Part 3

What Lotte must be to one who is sick, I feel in my own heart, which is in a worse state than many that languish on the bed of death. She is to spend a few days in the town with an upright woman who, according to the physicians, is near her end, and in these last moments wishes to have Lotte by her side. I went with her last week to visit the parson of St., a little place lying an hour off among the hills. We arrived there toward four o'clock. Lotte had taken her second sister with her. As we stepped into the parsonage yard, shaded by two tall walnut trees, the good old man was sitting on a bench before the house door, and when he saw Lotte he was revived as if anew, forgot his knotted staff, and ventured to rise and come toward her. She ran to him, urged him to sit down again as she seated herself beside him, brought many greetings from her father, and kissed his hideous, dirty youngest boy, the little squaller of his old age. You should have seen her, how she occupied the old man, how she raised her voice to be intelligible to his half-deaf ears, how she told him of young, robust people who had died unexpectedly, of the excellence of Carlsbad, and how she praised his resolve to go there next summer, how she found that he looked much better, was much livelier than the last time she had seen him. Meanwhile I had paid my compliments to the parson's wife. The old man became quite cheerful, and since I could not but praise the beautiful walnut trees that shaded us so pleasantly, he began, though with some difficulty, to tell us their history. "The old one," said he, "we do not know who planted it; some say this parson, others that. But the younger one there behind is as old as my wife, fifty years this October. Her father planted it in the morning, as she was born toward evening. He was my predecessor in office, and how dear the tree was to him cannot be told; to me it is certainly no less. My wife sat under it on a beam and knit, when I first came into this yard seven-and-twenty years ago as a poor student." Lotte asked after his daughter; it was said she had gone out to the meadow with Mr. Schmidt to the laborers, and the old man continued his narration: how his predecessor had taken a liking to him and the daughter too, and how he had first become his vicar and then his successor. The story was scarcely ended when the parson's daughter came through the garden with the so-called Mr. Schmidt: she greeted Lotte with cordial warmth, and I must say she pleased me not ill; a brisk, well-formed brunette, who might have entertained one well enough during a short time in the country. Her lover (for such Mr. Schmidt at once presented himself as), a refined yet quiet man, who would not mix in our conversation, though Lotte always drew him in. What grieved me most was that I seemed to observe in his features that it was rather obstinacy and ill-humor than limitation of understanding that hindered him from opening up. In the sequel this, alas, became only too clear; for when Friederike walked with Lotte and occasionally with me during our stroll, the gentleman's face, which was of a brownish complexion anyway, grew so visibly darkened that it was time Lotte pinched me by the sleeve and gave me to understand that I had been too gallant with Friederike. Now nothing vexes me more than when people plague one another, most of all when young folk in the bloom of life, who might be most open to all joys, spoil one another's few good days with grimaces and only too late perceive the irreplaceable nature of their waste. It annoyed me, and I could not refrain, as we returned toward evening to the parsonage and ate milk at a table and the talk turned to the joys and sorrows of the world, from taking up the thread and speaking right heartily against ill-humor. "We men often complain," I began, "that the good days are so few and the bad so many, and, as it seems to me, mostly without cause. If we but had an open heart always to enjoy the good that God prepares for us each day, we should then also have strength enough to bear the evil when it comes." "But we have not our temper in our own power," replied the parson's wife, "how much depends on the body! When one is unwell, one is not rightly anywhere." I granted her that. "Let us then," I continued, "regard it as a sickness and ask whether there is no remedy for it?" "That is worth hearing," said Lotte, "I believe at least that much depends on ourselves. I know it in my own case. When something teases me and would make me cross, I spring up and sing a few country dances up and down the garden, and it is gone directly." "That was what I meant to say," I replied, "ill-humor is wholly like laziness, for it is a kind of laziness. Our nature is much inclined that way, and yet, if we but once have the force to rouse ourselves, the work goes fresh from our hands, and we find a true pleasure in activity." Friederike was very attentive, and the young man objected to me that one is not master over oneself, and least of all can command one's feelings. "Here it is a question of an unpleasant feeling," I replied, "which yet everyone is glad to be rid of; and no one knows how far his powers go until he has tried them. Certainly, whoever is sick will inquire among all physicians, and the greatest resignations, the bitterest medicines will he not reject, to obtain his wished-for health." I observed that the honest old man strained his hearing to take part in our discourse; I raised my voice, turning the speech toward him. "One preaches against so many vices," said I, "I have never yet heard that one has worked from the pulpit against ill-humor." "The town parsons should do that," said he, "the peasants have no ill-humor; yet it might sometimes do no harm, it would be a lesson at least for his wife and for the bailiff." The company laughed, and he heartily with them, until he fell into a cough that interrupted our discourse for a while; whereupon the young man took up the word again: "You called ill-humor a vice; it seems to me that is exaggerated." "By no means," I answered, "if that whereby one harms oneself and one's neighbor deserves the name. Is it not enough that we cannot make one another happy, must we also rob one another of the pleasure that each heart can still sometimes afford itself? And name me the man who is in ill-humor and is so honest as to hide it, to bear it alone, without destroying the joy around him! Or is it not rather an inward discontent at our own unworthiness, a displeasure with ourselves, which is always bound up with an envy that is goaded by a foolish vanity? We see happy people whom we cannot make happy, and that is intolerable." Lotte smiled at me, seeing the emotion with which I spoke, and a tear in Friederike's eye spurred me to continue. "Woe to those," said I, "who use the power they have over a heart to rob it of the simple joys that spring from within itself. All gifts, all favors of the world do not replace a moment of pleasure in oneself, which a jealous discomfort of our tyrant has embittered."

My whole heart was full in this moment; the remembrance of so much that was past pressed upon my soul, and tears came to my eyes.

"If one only told oneself daily," I cried, "thou canst do naught for thy friends but leave them their joys and increase their happiness by enjoying it with them. Canst thou, when their inner soul is tormented by an anxious passion, shattered by sorrow, give them a drop of relief?

And when then the last, most fearful sickness falls upon the creature whom thou hast undermined in blooming days, and she now lies in the most pitiable exhaustion, the eye looks senseless toward heaven, the death-sweat alternates on the pale brow, and thou standest before the bed like a damned one, in the most inward feeling that thou canst do nothing with all thy wealth, and anxiety cramps thee within, that thou wouldst give all to be able to breathe into the perishing creature a drop of strength, a spark of courage."

The remembrance of such a scene, at which I was present, fell with full force upon me at these words. I took my handkerchief before my eyes and left the company, and only Lotte's voice, calling that we would depart, brought me to myself. And how she chided me on the way for my too warm interest in everything, and that I would go to ruin over it! That I should spare myself!—O the angel! For thy sake must I live!

July 6

She is ever with her dying friend, and is ever the same, ever the present, sweet creature, who, wherever she looks, soothes pain and makes happy. She went out yesterday evening with Marianne and little Malchen to walk; I knew it and met them, and we went together. After a walk of an hour and a half we came back toward the town, to the well that is so dear to me and now a thousand times dearer. Lotte sat down on the low wall, we stood before her. I looked around, ah, and the time when my heart was so alone lived again before me. "Dear well," said I, "since then I have not rested at thy coolness, have often in passing hastily not looked at thee." I looked down and saw Malchen coming up busily with a glass of water. I looked at Lotte and felt all that I have in her. Meanwhile Malchen came with a glass. Marianne would have taken it from her: "No!" cried the child with the sweetest expression, "No, Lottchen, thou shalt drink first!" I was so enraptured at the truth, at the goodness with which she cried this, that I could express my feeling by nothing but that I took the child from the ground and kissed it eagerly, whereupon it began at once to scream and weep. "You did ill," said Lotte. I was startled. "Come, Malchen," she continued, taking it by the hand and leading it down the steps, "wash thyself quickly, quickly in the fresh spring, that will do no harm." As I stood thus and looked on, with what diligence the little one rubbed its wet hands on its cheeks, with what faith that through the wonder-spring all uncleanness would be washed away and the disgrace removed of getting an ugly beard; as Lotte said, "It is enough!" and the child still washed eagerly on, as if much did more than little—I tell thee, Wilhelm, I have never attended a baptism with more reverence; and when Lotte came up, I could have thrown myself down before her like before a prophet who has consecrated away the debts of a nation.

In the evening I could not refrain, in the joy of my heart, from telling the incident to a man to whom I attributed human sense because he has understanding; but how I fared! He said it had been very wrong of Lotte; one should not make the children believe things; such gives occasion to countless errors and superstitions, from which one must early preserve the children. Now it occurred to me that the man had had a child baptized eight days before, so I let it pass and remained true in my heart to the truth: we should deal with children as God with us, who makes us happiest when He lets us stagger along in friendly illusion.

July 8

What a child one is! How one covets after such a glance! What a child one is! We had gone to Wahlheim. The ladies drove out, and during our walks I believed I read in Lotte's black eyes—I am a fool, forgive me! Thou shouldst see her, those eyes. That I may be brief (for the eyes fall shut with sleep before me): see, the ladies stepped in, and around the coach stood young W., Selstadt and Audran and I. Then there was chatter with the fellows, who were certainly light and airy enough. I sought Lotte's eyes: ah, they went from one to the other! But upon me! Me! Me! who stood there resigned to her alone, they did not fall! My heart said her a thousand adieus! And she saw me not! The coach drove past, and a tear stood in my eye. I looked after her and saw Lotte's headdress lean out of the coach window, and she turned to look—ah! after me?—Dear! In this uncertainty I hover; that is my comfort: perhaps she has looked round for me! Perhaps!—Good night! O, what a child I am!

July 10

The silly figure I make when one speaks in company of her, thou shouldst see! And when one asks me especially how she pleases me!—pleases! That word I hate to death. What must that be for a man whom Lotte pleases, who does not fill all his senses, all his feelings! Pleases! Pleases! Lately one asked me how Ossian pleased me!

July 11

Mrs. M. is very ill; I pray for her life, because I suffer with Lotte. I see her seldom with a friend, and today she has told me a strange occurrence. Old M. is a miserly, rancid skinflint who in life plagued and restricted his wife sorely; yet the wife always knew how to get by. A few days ago, when the physician had given up her life, she had her husband come (Lotte was in the room) and spoke to him thus: "I must confess to thee a matter which after my death might cause confusion and annoyance. I have hitherto conducted the household as orderly and frugally as possible; yet thou wilt forgive me that I have deceived thee these thirty years. Thou didst determine at the beginning of our marriage a small sum for the kitchen and other domestic expenses. As our household grew larger, our business greater, thou couldst not be moved to increase my weekly allowance in proportion; in short, thou knowest that in the times when it was greatest thou demanded that I should get by on seven guilders a week. These I took without objection and fetched the surplus weekly from the receipts, since no one suspected that the wife would rob the cash. I have wasted nothing and would also, without confessing it, have gone calmly to meet eternity, if not that she who is to keep house after me would not know how to help herself, and thou mightest still insist that thy first wife got by with it."

I spoke with Lotte of the incredible blindness of the human mind, that one should not suspect there must be something behind it when one gets by on seven guilders where one sees the expenditure perhaps twice as much. But I have myself known people who would have accepted the prophet's eternal cruse of oil in their house without wonder.

July 13

No, I deceive myself not! I read in her black eyes true sympathy with me and my fate. Yes, I feel, and herein may I trust my heart, that—O may I, can I utter heaven in these words?—that she loves me!

Loves me!—and how worthy I become to myself, how I—to thee I may well say it, thou hast sense for such things—how I adore myself, since she loves me!

Whether that is presumption or feeling of the true relation?—I know not the man of whom I should fear anything in Lotte's heart. And yet—when she speaks of her betrothed, speaks of him with such warmth, such love—then it is with me as with one deprived of all his honors and dignities and from whom the sword is taken.

July 16

Ah how it runs through all my veins, when my finger unawares touches hers, when our feet meet under the table! I draw back as from fire, and a secret force draws me forward again—I grow so dizzy before all my senses.—O! And her innocence, her unbiased soul feels not how sorely the little familiarities pain me. When in conversation she lays her hand on mine and moves closer to me in the interest of the talk, so that the heavenly breath of her mouth can reach my lips:—I think to sink, as if struck by lightning.—and, Wilhelm! If I ever presume to touch this heaven, this confidence—! Thou understandest me. No, my heart is not so corrupt! Weak! Weak enough!—and is not that corruption?—she is holy to me. All desire is silent in her presence. I never know how I am, when I am with her; it is as if the soul turned itself in all my nerves.—She has a melody which she plays on the piano with the force of an angel, so simple and so spiritual! It is her favorite song, and it frees me from all pain, confusion and whims, when she but strikes the first note.

No word of the magic power of old music seems improbable to me. How the simple song affects me! And how she knows to apply it, often at the time when I could shoot a bullet through my head! The error and darkness of my soul disperse, and I breathe more freely again.

July 18

Wilhelm, what is the world to our heart without love! What is a magic lantern without light! Scarcely dost thou bring the little lamp within, and the brightest pictures seem to shine on thy white wall! And if it were nothing but that, as passing phantoms, it still makes our happiness, when we stand before it like fresh boys and delight in the wondrous appearances. Today I could not go to Lotte, an unavoidable company kept me away. What was to be done? I sent my servant out, only to have a person near me who had been close to her today. With what impatience I awaited him, with what joy I saw him again! I would have taken him by the head and kissed him, if I had not been ashamed.

They tell of the Bologna stone, that if one lays it in the sun, it draws its rays and glows a while at night. So it was with the lad to me. The feeling that her eyes had rested on his face, his cheeks, his coat-buttons and the collar of his surtout made all that so holy, so dear to me! I would not have given the boy in that moment for a thousand talers. I was so well in his presence.—God preserve thee from laughing at this. Wilhelm, are these phantoms, when it is well with us?

July 19

"I shall see her!" I cry in the morning, when I rouse myself and look with all cheerfulness toward the beautiful sun; "I shall see her!" and then I have no further wish for the whole day. All, all is swallowed up in this prospect.

Your idea will not yet become mine, that I should go with the envoy to ***. I do not love subordination very much, and we all know that the man is besides an odious person. My mother would like to have me in activity, you say; that made me laugh. Am I not active now, and is it in the ground not all one whether I count peas or lentils? Everything in the world after all comes down to a piece of roguery, and a man who, for the sake of others, without it being his own passion, his own need, wears himself out for money or honor or whatever, is always a fool.

July 24

Since it lies so much on your heart that I neglect not my drawing, I would rather pass over the whole matter than tell you that of late little is done.

Never was I happier, never was my feeling for nature, down to the very pebble, to the very blade of grass, fuller and more inward, and yet—I know not how to express myself, my power of representation is so weak, all swims and wavers so before my soul that I can grasp no outline; but I imagine, if I had clay or wax, I should well shape it forth. I shall take clay too, if it lasts longer, and knead—they should become cakes!

Lotte's portrait I have begun three times, and thrice prostituted myself; which vexes me the more, because I was very successful in likeness some time ago. Thereupon I have made her silhouette, and with that shall I be content.

Yes, dear Lotte, I will attend to and order everything; only give me more commissions, only very often. For one thing I beg you: no more sand on the little notes you write me. Today I carried it quickly to my lip, and the teeth crunched me.

July 26

I have often resolved not to see her so often. Yes, who could keep that! Every day I succumb to the temptation and promise myself solemnly: tomorrow thou wilt stay away. And when the morning comes, I find again an irresistible cause, and before I know it, I am with her. Either she said the evening before: "You will come tomorrow, won't you?"—who could stay away? Or she gives me a commission, and I find it fitting to bring the answer myself; or the day is too beautiful, I go to Wahlheim, and when I am there, it is only half an hour more to her!—I am too near in the atmosphere—zip! and I am there. My grandmother had a tale of the magnet mountain: the ships that came too near were suddenly stripped of all ironwork, the nails flew to the mountain, and the poor wretches perished among the planks crashing over one another.

July 30

Albert is arrived, and I shall go away; and if he were the best, the noblest man, before whom I should be ready to place myself in every respect, it would be intolerable to see him before my eyes in possession of so much perfection.—Possession! enough, Wilhelm, the bridegroom is here! A worthy, dear man, to whom one must be good. Fortunately I was not present at the reception! That would have torn my heart. Also he is so honest and has not yet kissed Lotte once in my presence. May God reward him for that! For the respect he has for the girl, I must love him. He means well to me, and I suspect that is more Lotte's work than his own feeling; for in this the women are subtle and right; if they can keep two admirers in good understanding with each other, the advantage is always theirs, however seldom it may succeed.

Meanwhile I cannot refuse Albert my respect. His calm exterior contrasts very vividly with the unrest of my character, which cannot be concealed. He has much feeling and knows what he has in Lotte. He appears to have little ill-humor, and you know that is the sin which I hate worse in man than any other.

He takes me for a man of sense; and my attachment to Lotte, my warm delight in all her actions, increases his triumph, and he loves her only the more for it. Whether he never torments her with any jealousy, I leave undecided; at least in his place I should not remain quite secure from that devil.

Be that now as it will, my joy of being with Lotte is gone. Shall I call that folly or blindness?—what need of names! The matter itself told! I knew all that I now know before Albert came; I knew I had no claim on her, made none either—that is, in so far as is possible, not to desire with so much loveliness around one—and now the fellow makes great eyes, since the other actually comes and takes the girl from him.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”