I am so very much of a dreamer that it is difficult for me to write distinctly just what the relations are between us. Other thoughts perpetually throng upon me, and I have to strive hard not to pervert things or fabricate. And you will understand that I have not a jot or tittle of desire to fabricate....
You must know how poor I am, in spite of my having home and family, and how rich, on the contrary, you make me, so that eternally I must love you. You must be told everything. You must be told how very well I know you don’t care whether you are told or not, but I write not for your sake, but for the sake of my own love.... You are so unspeakably good and kind....
There was another evening, the evening of the fête. I asked you to give me a moment, one little moment for me alone, and in the middle of the revel and music we sat down in a corner together, at a little table. One gets distinct in calculating when the means are so sparingly few.
I seated myself at an angle, from which I could, to my heart’s content, and eye’s satisfaction, gaze right into your soul without any one seeing what I was doing.
You, you looked at me as if you were glad at my joy. You talked of all sorts of things. But every word that you let fall with a confidential emphasis as if it were between you and me alone, was like pure gold—a treasure to be added to my heart.
Not for long were we allowed to sit together undisturbed. Other people came up to us and jokingly teased us. They said that we too obviously sought each other’s company. How stupid of them to say that, when it is only I who seek yours. And yet—don’t be vexed with me—I liked them to say it. So I do.
And then it was that we came to discuss goodness, and I said so that every one could hear, that you were the best and finest of all the men I knew. My own husband stood near and smiled. He was so sure of me.... You, as well as the others, declared that there were men who might compare favourably with you. I could not bear to hear that. Softly in an undertone, I begged you to confess that you were the best, and you whispered, using “thou” for the first time, “For thee I am best.”
But it is not true that you are only best for me. You are wonderfully good—your whole manner of life bears witness to it. Every one knows it, and every one knows that you suffer. No one can protect you from its being common knowledge that you have suffered deeply. Your heart lies in ruins. I ought to learn from you to forget myself, and never to speak of love which to you can never mean anything again. But I don’t speak in words.
It was that evening you clasped me close to you, not because you loved me, but because you were so kind. While your lips sought mine I asked, “Then it is true that you love me a little?” and you answered in your infinite goodness, “Yes, it is true, you are very, very dear to me.”