I cannot pray, "Leave her to me!" and yet she often seems to
belong to me. I cannot pray, "Give her to me!" for she is
another's. In this way I affect mirth over my troubles; and,
if I had time, I could compose a whole litany of antitheses.
NOVEMBER 24.
She is sensible of my sufferings. This morning her look pierced
my very soul. I found her alone, and she was silent: she steadfastly
surveyed me. I no longer saw in her face the charms of beauty or
the fire of genius: these had disappeared. But I was affected by
an expression much more touching, a look of the deepest sympathy
and of the softest pity. Why was I afraid to throw myself at her
feet? Why did I not dare to take her in my arms, and answer her
by a thousand kisses? She had recourse to her piano for relief,
and in a low and sweet voice accompanied the music with delicious
sounds. Her lips never appeared so lovely: they seemed but just
to open, that they might imbibe the sweet tones which issued from
the instrument, and return the heavenly vibration from her lovely
mouth. Oh! who can express my sensations? I was quite overcome,
and, bending down, pronounced this vow: "Beautiful lips, which the
angels guard, never will I seek to profane your purity with a kiss."
And yet, my friend, oh, I wish -- but my heart is darkened by doubt
and indecision -- could I but taste felicity, and then die to expiate
the sin! What sin?
NOVEMBER 26.
Oftentimes I say to myself, "Thou alone art wretched: all other
mortals are happy, none are distressed like thee!" Then I read
a passage in an ancient poet, and I seem to understand my own
heart. I have so much to endure! Have men before me ever been
so wretched?
NOVEMBER 30.
I shall never be myself again! Wherever I go, some fatality occurs
to distract me. Even to-day alas -- for our destiny! alas for
human nature!
About dinner-time I went to walk by the river-side, for I had no
appetite. Everything around seemed gloomy: a cold and damp easterly
wind blew from the mountains, and black, heavy clouds spread over
the plain. I observed at a distance a man in a tattered coat: he
was wandering among the rocks, and seemed to be looking for plants.
When I approached, he turned round at the noise; and I saw that
he had an interesting countenance in which a settled melancholy,
strongly marked by benevolence, formed the principal feature.
His long black hair was divided, and flowed over his shoulders.
As his garb betokened a person of the lower order, I thought he
would not take it ill if I inquired about his business; and I
therefore asked what he was seeking. He replied, with a deep sigh,
that he was looking for flowers, and could find none. "But it is
not the season," I observed, with a smile. "Oh, there are so many
flowers!" he answered, as he came nearer to me. "In my garden
there are roses and honeysuckles of two sorts: one sort was given
to me by my father! they grow as plentifully as weeds; I have been
looking for them these two days, and cannot find them. There are
flowers out there, yellow, blue, and red; and that centaury has a
very pretty blossom: but I can find none of them." I observed his
peculiarity, and therefore asked him, with an air of indifference,
what he intended to do with his flowers. A strange smile overspread
his countenance. Holding his finger to his mouth, he expressed a
hope that I would not betray him; and he then informed me that he
had promised to gather a nosegay for his mistress. "That is right,"
said I. "Oh!" he replied, "she possesses many other things as
well: she is very rich." "And yet," I continued, "she likes your
nosegays." "Oh, she has jewels and crowns!" he exclaimed. I asked
who she was. "If the states-general would but pay me," he added,
"I should be quite another man. Alas! there was a time when I was
so happy; but that is past, and I am now--" He raised his swimming
eyes to heaven. "And you were happy once?" I observed. "Ah,
would I were so still!" was his reply. "I was then as gay and
contented as a man can be." An old woman, who was coming toward
us, now called out, "Henry, Henry! where are you? We have been
looking for you everywhere: come to dinner." "Is he your son?"
I inquired, as I went toward her. "Yes," she said: "he is my poor,
unfortunate son. The Lord has sent me a heavy affliction." I asked
whether he had been long in this state. She answered, "He has been
as calm as he is at present for about six months. I thank Heaven
that he has so far recovered: he was for one whole year quite raving,
and chained down in a madhouse. Now he injures no one, but talks
of nothing else than kings and queens. He used to be a very good,
quiet youth, and helped to maintain me; he wrote a very fine hand;
but all at once he became melancholy, was seized with a violent
fever, grew distracted, and is now as you see. If I were only to
tell you, sir--" I interrupted her by asking what period it was
in which he boasted of having been so happy. "Poor boy!" she
exclaimed, with a smile of cormpassion, "he means the time when
he was completely deranged, a time he never ceases to regret,
when he was in the madhouse, and unconscious of everything." I
was thunderstruck: I placed a piece of money in her hand, and
hastened away.
"You were happy!" I exclaimed, as I returned quickly to the
town, "'as gay and contented as a man can be!'" God of heaven!
and is this the destiny of man? Is he only happy before he has
acquired his reason, or after he has lost it? Unfortunate being!
And yet I envy your fate: I envy the delusion to which you are a
victim. You go forth with joy to gather flowers for your princess,
-- in winter, -- and grieve when you can find none, and cannot
understand why they do not grow. But I wander forth without joy,
without hope, without design; and I return as I came. You fancy
what a man you would be if the states general paid you. Happy
mortal, who can ascribe your wretchedness to an earthly cause!
You do not know, you do not feel, that in your own distracted
heart and disordered brain dwells the source of that unhappiness
which all the potentates on earth cannot relieve.
Let that man die unconsoled who can deride the invalid for undertaking
a journey to distant, healthful springs, where he often finds only
a heavier disease and a more painful death, or who can exult over
the despairing mind of a sinner, who, to obtain peace of conscience
and an alleviation of misery, makes a pilgrimage to the Holy
Sepulchre. Each laborious step which galls his wounded feet in
rough and untrodden paths pours a drop of balm into his troubled
soul, and the journey of many a weary day brings a nightly relief
to his anguished heart. Will you dare call this enthusiasm, ye
crowd of pompous declaimers? Enthusiasm! 0 God! thou seest my
tears. Thou hast allotted us our portion of misery: must we also
have brethren to persecute us, to deprive us of our consolation,
of our trust in thee, and in thy love and mercy? For our trust in
the virtue of the healing root, or in the strength of the vine,
what is it else than a belief in thee from whom all that surrounds
us derives its healing and restoring powers? Father, whom I know
not, -- who wert once wont to fill my soul, but who now hidest thy
face from me, -- call me back to thee; be silent no longer; thy
silence shall not delay a soul which thirsts after thee. What man,
what father, could be angry with a son for returning to him suddenly,
for falling on his neck, and exclaiming, "I am here again, my
father! forgive me if I have anticipated my journey, and returned
before the appointed time! The world is everywhere the same, --
a scene of labour and pain, of pleasure and reward; but what does
it all avail? I am happy only where thou art, and in thy presence
am I content to suffer or enjoy." And wouldst thou, heavenly Father,
banish such a child from thy presence?