You arrived at Wand one evening at the end of August. I do not recall very precisely the details of your arrival; I know only that you entered not merely into this German household but also into my life. I remember only that it was already dusk and that the lamps in the vestibule had not yet been lit. It was not your first visit to Wand, and so everything had a certain familiarity for you; everything had a knowledge of you also. It was too dark for me to perceive your features; I realized simply that you were very calm. My dear, women are rarely calm: either they are placid or else they are nervous. You were as serene as a lamp. You spoke familiarly with your hosts; you said only what needed to be said, but you said that perfectly. That evening I was even more timid than usual, enough to discourage even your friendliness. And yet I did not dislike you. Nor did I admire you. You were too distant. Your arrival seemed to me simply somewhat less disagreeable than I had at first feared. You see, my dear, that I am truthful.

I am trying to relive, as precisely as possible, the weeks which led up to our betrothal. Monique, it is not easy. I must avoid words of happiness or love, for, in fact, I did not love you. Yet you became very dear to me. I have told you how sensitive I am to women’s sweetness: with you, I experienced a new feeling of confidence and peace. Like me, you loved long walks in the countryside which led nowhere. For me, it was not necessary that they lead anywhere. I was at peace beside you. Your pensive nature harmonized with my timid nature; we were silent together. And then your lovely, grave voice, somewhat subdued, your voice drenched with silence, gently questioned me about my art and myself. I understood already that you felt a sort of tender pity for me. You were a kind person. You knew about suffering from having so often healed or consoled it. You saw in me a young man who was ill or poor. I was indeed so impoverished that I did not love you. I simply found you sweet. I came to imagine that I would have been happy to belong to you: I mean to say, as your brother. I did not go further than that. I was not so presumptuous as to imagine anything more—or, perhaps, my nature kept silence. As I think of it, it seems already a considerable accomplishment for it to have kept silence.