Three weeks ago today you were expecting a letter from me, but I did not write. Alas, to whom could I have entrusted that letter? Do you remember the poem, "The Fiddler at the Fountain" ? Much of it is very beautiful, but what appeals to me most is that he confides only in "the light dancer of the woods"" the fish, the bird, the mouse etc. Of course, I know that this is not really in the poem, and that if some people were to see these lines, they would accuse me of having read much more into the poem than was there originally. So be it. Why should that concern me as long as you undestand me, as long as we have a secret bond that remains a mystery to everyone else, not only because it is confided mutely, but because it speaks a language that you alone understand, and I, when you have understood me. But three weeks ago you expected me to write and not to come calling - and today you expect me to come calling and not to write. What if I were to do both! (However, I shall probably not call until twelve o'clock in order to escort you to my aunt's in Gothersgade.) In truth, I come, I write, I think, I speak and falter and sigh, and my room resounds with my monologues, and in you alone, my sole confidante, dare I confide what it is that now boisterously wells up in me and then again is lost in silent reverie - in you alone dare I confide - what you have confided in me. For know that every time you repeat that you love me from the deepest recesses of your soul, it is as though I heard it for the first time, and just as a man who owned the whole world would need a lifetime to survey his splendors, so I also seem to need a lifetime to contemplate all the riches contained in your love. Know that every time you thus solemnly assure me that you always love me equally well, both when I am happy and when I am sad, most when I am sad - because you know is divine nostalgia and everything good in man is sorrow's child - know that then you are rescuing a soul from Purgatory. You know that the Catholic Church teaches that the prayers of the faithful succor the souls in Purgatory; I know that this is true, and each time you speak of you love, I cease to hear the rattling of the chains; then I am free [in the margin: "He (Eros) brings peace to mankind, rest to the stormy sea; he bids the winds be silent, and he lulls sorrow into slumber"], infinitely free like a bird on the wing; then I am free, and happy in my freedom, and am myself a witness to my own happiness, while formely I was both prisoner and my own jailer.
Yours eternally, S.K.
Whenever you catch a breath of that heliotrope at home, which is still fresh, please think of me, for truly my mind and my soul are turned toward this sun, and I have a deep longing for you, thou sun amongst women.