My diary, which I have for some time neglected, came before me
today; and I am amazed to see how deliberately I have entangled
myself step by step. To have seen my position so clearly, and
yet to have acted so like a child! Even still I behold the
result plainly, and yet have no thought of acting with greater
prudence.
AUGUST lO.
If I were not a fool, I could spend the happiest and most delightful
life here. So many agreeable circumstances, and of a kind to
ensure a worthy man's happiness, are seldom united. Alas! I feel
it too sensibly, -- the heart alone makes our happiness! To be
admitted into this most charming family, to be loved by the father
as a son, by the children as a father, and by Charlotte! then the
noble Albert, who never disturbs my happiness by any appearance
of ill-humour, receiving me with the heartiest affection, and
loving me, next to Charlotte, better than all the world! Wilhelm,
you would be delighted to hear us in our rambles, and conversations
about Charlotte. Nothing in the world can be more absurd than our
connection, and yet the thought of it often moves me to tears.
He tells me sometimes of her excellent mother; how, upon her
death-bed, she had committed her house and children to Charlotte,
and had given Charlotte herself in charge to him; how, since that
time, a new spirit had taken possession of her; how, in care and
anxiety for their welfare, she became a real mother to them; how
every moment of her time was devoted to some labour of love in
their behalf, -- and yet her mirth and cheerfulness had never
forsaken her. I walk by his side, pluck flowers by the way, arrange
them carefully into a nosegay, then fling them into the first
stream I pass, and watch them as they float gently away. I forget
whether I told you that Albert is to remain here. He has received
a government appointment, with a very good salary; and I understand
he is in high favour at court. I have met few persons so punctual
and methodical in business.
AUGUST 12.
Certainly Albert is the best fellow in the world. I had a strange
scene with him yesterday. I went to take leave of him; for I took
it into my head to spend a few days in these mountains, from where
I now write to you. As I was walking up and down his room, my eye
fell upon his pistols. "Lend me those pistols," said I, "for my
journey." "By all means," he replied, "if you will take the
trouble to load them; for they only hang there for form." I
took down one of them; and he continued, "Ever since I was near
suffering for my extreme caution, I will have nothing to do with
such things." I was curious to hear the story. "I was staying,"
said he, "some three months ago, at a friend's house in the country.
I had a brace of pistols with me, unloaded; and I slept without
any anxiety. One rainy afternoon I was sitting by myself, doing
nothing, when it occurred to me I do not know how that the house
might be attacked, that we might require the pistols, that we might
in short, you know how we go on fancying, when we have nothing
better to do. I gave the pistols to the servant, to clean and
load. He was playing with the maid, and trying to frighten her,
when the pistol went off -- God knows how! -- the ramrod was in
the barrel; and it went straight through her right hand, and
shattered the thumb. I had to endure all the lamentation, and to
pay the surgeon's bill; so, since that time, I have kept all my
weapons unloaded. But, my dear friend, what is the use of prudence?
We can never be on our guard against all possible dangers. However,"
-- now, you must know I can tolerate all men till they come to
"however;" -- for it is self-evident that every universal rule
must have its exceptions. But he is so exceedingly accurate, that,
if he only fancies he has said a word too precipitate, or too
general, or only half true, he never ceases to qualify, to modify,
and extenuate, till at last he appears to have said nothing at
all. Upon this occasion, Albert was deeply immersed in his
subject: I ceased to listen to him, and became lost in reverie.
With a sudden motion, I pointed the mouth of the pistol to my
forehead, over the right eye. "What do vou mean?" cried Albert,
turning back the pistol. "It is not loaded," said I. "And even
if not," he answered with impatience, "what can you mean? I
cannot cornprehend how a man can be so mad as to shoot himself,
and the bare idea of it shocks me."
"But why should any one," said I, "in speaking of an action, venture
to pronounce it mad or wise, or good or bad? What is the meaning
of all this? Have you carefully studied the secret motives of our
actions? Do you understand -- can you explain the causes which
occasion them, and make them inevitable? If you can, you will be
less hasty with your decision."
"But you will allow," said Albert; "that some actions are criminal,
let them spring from whatever motives they may." I granted it,
and shrugged my shoulders.
"But still, my good friend," I continued, "there are some exceptions
here too. Theft is a crime; but the man who commits it from extreme
poverty, with no design but to save his family from perishing, is
he an object of pity, or of punishment? Who shall throw the first
stone at a husband, who, in the heat of just resentment, sacrifices
his faithless wife and her perfidious seducer? or at the young
maiden, who, in her weak hour of rapture, forgets herself in the
impetuous joys of love? Even our laws, cold and cruel as they
are, relent in such cases, and withhold their punishment."
"That is quite another thing," said Albert; "because a man under
the influence of violent passion loses alI power of reflection,
and is regarded as intoxicated or insane."
"Oh! you people of sound understandings," I replied, smiling, "are
ever ready to exclaim 'Extravagance, and madness, and intoxication!'
You moral men are so calm and so subdued! You abhor the drunken
man, and detest the extravagant; you pass by, like the Levite,
and thank God, like the Pharisee, that you are not like one of
them. I have been more than once intoxicated, my passions have
always bordered on extravagance: I am not ashamed to confess it;
for I have learned, by my own experience, that all extraordinary
men, who have accomplished great and astonishing actions, have
ever been decried by the world as drunken or insane. And in
private life, too, is it not intolerable that no one can undertake
the execution of a noble or generous deed, without giving rise to
the exclamation that the doer is intoxicated or mad? Shame upon
you, ye sages!"
"This is another of your extravagant humours," said Albert: "you
always exaggerate a case, and in this matter you are undoubtedly
wrong; for we were speaking of suicide, which you compare with
great actions, when it is impossible to regard it as anything but
a weakness. It is much easier to die than to bear a life of misery
with fortitude."
I was on the point of breaking off the conversation, for nothing
puts me so completely out of patience as the utterance of a wretched
commonplace when I am talking from my inmost heart. However, I
composed myself, for I had often heard the same observation with
sufficient vexation; and I answered him, therefore, with a little
warmth, "You call this a weakness -- beware of being led astray
by appearances. When a nation, which has long groaned under the
intolerable yoke of a tyrant, rises at last and throws off its
chains, do you call that weakness? The man who, to rescue his
house from the flames, finds his physical strength redoubled, so
that he lifts burdens with ease, which, in the absence of excitement,
he could scarcely move; he who, under the rage of an insult, attacks
and puts to flight half a score of his enemies, are such persons
to be called weak? My good friend, if resistance be strength, how
can the highest degree of resistance be a weakness?"
Albert looked steadfastly at me, and said, "Pray forgive me, but
I do not see that the examples you have adduced bear any relation
to the question." "Very likely," I answered; "for I have often
been told that my style of illustration borders a little on the
absurd. But let us see if we cannot place the matter in another
point of view, by inquiring what can be a man's state of mind who
resolves to free himself from the burden of life, -- a burden often
so pleasant to bear, -- for we cannot otherwise reason fairly upon
the subject.
"Human nature," I continued, "has its limits. It is able to endure
a certain degree of joy, sorrow, and pain, but becomes annihilated
as soon as this measure is exceeded. The question, therefore, is,
not whether a man is strong or weak, but whether he is able to
endure the measure of his sufferings. The suffering may be moral
or physical; and in my opinion it is just as absurd to call a man
a coward who destroys himself, as to call a man a coward who dies
of a malignant fever."
"Paradox, all paradox!" exclaimed Albert. "Not so paradoxical as
you imagine," I replied. "You allow that we designate a disease
as mortal when nature is so severely attacked, and her strength
so far exhausted, that she cannot possibly recover her former
condition under any change that may take place.
"Now, my good friend, apply this to the mind; observe a man in his
natural, isolated condition; consider how ideas work, and how
impressions fasten on him, till at length a violent passion seizes
him, destroying all his powers of calm reflection, and utterly
ruining him.
"It is in vain that a man of sound mind and cool temper understands
the condition of such a wretched being, in vain he counsels him.
He can no more communicate his own wisdom to him than a healthy
man can instil his strength into the invalid, by whose bedside he
is seated."
Albert thought this too general. I reminded him of a girl who had
drowned herself a short time previously, and I related her history.
She was a good creature, who had grown up in the narrow sphere of
household industry and weekly appointed labour; one who knew no
pleasure beyond indulging in a walk on Sundays, arrayed in her
best attire, accompanied by her friends, or perhaps joining in the
dance now and then at some festival, and chatting away her spare
hours with a neighbour, discussing the scandal or the quarrels of
the village, trifles sufficient to occupy her heart. At length
the warmth of her nature is influenced by certain new and unknown
wishes. Inflamed by the flatteries of men, her former pleasures
become by degrees insipid, till at length she meets with a youth
to whom she is attracted by an indescribable feeling; upon him she
now rests all her hopes; she forgets the world around her; she
sees, hears, desires nothing but him, and him only. He alone
occupies all her thoughts. Uncorrupted by the idle indulgence of
an enervating vanity, her affection moving steadily toward its
object, she hopes to become his, and to realise, in an everlasting
union with him, all that happiness which she sought, all that bliss
for which she longed. His repeated promises confirm her hopes:
embraces and endearments, which increase the ardour of her desires,
overmaster her soul. She floats in a dim, delusive anticipation
of her happiness; and her feelings become excited to their utmost
tension. She stretches out her arms finally to embrace the object
of all her wishes and her lover forsakes her. Stunned and bewildered,
she stands upon a precipice. All is darkness around her. No
prospect, no hope, no consolation -- forsaken by him in whom her
existence was centred! She sees nothing of the wide world before
her, thinks nothing of the many individuals who might supply the
void in her heart; she feels herself deserted, forsaken by the
world; and, blinded and impelled by the agony which wrings her
soul, she plunges into the deep, to end her sufferings in the broad
embrace of death. See here, Albert, the history of thousands; and
tell me, is not this a case of physical infirmity? Nature has no
way to escape from the labyrinth: her powers are exhausted: she
can contend no longer, and the poor soul must die.
"Shame upon him who can look on calmly, and exclaim, 'The foolish
girl! she should have waited; she should have allowed time to wear
off the impression; her despair would have been softened, and she
would have found another lover to comfort her.' One might as well
say, 'The fool, to die of a fever! why did he not wait till his
strength was restored, till his blood became calm? all would then
have gone well, and he would have been alive now.'"
Albert, who could not see the justice of the comparison, offered
some further objections, and, amongst others, urged that I had
taken the case of a mere ignorant girl. But how any man of sense,
of more enlarged views and experience, could be excused, he was
unable to comprehend. "My friend!" I exclaimed, "man is but man;
and, whatever be the extent of his reasoning powers, they are of
little avail when passion rages within, and he feels himself
confined by the narrow limits of nature. It were better, then --
but we will talk of this some other time," I said, and caught up
my hat. Alas! my heart was full; and we parted without conviction
on either side. How rarely in this world do men understand each
other!
AUGUST 15.
There can be no doubt that in this world nothing is so indispensable
as love. I observe that Charlotte could not lose me without a
pang, and the very children have but one wish; that is, that I
should visit them again to-morrow. I went this afternoon to tune
Charlotte's piano. But I could not do it, for the little ones
insisted on my telling them a story; and Charlotte herself urged
me to satisfy them. I waited upon them at tea, and they are now
as fully contented with me as with Charlotte; and I told them my
very best tale of the princess who was waited upon by dwarfs.
I improve myself by this exercise, and am quite surprised at the
impression my stories create. If I sometimes invent an incident
which I forget upon the next narration, they remind one directly
that the story was different before; so that I now endeavour to
relate with exactness the same anecdote in the same monotonous
tone, which never changes. I find by this, how much an author
injures his works by altering them, even though they be improved
in a poetical point of view. The first impression is readily
received. We are so constituted that we believe the most incredible
things; and, once they are engraved upon the memory, woe to him
who would endeavour to efface them.
AUGUST 18.
Must it ever be thus, -- that the source of our happiness must
also be the fountain of our misery? The full and ardent sentiment
which animated my heart with the love of nature, overwhelming me
with a torrent of delight, and which brought all paradise before
me, has now become an insupportable torment, a demon which perpetually
pursues and harasses me. When in bygone days I gazed from these
rocks upon yonder mountains across the river, and upon the green,
flowery valley before me, and saw alI nature budding and bursting
around; the hills clothed from foot to peak with tall, thick forest
trees; the valleys in all their varied windings, shaded with the
loveliest woods; and the soft river gliding along amongst the
lisping reeds, mirroring the beautiful clouds which the soft evening
breeze wafted across the sky, -- when I heard the groves about me
melodious with the music of birds, and saw the million swarms of
insects dancing in the last golden beams of the sun, whose setting
rays awoke the humming beetles from their grassy beds, whilst the
subdued tumult around directed my attention to the ground, and I
there observed the arid rock compelled to yield nutriment to the
dry moss, whilst the heath flourished upon the barren sands below
me, all this displayed to me the inner warmth which animates all
nature, and filled and glowed within my heart. I felt myself
exalted by this overflowing fulness to the perception of the
Godhead, and the glorious forms of an infinite universe became
visible to my soul! Stupendous mountains encompassed me, abysses
yawned at my feet, and cataracts fell headlong down before me;
impetuous rivers rolled through the plain, and rocks and mountains
resounded from afar. In the depths of the earth I saw innumerable
powers in motion, and multiplying to infinity; whilst upon its
surface, and beneath the heavens, there teemed ten thousand varieties
of living creatures. Everything around is alive with an infinite
number of forms; while mankind fly for security to their petty
houses, from the shelter of which they rule in their imaginations
over the wide-extended universe. Poor fool! in whose petty
estimation all things are little. From the inaccessible mountains,
across the desert which no mortal foot has trod, far as the confines
of the unknown ocean, breathes the spirit of the eternal Creator;
and every atom to which he has given existence finds favour in his
sight. Ah, how often at that time has the flight of a bird, soaring
above my head, inspired me with the desire of being transported
to the shores of the immeasurable waters, there to quaff the
pleasures of life from the foaming goblet of the Infinite, and to
partake, if but for a moment even, with the confined powers of my
soul, the beatitude of that Creator who accomplishes all things
in himself, and through himself!
My dear friend, the bare recollection of those hours still consoles
me. Even this effort to recall those ineffable sensations, and
give them utterance, exalts my soul above itself, and makes me
doubly feel the intensity of my present anguish.
It is as if a curtain had been drawn from before my eyes, and,
instead of prospects of eternal life, the abyss of an ever open
grave yawned before me. Can we say of anything that it exists
when all passes away, when time, with the speed of a storm, carries
all things onward, -- and our transitory existence, hurried along
by the torrent, is either swallowed up by the waves or dashed
against the rocks? There is not a moment but preys upon you, --
and upon all around you, not a moment in which you do not yourself
become a destroyer. The most innocent walk deprives of life
thousands of poor insects: one step destroys the fabric of the
industrious ant, and converts a little world into chaos. No: it
is not the great and rare calamities of the world, the floods which
sweep away whole villages, the earthquakes which swallow up our
towns, that affect me. My heart is wasted by the thought of that
destructive power which lies concealed in every part of universal
nature. Nature has formed nothing that does not consume itself,
and every object near it: so that, surrounded by earth and air,
and all the active powers, I wander on my way with aching heart;
and the universe is to me a fearful monster, for ever devouring
its own offspring.
AUGUST 21.
In vain do I stretch out my arms toward her when I awaken in the
morning from my weary slumbers. In vain do I seek for her at night
in my bed, when some innocent dream has happily deceived me, and
placed her near me in the fields, when I have seized her hand and
covered it with countless kisses. And when I feel for her in the
half confusion of sleep, with the happy sense that she is near,
tears flow from my oppressed heart; and, bereft of all comfort, I
weep over my future woes.
AUGUST 22.
What a misfortune, Wilhelm! My active spirits have degenerated
into contented indolence. I cannot be idle, and yet I am unable
to set to work. I cannot think: I have no longer any feeling for
the beauties of nature, and books are distasteful to me. Once we
give ourselves up, we are totally lost. Many a time and oft I
wish I were a common labourer; that, awakening in the morning, I
might have but one prospect, one pursuit, one hope, for the day
which has dawned. I often envy Albert when I see him buried in a
heap of papers and parchments, and I fancy I should be happy were
I in his place. Often impressed with this feeling I have been on
the point of writing to you and to the minister, for the appointment
at the embassy, which you think I might obtain. I believe I might
procure it. The minister has long shown a regard for me, and has
frequently urged me to seek employment. It is the business of an
hour only. Now and then the fable of the horse recurs to me.
Weary of liberty, he suffered himself to be saddled and bridled,
and was ridden to death for his pains. I know not what to determine
upon. For is not this anxiety for change the consequence of that
restless spirit which would pursue me equally in every situation
of life?
AUGUST 28.
If my ills would admit of any cure, they would certainly be cured
here. This is my birthday, and early in the morning I received a
packet from Albert. Upon opening it, I found one of the pink
ribbons which Charlotte wore in her dress the first time I saw her,
and which I had several times asked her to give me. With it were
two volumes in duodecimo of Wetstein's "Homer," a book I had often
wished for, to save me the inconvenience of carrying the large
Ernestine edition with me upon my walks. You see how they anticipate
my wishes, how well they understand all those little attentions
of friendship, so superior to the costly presents of the great,
which are humiliating. I kissed the ribbon a thousand times, and
in every breath inhaled the remembrance of those happy and irrevocable
days which filled me with the keenest joy. Such, Wilhelm, is our
fate. I do not murmur at it: the flowers of life are but visionary.
How many pass away, and leave no trace behind -- how few yield any
fruit -- and the fruit itself, how rarely does it ripen! And yet
there are flowers enough! and is it not strange, my friend, that
we should suffer the little that does really ripen, to rot, decay,
and perish unenjoyed? Farewell! This is a glorious summer. I
often climb into the trees in Charlotte's orchard, and shake down
the pears that hang on the highest branches. She stands below,
and catches them as they fall.