things to do today and
must therefore be brief. Pray, do not be uneasy about
my health. I am in perfect health and have quite
recovered from my trip, as you well know. When I

(20:11):
cannot write a long letter, I do not write at
all because I must have time for everything I wish
to say to you. But now I must write, even
though it be only a few lines, for I know

(20:34):
that you like to receive letters from me very much.
I am longing to be with you again. Indeed, I
never really live unless I am with you. I tell
you this so that you may not again scold me

(20:58):
for not writing. Believe me, it is not possible that
I should not be thinking of you or that I
could ever forget you for a moment. How could I
do so? When you are always in my thoughts? But

(21:22):
I cannot write at your dearest, best, most beautiful and
beloved wife. Agnes Macklehose Clorinda to Robert Burns, Christmas Eve,

(21:45):
seventeen eighty seven. When first you saw Clorinda's charms, what
rapture in your bosom grew heart was shut to love's alarms?
But then you'd nothing else to do. Apollo Aft had

(22:11):
lent his harp, But now twas strung from Cupid's bow
you sung. It reached Clarinda's heart. She wished you'd nothing
else to do. Fair Venus smiled, Minerva frowned. Cupid observed

(22:36):
the arrow flew indifference. Ere a week went round showed
you had nothing else to do, Clarinda. Robert Burns to
Agnes Mclehose, Clarinda, December twenty seventh, seventeen ninety one. I

(23:06):
must now take my leave of you, my dearest Clorinda.
You are an angel, and I am. But what signifies
character and reputation to a love like ours? Now you

(23:28):
shall have it. I swear by that arm which entwines
you in this embrace by this lip which trembles while
it presses yours, by this heart which beats to yours

(23:48):
with eager, throbbing fondness, that I shall ever remember you
with the tenderest emotions of gratitude, esteem, and love. Nathaniel
Hawthorne to Sophia Peabody Hawthorn, June eighteenth thirty nine, My

(24:18):
own dear Sophia. I do think of you continually, my dearest,
and when my thoughts wonder, they always come back to
you and find their proper resting place. It is very

(24:40):
true that I cannot express how deeply I love you
so much. The more true because my love for you
is of such a depth and quality as I never
drew before. I never was truly blessed till I knew you.

(25:08):
I think you are a necessity to my soul's peace
and to my happiness on earth, as truly as my
daily bread is necessary to my bodily sustenance. December fifth,

(25:29):
eighteen thirty nine. Dearest, I wish I had the gift
of making rhymes for me. Thinks there is poetry in
my head and heart since I have been in love
with you. You are a poem of what sort then epic

(25:58):
mercy on me. No a sonnet, no, for that is
too labored and artificial. You are a sort of sweet, simple, gay,
pathetic ballad which nature is singing, sometimes with tears, sometimes

(26:25):
with smiles, and sometimes with intermingled smiles and tears. Sophia
Peabody Hawthorn to Nathaniel Hawthorne, December nineteenth, eighteen forty four,

(26:47):
Most beloved Love. If I asked myself strictly whether I
could write to THEE this evening, I should say absolutely know,
for ten thousand different things demand the precious moments while

(27:10):
our baby sleeps. But how am I to live unless
I write to THEE mine own husband? And what are
these ten thousand things in comparison with even an expression

(27:31):
of our love? When severed from each other's vision? At
all events? I must mend my broken life with an actual,
tangible communication with THEE, or I shall feel as if
I were but sounding for us. For I can see

(27:56):
here feel nothing like THEE in this vortex of men
and confines into which I plunge when I descend from
this chamber into their midst below. And I want THEE, Oh,

(28:18):
how much I want THEE? How magnificent How tender, how
sweet thou art, my husband? How came to that I
am enriched with the glory of thy love? Oh, when

(28:42):
I think of going back to our own home, where
I should see THEE all day and no one but THEE,
my head swells with oceanic might. And I bless God
for such a destiny as mine. Thou satisfied me beyond

(29:08):
all things in THEE. Only do I find satisfaction forever,
Thine immortal loving wife. Phoebe Gustave Flaubert to his wife

(29:30):
Louise Collette, August fifteenth, eighteen forty six. My poor heart
is so full of you. I want you beside me,
to let my head rest on your shoulder, to weep,

(29:54):
to have your hand pressed to my heart, to kiss you,
to talk to you, and to say to you here
I am, I am yours. Everything is yours. I am

(30:15):
in you, you are in me. Let us not separate
ever again. Oh, my dear Louise, how I suffer when
I think of all the things that divide us. Life

(30:35):
is so long and so cruel, and the years are passing.
And I love you. I love you as I have
never loved anyone. How could I have lived so long

(30:56):
without knowing you. August twenty first, eighteen fifty three. Have
you really not noticed, then, that, here, of all places,
in this private personal solitude that surrounds me, I have

(31:22):
turned to you. All the memories of my youth speak
to me as I walk. Just as the seashells crunch
under my feet on the beach, the crash of every
wave awakens far distant reverberations within me. I hear the

(31:50):
rumble of by gone days, and in my mind the
whole endless series of old passions surges forward like the billows.
I remember my spasms, my sorrows, gusts of desire that

(32:13):
whistled like wind in the rigging, and vast, vague longings
that swirled in the dark like a flock of wild
gulls in a storm cloud. On whom should I lean?
If not on you? My weary mind turns for refreshment

(32:39):
to the thought of you, as a dusty traveler might
sink onto a soft and grassy bank. Abigail Adams to
her husband John Adams, December twenty third, seventeen eighty two,

(33:03):
My dearest friend, should I draw you the picture of
my heart? It would be what I hope you would
still love though it contained nothing new, the early possession
you obtained there, and the absolute power you have obtained

(33:24):
over it, leaves not the smallest space unoccupied. I look
back to the early days of our acquaintance and friendship,
as to the days of love and innocence, and with
an indescribable pleasure I have seen near a score of

(33:48):
years roll over our heads with an affection heightened and
improved by time. Nor have the dreary years of absence
in the moralest degree, if faced from my mind the
image of the dear untitled man to whom I gave

(34:08):
my heart Thomas would Row Wilson to his wife Ellen
Axon Wilson, May ninth, eighteen eighty six. I've been reckoning
up in a tumultuous sort of way, the value of

(34:29):
my little wife to me. I can't state the result.
There are no terms of value in which it can
be stated, but perhaps I can give you some ideas
of what its proportions would be if it were stated.
She has taken all real pain out of my life.

(34:55):
Her wonderful, loving sympathy exults eve even my occasional moods
of despondency into a sort of hallowed sadness, out of
which I come stronger and better. She has given to
my ambitions a meaning, an assurance, and a purity which

(35:19):
they have never had before. With her by my side,
ardently devoted to me and to my cause, understanding all
my thoughts and all my aims, I feel that I
can make the utmost of every power I possess. She

(35:41):
has brought into my life the sunshine which was needed
to keep it from growing stale and morbid, that has
steadily been bringing back into my spirits their old gladness
and boyhood, their old delight in play and laughter, that

(36:02):
sweetest sunshine of deep womanly love, on failing gentle patience,
even happy spirits and spontaneous mirth, that is the purest,
swiftest tonic to a spirit prone to fret and apt
to flack. She has given me that perfect rest of

(36:28):
heart and mind of whose existence I had never so
much as dreamed before she came to me, which springs
out of assured oneness, of hope and sympathy, and which
for me means life and success. Above all, she has

(36:52):
given me herself to live, for her arms are able
to hold me up against the world. Her eyes are
able to charm away every care. Her words are my
solace and inspiration and all because her love is my life.

(37:16):
Victor Hugo to Adele Fouchet, March fifteenth, eighteen twenty two. Dearest,
after the two delightful evenings spent yesterday and the day before,
I shall certainly not go out to night, but will

(37:37):
sit here at home and write to you, besides my Adele,
my adorable and adored Adele, What have I not to
tell you? For two days? I have been asking myself
every moment if such happiness is not a dream. It

(38:01):
seems to me that what I feel is not of earth.
I cannot yet comprehend this cloudless heaven. You do not
yet know, Adele, to what I had resigned myself, alas
do I know it myself. Because I was weak, I

(38:22):
fancied I was calm, because I was preparing myself for
all the mad follies of despair. I thought I was
courageous and resigned. Let me cast myself humbly at your feet,
you who are so grand, so tender and strong. I

(38:47):
had been thinking that the utmost limit of my devotion
could only be the sacrifice of my life, But you,
my generous love, were ready to sacrifice for me the
repose of yours. You have been privileged to receive every

(39:07):
gift from nature. You have both fortitude and tears. Oh, Adele,
do not mistake these words for blind enthusiasm. Enthusiasm for
you has lasted all my life and increased day by day.

(39:30):
My whole soul is yours. If my entire existence had
not been yours, the harmony of my being would have
been lost, and I must have died, died inevitably. These
were my meditations, Adele, when the letter that was to

(39:52):
bring me hope of Elle's despair arrived. If you love me,
you know what must have been my joy. What I
know you may have felt. I will not describe my Adele.
Why is there no word for this but joy? Is it?

(40:12):
Because there is no power in human speech to express
such happiness. The sudden bound from mournful resignation to infinite
felicity seemed to upset me. Even now, I am still
beside myself, and sometimes I tremble lest I should suddenly

(40:35):
awaken from this dream. Divine, Oh, now you are mine
at last, you are mine. Soon in a few months,
perhaps my angel will sleep in my arms, will awaken
in my arms, will live there. All your thoughts, at

(41:01):
all moments, all your looks will be for me, all
my thoughts, all my moments, all my looks will be
for you. My adele, Adieu, my adele, my beloved adele, Adieu.

(41:23):
I will kiss your hair and go to bed. Still.
I am far from you, but I can dream of you. Soon,
perhaps you will be at my side. Adieu. Pardon the
delirium of your husband, who embraces you and who adores you,

(41:45):
both for this life and another. Juliet Drouet to Victor Hugo,
eighteen thirty five. If only I Will were a clever woman,
I could describe to you, my gorgeous bird, how you

(42:06):
unite in yourself the beauties of form, plumage and song.
I would tell you that you are the greatest marvel
of all ages. And I should only be speaking the
simple truth. But to put all this into suitable words,

(42:29):
my superb one, I should require a voice far more
harmonious than that which is bestowed upon my species. For
I am the humble owl that you mocked at only lately.
Therefore it cannot be I will not tell you to

(42:50):
what degree you are dazzling to the birds of sweet song, who,
as you know, are nonetheless beautiful and appreciative. I am
content to delegate to them the duty of watching, listening,
and admiring, while to myself I reserve the right of loving.

(43:17):
This may be less attractive to the ear, but it
is sweeter far to the heart. I love you. I
love you, my Victor. I cannot reiterate it too often,
I can never express it as much as I feel it.

(43:38):
I recognize you in all the beauty that surrounds me.
In form, in color, in perfume, in harmonious sound, all
of these mean you. To me. You are superior to
all I see and admire. You are all. You are

(44:04):
not only the solar spectrum with the seven luminous colors,
but the sun himself that illumines, warms, and reverfies. This
is what you are, and I am the lowly woman
that adores you. Juliet Honore de Balzac to Evelina Hanska,

(44:32):
October sixth, eighteen thirty three. Evelina, our love will bloom
always fairer, fresher, more gracious, because it is a true love,
and because genuine love is ever increasing. It is a

(44:56):
beautiful plant growing from year to year in the heart,
ever extending its palms and branches, doubling every season, its
glorious clusters and perfumes. And my dear life, tell me
repeat to me always that nothing will bruise its bark

(45:20):
or its delicate leaves, that it will grow larger in
both our hearts. Loved free, watched over like a life
within our life. June nineteenth, eighteen thirty six, My beloved angel,

(45:44):
I am nearly mad about you, as much as one
can be mad. I cannot bring together two ideas that
you do not interpose yourself between them. I can no
longer think of anything but you. In spite of myself,

(46:05):
my imagination carries me to you. I grasp you, I
kiss you, I caress you. A thousand of the most
amorous caresses, take possession of me. As for my heart.
There you will always be very much so. I have

(46:29):
a delicious sense of you there. But my God, what
is to become of me if you have deprived me
of my reason? This is monomania, which this morning terrifies me.
I rise up every moment saying to myself, come, I

(46:54):
am going there. Then I sit down again, moved by
the sense of my obligations. There is a frightful conflict.
This is not life. I have never before been like that.
You have devoured everything. I feel foolish and happy. As

(47:17):
soon as I think of you, I whirl round in
a delicious dream in which, in one instance I live
a thousand years. What a horrible situation, overcome by love,
feeling love in every pore, living only for love, and

(47:40):
seeing oneself consumed by griefs and caught in a thousand
spiders threads. Oh, my darling, Eva, you did not know it.
I picked up your card. It is there before me,
and I talk to you as if you were there.

(48:01):
I see you as I did yesterday. Beautiful, astonishingly beautiful.
Yesterday during the whole evening, I said to myself, she
is mine. Ah, the angels are not as happy in

(48:21):
paradise as I was yesterday. Matthew Arnold, Longing come to
me in my dreams, and then by day I shall
be well again, For then the night will more than
pay the hopeless longing of the day. Come as thou

(48:49):
camest a thousand times a messenger from radiant climes, and
smile on thy new world. And be as kind to
others as to me, or as thou never camest in sooth.
Come now and let me dream in truth, and part

(49:12):
my hair and kiss my brow, and say, my love,
why sufferest thou come to me in my dreams? And
then by day I shall be well again, For then
the night will more than pay the hopeless longing of

(49:33):
the day. From Ludwig van Beethoven to immortal beloved, My
immortal beloved, Though still in bed, my thoughts go out
to you, my immortal beloved, now and then joyfully, then sadly,

(49:58):
waiting to learn whether or not fate will hear us.
I can live only holy with you, or not at all. Yes,
I am resolved to wander so long away from you
until I can fly to your arms and say that

(50:18):
I am really at home with you, and can send
my soul in wrapting you into the land of spirits. Yes,
unhappily it must be, so you will be the more contained,
since you know my fidelity to you. No one else

(50:40):
can ever possess my heart. Never, never, Oh God, why
must one be parted from one whom one so loves?
And yet my life in Vienna is now a wretched life.
Your love makes me me at once the happiest and

(51:03):
the unhappiest of men. At my age, I need a steady,
quiet life. Can that be so? In our connection? My angel?
I have just been told that the male coach goes
every day. Therefore I must close at once so that

(51:25):
you may receive the letter at once. Be calm. Only
by a calm consideration of our existence can we achieve
our purpose to live together. Be calm, Love me today, yesterday,

(51:46):
what tearful longings for you? You, you, my life, my all. Farewell, Oh,
continue to love me. Never misjudge the most faithful heart
of your beloved ever thine, ever, mine ever hours Mark

(52:16):
Twain to his future wife Olivia Langdon, May twelfth, eighteen
sixty nine. Out of the depths of my happy heart
worlds a great tide of love and prayer for this
priceless treasure that is confided to my lifelong keeping. You

(52:42):
cannot see its intangible waves as they flow towards you, darling,
but in these lines you will hear, as it were,
the distant beating of the serf. William shape Sphere Sonnet. Eighteen.

(53:04):
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day Thou art
more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the
darling buds of May, and summer's lease hath all too
short a date, some time too hot. The eye of

(53:25):
heaven shines, and often is his gold complexion dimmed, And
every fair from fair sometime declines, by chance or nature's
changing course untrimmed. But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
nor lose possession of that fair thou oust, nor shall

(53:49):
death brag Thou wanderest in his shade. When in eternal
lines to time, thou grosst. So long as men can
breathe or eyes can see, so long lives this, and
this gives life to thee. Have a blessed rest, sweet dreams,

(54:18):
good night,