Minna/Book 2, Chapter 4
I once more took up Minna's letter, in order to read it carefully word by word. On the first reading I had been overwhelmed by a dreadful fear that, in truth, as she had warned me, something would be revealed that would lower her in my estimation, a terror which restlessly haunted me from line to line, my eyes always running on in advance. This fear diminished as I proceeded; her almost exaggerated repentance because of these innocent entanglements made me smile half pitifully, and when my brows were knitted it was with indignation against this Stephensen; and yet I could not help feeling a sort of gratitude towards him for not having bound her.
An exultant joy at the same time grew upon me: the consciousness that with this letter she laid her fate in my hands. Throughout it was instinct with the feeling that we stood in front of a decisive step, and with the honest resolution that nothing in the past was to be left uncleared. She wanted to be able to say to herself: "I have told him everything, before I allowed things to go further."
And if I now said—and how deeply I felt that I could and had to say so!—"Well, after having heard all this, I think as before, only that you are more precious to me, because I know and understand you better," how could she then draw back? Was not this confidence a permission to speak the language of love?
The letter to Stephensen showed that she herself had thought of a union between us, though her expressions on this point were not quite satisfactory. But it was only during the last two weeks that we had been growing daily more intimate, and by her pointing out that the letter was a fortnight old, I saw a hint that these remarks were no longer to be considered valid.
I wanted to write to her at once.
I had, however, the self-control to take time to shave the left cheek, on which the dried-up lather was still visible, for the sun was already striking the window-post and would soon have made this necessary operation quite impossible. During this performance I collected my thoughts, and managed with flying pen to write the following letter—
"Dearest Friend,—To what extent your sweet letter has moved me, and how far it is from having by its confidence revealed anything save that which but finishes and deepens the beautiful picture I had already formed, I have only one means of convincing you.
"You say you will send Mr. Stephensen a new letter. Now I propose that you should copy the old one up to the remark where you fear my chest is weak, which I can assure you is quite without foundation.
"After this you should then—according to my idea—continue—
"'He has already shown me so much attention that I could not very well doubt his feelings for me. It therefore did not come as a surprise, when he to-day asked for my hand. He has no private means of his own, but will certainly in a year or so have a respectable income, very likely in England, where he has a well-to-do uncle who will help him. I do not doubt for a moment that I ought to link my fate with his,' etc. etc.
"If you are able to send off such a letter then come to the Hertzes to-day at the usual hour. If I do not see you there when I come, I shall look upon it as a sign that I shall miss you for ever, and that my friendship, instead of being the beginning of an everlasting happiness, was only a passing but blessed dream.
"In that case, farewell, and may you be happy!—Yours affectionately,Harald Fenger."
I put this letter, together with the one to Mr. Stephensen, in an envelope and sent it down to the villa by a little boy.