And what is the cause of such little repulsions except our mutual and insatiable desire to love and be loved?  And without this insatiableness there is no love.  We live and love to annihilation.  And if it is love that first develops us into true and perfect beings, that is the very life of life, then it need not fear opposition any more than it fears life itself or humanity; peace will come to it only after the conflict of forces.

I feel happy indeed that I love a woman who is capable of loving as you do.  “As you do” is a stronger expression than any superlative.  How can you praise my words, when I, without wishing to, hit upon some that hurt you?  I should like 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.