ike to say, I write too well to be able to
describe to you my inward state of mind. Oh, dearest! Believe me,
there is no question in you that has not its answer in me. Your love
cannot be any more everlasting than mine. Admirable, however, is your
beautiful jealousy of my fancy and its wild flights. That indicates
rightly the boundlessness of your constancy, and leads me to hope that
your jealousy is on the point of destroying itself by its own excess.

This sort of fancy--committed to writing--is no longer needed. I shall
soon be with you. I am holier and more composed than I was. I can only
see you in my mind and stand always before you. You yourself feel
everything without my telling you, and beam with joy, thinking partly
of the man you love and partly of your baby.

* * * * *

Do you know, while I have been writing to you, no memory could have
profaned you; to me you are as everlastingly pure as the Holy Virgin
of the Immaculate Conception, and you have wanted nothing to make you
like the Madonna except the Child. Now you have that, now it is there
and a reality. I shall soon be carrying him on my arm, telling him
fairy-tales, giving him serious instruction and lessons as to how a
young man has to conduct himself in the world.

And then my mind reverts to the mother. I give you an endless kiss; I
watch your bosom heave with longing, and feel the mysterious throbbing
of your heart. When we are together again we will think of our youth,
and I will keep the present holy. You are right indeed; one hour later
is infinitely later.

It is cruel that I cannot be with you right now. From sheer impatience
I do all sorts of foolish things. From morning until night I do
nothing but rove around here in this glorious region. Sometimes I
hasten my steps, as if I had something terribly important to do, and
presently find myself in some place where I had not the least desire
to be. I make gestures as if I were delivering a forcible speech; I
think I am alone and suddenly find myself among people. Then I have to
smile when I realize how absent-minded I was.

I cannot write very long either; pretty soon I want to go out again
and dream away the beautiful evening on the bank of the quiet stream.

Today I forgot among other things that it was time to send my letter
off. Oh well, so much the more joy and excitement will you have when
you receive it.

* * * * *

Peo