Letter XLV

Beloved: I look at this ridiculous little nib now, running like a plow
along the furrows! What can the poor thing do? Bury its poor black, blunt
little nose in the English language in order to tell you, in all sorts of
roundabout ways, what you know already as well as I do. And yet, though
that is all it can do, you complain of not having had a letter! Not had a
letter? Beloved, there are half a hundred I have not had from you! Do you
suppose you have ever, any one week in your life, sent me as many as I
wanted?

Now, for once, I did hold off and didn't write to you: because there was
something in your last I couldn't give any answer to, and I hoped you
would come yourself before I need. Then I hoped silence would bring you:
and now--no!--instead of your dear peace-giving face I get this complaint!

Ah, Beloved, have you in reality any complaint, or sorrow that I can set
at rest? Or has that little, little silence made you anxious? I do come
to think so, for you never flourish your words about as I do: so,
believing that, I would like to write again differently; only it is truer
to let what I have written stand, and make amends for it in all haste. I
love you so infinitely well, how could even a year's silence give you any
doubt or anxiety, so long as you knew I was not ill?