“Believe me, I am not without sympathy for unreasonable children. I have always found the best way to quiet them is to give them pictures to look at.
“I therefore take the liberty of sending you one that I hope, by bringing home the reality of the present, will wipe out the illusion of the past.”
She sent me her portrait! My dear lady!
And here I stop.
Now I can live calmly. I shall write, she will reply. I shall see her, shall know where she is, and shall never again be without news of her.
Perhaps, in spite of her dread of new ties, her affection for me may grow slowly and quietly. Already life seems more possible, since the past is not irretrievably over and done with.
No longer is my heaven overcast. My sweet bright star smiles upon me from afar. She does not love me, truly, but why should she? She knows, however, that I love her.
I must find consolation in the thought that she knew me too late, just as I comfort myself for not having known Virgil, Gluck, Beethoven or Shakespeare—who might, perhaps, have loved me too.
(All the same, I am not comforted in the very least!)