But the power was used upon me—­and I never doubted that you had mistaken your own mind, the strongest of us having some exceptional weakness.  Turning the wonder round in all lights, I came to what you admitted yesterday ... yes, I saw that very early ... that you had come here with the intention of trying to love whomever you should find, ... and also that what I had said about exaggerating the amount of what I could be to you, had just operated in making you more determined to justify your own presentiment in the face of mine.  Well—­and if that last clause was true a little, too ... why should I be sorry now ... and why should you have fancied for a moment, that the first could make me sorry.  At first and when I did not believe that you really loved me, when I thought you deceived yourself, then, it was different.  But now ... now ... when I see and believe your attachment for me, do you think that any cause in the world (except what diminished it) could render it less a source of joy to me?  I mean as far as I myself am considered.  Now if you ever fancy that I am vain of your love for me, you will be unjust, remember.  If it were less dear, and less above me, I might be vain perhaps.  But I may say before God and you, that of all the events of my life, inclusive of its afflictions, nothing has humbled me so much as your love.  Right or wrong it may be, but true it is, and I tell you.  Your love has been to me like God’s own love, which makes the receivers of it kneelers.

Why all this should be written, I do not know—­but you set me thinking yesterday in that backward line, which I lean back to very often, and for once, as you made me write directly, why I wrote, as my thoughts went, that way.

Say how you are, beloved—­and do not brood over that ‘Soul’s Tragedy,’ which I wish I had here with ‘Luria,’ because, so, you should not see it for a month at least.  And take exercise and keep well—­and remember how many letters I must have before Saturday.  May God bless you.  Do you want to hear me say

     I cannot love you less...?

That is a doubtful phrase.  And

     I cannot love you more

is doubtful too, for reasons I could give.  More or less, I really love you, but it does not sound right, even so, does it?  I know what it ought to be, and will put it into the ‘seal’ and the ‘paper’ with the ineffable other things.

Dearest, do not go to St. Petersburg.  Do not think of going, for fear it should come true and you should go, and while you were helping the Jews and teaching Nicholas, what (in that case) would become of your

BA?

R.B. to E.B.B.

Tuesday.
[Post-mark, February 24, 1846.]