How well one sleeps when tired with work. How good it is to have hunger and fatigue, when one is safely able to satisfy their demands.
In the great world, they eat and sleep, but are never tired or hungry.
I never knew how much I used to talk, and how necessary conversation had become to me. But now that I have learned how to be silent, and live alone with my own thoughts, I do know; I now see that the presence of others exerted an electric influence upon me, overcharging my nature. I was never unreal, but was more than I really am. I made others cheerful, but how rarely was I so!
Labor is the consoling friend and companion of solitude.
He who has not lived alone, does not know what labor is.
I am often reminded of Dante's: "There can be no greater suffering than, in one's misery, to remember happier days." But why does he not tell us what kind of happiness he means? It must always be delightful to remember innocent joys, though the unhappiness that follows be ever so great.
But Francesca refers to happiness allied with guilt. And I know that she is right.
I still remember my father's parting advice: "Indulge only in such pleasures as it will afford you pleasure to look back upon."
What strange, hidden springs flow through one's soul. Ever since the sad saying of Dante's occurred to me, all my thoughts have been translating themselves into Italian.
It often seems to me as if it were sinful thus to bury myself alive. My voice is no longer heard in song, and much more that dwells within me has become mute.
Is this right?
If my only object in life were to be at peace with myself, it would be well enough--but I long to labor and to do something for others. Yet where and what shall it be?
When I first heard that the beautifully carved furniture of the great and wealthy is the work of prisoners, it made me shudder. And now, although I am not deprived of freedom, I am in much the same condition. Those who have disfigured life should, as an act of expiation, help to make life more beautiful for others. The thought that I am doing this comforts and sustains me.
My work prospers. But last winter's wood is not yet fit for use. My little pitchman has brought me some that is old, excellent and well seasoned, having been part of the rafters of an old house that has just been torn down. We work together cheerfully, and our earnings are considerable.
Vice is the same everywhere, except that here it is more open. Among the masses, vice is characterized by coarseness; among the upper classes, by meanness.
The latter shake off the consequences of their evil deeds, while the former are obliged to bear them.
The rude manners of these people are necessary, and are far preferable to polite deceit. They must needs be rough and rude. If it were not for its coarse, thick bark, the oak could not withstand the storm.
I have found that this rough bark covers more tenderness and sincerity than does the smoothest surface.
Jochem told me, to-day, that he is still quite a good walker, but that a blind man finds it very troublesome to go anywhere; for, at every step, he is obliged to grope about, so that he may feel sure of his ground before he firmly plants his foot on the earth.
Is it not the same with me? Am I not obliged to be sure of the ground before I take a step?
Such is the way of the fallen.
Ah! why does everything I see or hear become a symbol of my life?
Our life here is like that of plants. Our chief care is as to the weather. Rain and sunshine affect us as they do the plants that require their aid. Hansei often complains that he does not understand the weather signs hereabouts. In his old home by the lake, he could always tell how the weather would be. His want of knowledge on this subject prevents him from feeling quite at home here. Our little pitchman, however, is a most reliable weather-prophet, and has thus come to be looked upon as quite an important personage. I am his docile scholar and he is quite proud of me. Although he is quite intimate with me, and often indulges in pleasantry, he never fails to treat me with great respect.
Those who know nothing of etiquette, often make up for the want of it by their tact. I congratulated the little pitchman last week. It was on the occasion of his birthday, and when I shook hands with him, his face grew scarlet. He thanked me heartily, and kept saying that when he got to heaven, he would bespeak good quarters for me, and that his old woman wouldn't get angry if he possessed both her and myself in the next world. He is always happy when serving me. When he builds a fire in my stove, he ogles every log, as if it ought to feel it an honor to be permitted to help keep me warm.
The census troubled me greatly to-day. After dinner, Hansei produced the blank which he was required to fill, and handed it to Walpurga, with the words: "Do you write, or let her"--meaning me--"write her name, her age, and where she comes from?"
We were in great tribulation, until Walpurga, at last, solved the difficulty by saying that there was no need of telling everything.
The remark was quite opportune and afforded a convenient excuse to Hansei, who was greatly annoyed by another schedule, in which he was expected to state the annual yield of milk and of butter, the number of chickens on the farm, etc., etc. Hansei was angry at the officials, and felt quite sure that they meant to impose another tax. His wrath saved me, but defrauded the state out of one soul.
The people hereabouts look upon the state and its functionaries as their natural enemies, and have no scruples as to deceiving them.
For the first time in my life, I have seen a tree felled.
I was filled with awe when I saw it topple for a moment, before the final crash. It reminded me of the fate of a man who is, at one blow, hurled from sunny heights into the depths of misery.
Hansei is having a path cut through the forest. It passes by my window, and the clearing will afford me a fine view. He was quite happy when I told him of this.
Hansei was at the capital. On his return, he unwrapped a large parcel and, with conscious pride, showed us what sensible presents he had bought. They were the pictures of the king and queen.
In his kindness of heart, he offered to let me hang up the pictures in my room, and was quite provoked to find that his wife wanted to keep them for herself. I satisfied him at last by saying: "The sitting-room belongs to us all."
But the pictures seemed to be looking at me constantly, and made it unpleasant for me to remain in the room. Walpurga noticed this and, to my great relief, removed them to her bedroom. Hansei does not take notice of such matters.
The king's portrait represents him in the dress of a citizen. Is it a sign that--?
Hansei at last reveals his plan. It is quite a clever stroke of his to begin by cutting roads through the forest, so that the beams can be brought down from far up the mountain, and thus fetch him thrice as much money as if they were cut into smaller logs.
(April 3d.)--At first, there is so much to observe. The whole world seems like a young child, or like the first verdure of spring. Later, one grows accustomed to it all, and it seems as if things were always and everywhere alike. It seems to me that life would be insupportable, if the world were ever new and left us no repose.
Habit, our second mother, is a good mother, too.
They have fastened a rope to the feet of my white foal, so that it cannot run away. It can now only move about slowly. The freedom and grace of its movements are gone, even before it is put in harness.
Oh, how many human beings have a like fate!
I love to watch the rain calmly descending upon the earth. If I were not obliged to work, I could remain by my window for hours, lost in reverie and looking out and listening, for it seems to me as if I were endowed with a million eyes and could see every drop as it falls on the half-open buds. But here, we are all constantly at work. I am ashamed to sit here with my hands in my lap. The rain in springtime is soft and beautiful, lending voice, form and substance to the air, and to every tiny rill.
Formerly, I always required a spyglass, where I no longer need it.
It is because we do not live in the open air, that we become near-sighted.
The rose may be improved by cultivation, and the thorns growing on its stalk may become different from what they were; but they are thorns, nevertheless.
(April 15th.)--I have heard the yellow-hammer, for the first time this year. In springtime its notes are far more rapid and short than in summer.
(April 23d.)--The first swallow has come. Now may we softly lull ourselves to rest in the consciousness that sweet spring is with us once again. The uncertain and anxious fluttering from one fair day to another, is at an end.
My little pitchman says: "Swallows and starlings come and go in the night." The idea is quite suggestive.
(End of April.)--We have had a shower. Oh, what fragrant odors it awakened in flowers, grass and trees! And this fragrance floats off into infinite space, while we short-lived children of man imagine that it all exists for us. Everything that exists, exists for itself alone.
Theimmortelleis one of the earliest plants to shoot forth its leaves. It grows by the edge of the forest, and will thrive even in poor soil.
(May 1st.)--We have had a cold, rainy day, with hail. Toward evening, when the rain had ceased and the drops on the trees and bushes sparkled in the golden sunlight, I heard the cuckoo, for the first time this year. He flew from forest to forest, from mountain to mountain, crying everywhere.
I now know why they say: "Go to the cuckoo."4The cuckoo has no nest, no home of its own and, according to popular tradition, is obliged to sleep on a different tree every night. "Go to the cuckoo," therefore means: "be restless and fugitive; be at home nowhere."
When I told the grandmother of my discovery, she said: "You've hit it exactly. You manage to get some good out of everything. You've won it."
She meant that I had won the game of life.
My kind little pitchman has given me an unexpected treat. He has arranged a seat for me, up by the maple tree on the projecting rock. But he cut away the bushes, and thus destroyed the privacy of my favorite haunt. Nevertheless, I find it pleasant to sit there. No human being is perfectly satisfied with what another may do for him, but we may be grateful, for all; and gratitude is the soil on which joy thrives.
(First Sunday in May.)--On Sunday afternoons, when I may not work, I long to drive through the park in a caleche which is easy on its springs; not to be always walking or obliged to be doing something. To move through the world in the springtime, seated on soft cushions and drawn by fleet horses, or, what is still better, to ride along the turfy forest paths, while guiding and controlling a strong power--I can never forget that.
At night, when I look up into the vast, starry vault, with its myriad glittering orbs, I find it difficult to sit or to walk. I think of the nights when, lying back in my carriage, I drove out into the wide world and looked up at the stars. How free everything was then! I am still much affected by trifles.
There are days when I cannot endure the forest, when I do not wish for shade. I must then have the sun--nothing but light and sunshine. At such times, I walk along the hot and shadeless meadow paths.
I now have a window-shelf filled with flower-pots. How different when one has to wait for the flowers to come up, instead of receiving them in full bloom from the gardener.
The evenings are my enemy--always heavy and dull. Morn is my friend, for then everything is bright. How different it once was!
The mental state of those who are out in the world may be likened to the physical condition of Baroness Constance. There is a constant ringing in her ears, and she knows nothing of holy repose or perfect silence. It is not until one ceases to know anything of the world, or to care for it, that this mental ringing in the ears ceases, and holy repose and calm are vouchsafed us. Every sound which then enters is as a marvel.
The grandmother is quiet and alert, just as occasion may require. She is not one of the ever busy and excited ones, and yet she is never idle. With her great knowledge of human nature, she yet retains her kindly feelings toward all. She has thought much and yet isnaïve. She treats me with affectionate frankness, and says that she has, all her life, wished to have a clever person about her--one who had learnt something and with whom she could talk about everything. And she does this to the letter. I am obliged to explain a thousand things to her, and she is sincerely grateful for any information I can give her.
"I like to get my kindling-wood ready in time," said she to-day. Translated into our language, this means that she likes to think over things beforehand.
But there are so many dark doors which we pass with closed eyes.
While watching the foal to-day, I could not help thinking that the first man who tamed a beast--that is, subdued it so that it would bear him and support him--was the first to assert the power of humanity. Other animals can kill each other, but not one of them can guide another life to its own advantage. There are no new species of beasts to be tamed now. Men are, in truth, becoming poets. They condense the intangible forces and say to steam, to light, and to the electric spark: "Come and do my bidding."
I have bought some sugar with which to feed my white foal. It is a great pleasure, and to-day I could not help thinking that, if any one saw us, it must have been a pretty picture.
Oh, how vain and trifling I still am!
Every large and extended estate, be it this very farm, or the court at the capital, has its vassals, its servants, its parasites, its willing subjects. The world is the same everywhere.
Peasant life is not the elegant world, but there must be plow horses as well as carriage horses.
To live out of one's self, to give full sway to one's native temperament, to remain unmoved by external influences:--thus may one learn to know himself and that which is highest. It is in the desert waste that God reveals himself to the individual heart. The bush burns and yet is not consumed.
Whenever I look at the mountains, I am impressed anew with their sublimity.
The world below me is covered by a sea of mist from which the mountain peaks here and there protrude. With every day, as it were, I behold the first day of creation.
I am beginning to understand the idea of the sublime. It is the awe of greatness, not the awe of fear. I feel as if dwelling in a temple.
Solitude often makes one dull and torpid. I sometimes experience this even in myself.
On a rainy Sunday, Hansei will often stand looking out of the window, for hours at a time. I feel satisfied that his first thoughts are of a horse, a cow, the sale of his wood, or of some acquaintance. At last, he falls into a sort of waking dream, and thinks of nothing at all. One awakes from this childlike lying down and gazing into the world, as from strengthening and refreshing sleep. It is indeed only another form of elementary existence.
Judging by my notes, I, at one time, thought this merely a station in my journey, where one is detained by interests or adventure; but now I see that I am at the goal.
I will lay down my load, as the grandmother advised me to do, and break the chests to pieces. I shall remain here for the rest of my life. And now that I have firmly resolved to remain--even if I were discovered to-morrow, and the whole world heaped its scorn upon me--I have a happy feeling of being at home. I am here, and here I shall remain.
I was not reminded of all this until to-day, when my little pitchman said: "You look so pleased, so--I don't know how, but--you never looked so before."
Yes, my dear little pitchman, you are right; it was not until to-day that I felt myself truly at home. I have struck root, like the cherry sapling before my window.
The old pensioner said to me to-day: "Behold, my child, age takes much from us; but I can still dream as beautifully as I did in my youth."
Of all the flowers, I find the heaviest dew on the rose. Is that because of the rich perfume? Does the perfume form dew? No green leaf ever has so much dew upon it, as the leaf of a flower.
I often feel tempted to tell the story of Leah to the whole household, Jochem included.
It often annoys me, when I think that I do not impart all I have to my friends; but how much more it would annoy me, if I were misunderstood by them.
Even in our day, art and religion are far asunder.
The latter can be imparted to all; the former cannot.
It is impossible to interest the masses in refined pleasures. During the week, they have nothing but hard work; and on Sunday, they find recreation at ninepins, or in dancing in heavy boots. They require rude pleasures and a rude faith.
(On Sunday, while the bells are ringing.)--Art does not enter into the life of the masses. For them, plastic or dramatic art, or the higher order of music or literature, do not exist.
The only idea they have of another life, over and above the trivial present, is embodied by the church, and yet that which is best in all religions is the poetry they contain.
What must become of one who, for years, does not read a serious book, or does not read at all, and thus takes in no great or well worked-out ideas? If he be rich and noble, his life becomes vain play; if he be poor and lowly, it becomes vain labor. And, for this reason, nature has given us song and history, has established religion which offers its jewels to all, so that every one may drink of the fermented wine of all knowledge and all art. But new wine must always be added, or--
(July 30th.)--The whole world was veiled in mist, and the sun was hidden from view. It seemed as if the artistic creative eye were brooding over the form it was about to usher into life. And then the cloud-flakes were rent asunder. For a moment, the mountain world was free. The mists disappear; but new ones arise from the earth.
Out in the world the fear of being ridiculed prevents people from expressing enthusiastic admiration of moonlight. When the whole world is illumined its soft glow, and no sound is heard save the murmur of the sparkling brook, I am filled with ecstatic delight.
Temptation returns, and says: "You offend against nature by wasting your rich gifts on tasks that others could accomplish as well as you. Go out into the worlds and consider your present life merely as a state of transition."
No! I shall remain!
When I stand on the mountain and gaze out into the world, I often ask myself: "Art thou still the same Irma? What vestige is left of thy past glittering life?"
Nothing but the heavy burden that oppresses my soul.
Weather-talk is considered a bore, and yet there is no subject more important. Plants and animals feel the changes, for they determine their fate from day to day. And are there not men whose whole life is bound up in the question: "Will the day be clear or cloudy?"
The cloud that, like a girdle, encircles yonder peak, has rested there, motionless, the whole day; and thus, too, there are days when a mist seems to be resting upon one's soul, enveloping our inner being in darkness.
Play of the features is distinctively a human attribute. The human face reveals changing emotions; that of the beast does not.
The beast, moreover, has always but one and the same tone. The bark of a dog is ever the same, be it in joy or anger; the only change is in the temper. Or is it only to our ears that these tones seem alike?
If a human being were to utter such inharmonious and disconnected tones as those produced by the mavis overhead, it would drive me to distraction. But why do these tones not affect me in the same way? Why do they almost please me? Because they are natural to the bird. But man, having the power to choose, must see to it that his tones are melodious.
What is all our knowledge? We do not even know what to-morrow's weather will be. There is no infallible indicator of the changes in this most essential condition of life. Nor do the farmers, although they are so fond of talking on the subject, know anything about it.
Harvest time is the dramatic turning-point of the year. At that time, all is haste and suspense, and men and women are alike uncongenial.
One need but listen to the pensioner, to learn how thoroughly corrupt the world is. His expletives have all the force of cudgels. He is constantly trying to sound me in regard to Hansei and Walpurga, and would like me to tell him of their faults. It worries him to hear them well spoken of.
A remark of Gunther's occurred to me to-day.
"We are all passionate; the difference between individuals being only a difference in rhythm. He who goes downstairs at one bound, may break his neck; he whose descent is gradual and careful, will remain uninjured."
I never look at the clock. With me, life is no longer divided into hours. I hear the bell in the valley at morning, noon and evening, and regulate my actions accordingly. The clock is in the church tower. The church tells us the time of day.
Old Jochem is ill. The physician who attends him is quite a jovial character, and maintains that Jochem would live many years longer if he had only been able to feed his anger and keep his lawsuits, for these furnished him with excitement and amusement, at the same time. As long as he had these, there was still something left to fight for in the world and some one to abuse, and it was this that had kept him up. Now that his life was a peaceful one, he would, in all likelihood, die ofennui.
"You smile," said the physician to me. "Believe me, I am quite serious. An infant in the cradle that does not cry, and a chained dog that does not bark, have neither life nor energy and will surely die."
He may be right, to a certain extent.
I feel under restraint when with the physician; for he regards me with such a strange, scrutinizing air.
"Oh, Thou good God! The grass is coming up! But they'll bury me in the earth and I'll never come up again!" was Jochem's lament.
The old man is dead. This very night he passed away in his sleep. No one was with him at the time.
He died like a forest tree which has lost its power of absorbing nourishment.
Little Burgei now sleeps with me. My friends will listen to nothing else, and will not suffer me to be alone at night.
I am filled with dread. A corpse lies on the floor above. Beside it, is a solitary lamp that is left to burn until the dead man is buried. And yet I feel that I must conquer this feeling of dread! Yes, I shall.
It still moves me deeply to think of how the old man remembered me. He sent for me yesterday; and, when I went up to his bedside, he said: "Irmgard, you were a stranger and yet were kind to me--I'd like to leave you something. I've been thinking the matter over and find that I still have something to give you. It's the best of all that I own. It would do me no good to have it buried with me, and it will be of great benefit to you, for there's a charm in it. Here it is--take it--it's the bullet that struck me on the third rib. Take good care of it. He who bears with him a bullet that has once hit a man, is in no danger of sudden, unexpected death. You can rely on that! And now I've something to ask you: Tell me, what was your father's name? You've told me that he's dead. When I get to heaven, I'll hunt him up and tell him that you're quite a good girl; a little bit queer, perhaps, but right good for all. I'll tell your father that, and it'll be good news for him."
I could not tell him the name--how could I? All I could do was to thank him for giving me what had been so precious in his own eyes. And, strange to say, when I take the bullet in my hand and look at it, it agitates me greatly.
I will now prepare myself to follow the old man to his grave.
I was at the churchyard while the old man was buried. I shall lie there, too, some day.
I feel as if death might be conquered by the will. I am determined to live; I will not die. Is force of will the hidden thing within me, that I am ever seeking? And yet, I have no will. No one has. All our life, all our thoughts, are simply the necessary result of events and experiences, of waking perception and nocturnal dreams. Like the beasts, we may change the scene; but, the greater one, the prison that confines us, we cannot change. We cannot quit the earth. The laws of gravitation and attraction hold our souls fast as well as our bodies. Far above me, move the stars, and I am nothing more than a flower or a blade of grass clinging to the earth. The stars look down at me and I look up to them, and yet we cannot join each other.
A reigning prince has visited our farm. His highness Grubersepp, of whom Walpurga has often spoken to me, has arrived, bringing his little son, or--to speak more correctly--his two black horses and his son with him. The house is all bustle, and every one seems as proud and happy as if a reigning prince had actually come.
Grubersepp looked at me with a curious air.
"Is that prim-looking girl," said he to Hansei, while pointing backward with his thumb, "one of your wife's relations?"
"Yes; my wife--" Hansei muttered something--I saw that it went hard with him to tell a lie, and, above all, to the great farmer to whom he was showing his property.
Among the peasants, it is just the same as elsewhere. Only the great ones know each other. But their intercourse is beautiful and impressive, and, although they exchange no friendly words, they serve each other by friendly actions.
The family have been made happy, for Grubersepp has said that the farm was in good order; and when Grubersepp says that, it is as much as if the intendant should say: "divine."
During the two days Grubersepp spent here, there was no rest in the house; that is, every one was busy thinking of him. Now everything is running in its accustomed groove, and every face is radiant with joy. No matter how well satisfied one may be with himself, it is something quite different to receive words of approval from the lips of another, and especially so, when the words of commendation come from a man so exalted as Grubersepp.
I am still trembling with fright. I was in the woods to-day. I was sitting on my bench, and saw some one walking among the trees. Now and then he would stop to gather a flower or pick up a stone. He came near and--who was it?
It was Gunther, the friend for whose presence I had so often longed. He asked me, in his deep, clear voice: "Child, does this road lead down to the village?"
I felt as if choking, and could not utter a word. I pointed to the footpath and, in fear and trembling, arose from my seat. He asked me: "Are you dumb, poor child?"--This saved me. I am dumb; I cannot speak. Without uttering a word, I fled from him and, when I found myself alone, I wept longer than I have for many years. I wanted to hurry after him, but he had gone. I could not support myself. My limbs gave way under me. At last I was calm--all is over--all must be over.
I have had long and troubled days. My work did not go as smoothly as it should have done, and much went amiss with me. The world without has aroused me.
I thank fate that I have learned to use my eyes. Wherever I look, I see something that delights me and gives me food for thought. The noblest joys and the most widely diffused are those the eye affords us.
I am delighted to find that the little pitchman knows every bird by its song. The proverb says: "A bird is known by its feathers." That is a matter of course, for few know them by their song. Their plumage is permanent; their song is fleeting and fitful. The former is fixed; the latter is not.
I now listen, with perfect unconcern, to the groaning of the forest trees, which so alarmed me during that night of terrors. And how strange! as soon as a bird begins to sing, the groaning ceases. What causes this?
I have received fresh orders, and am all right again. But my little pitchman keeps ailing. At first, it almost vexed me, but I conquered the selfish habits that tyrannized over me. I have served him faithfully, in requital for the services he has done me. I nursed him carefully, and now he is quite well again.
I am not so selfish, after all; for I have gained the friendship of good human beings. But I cannot do good to those who do not concern me. I belong to myself and to an infinitely small circle; beyond that I cannot go.
When I sit here in silence and solitude, and look at the one room in which I live and hope to die, I sometimes give way to horrible fits of depression. Here is my chair, my table, my workbench, my bed. These are mine until I am laid in the grave; but there is not one human soul that belongs to me.
I feel so oppressed, at such moments, that I would like to cry out aloud, and it is with difficulty that I regain my composure. Work, however, aids me.
For one brief hour, I have imagined myself possessed of omniscience.
It was yesterday morning, during the hour from eleven until twelve. A light sun-shower passed over us, and then all grew bright again, and, in my mind's eye, I saw how thousands of beings were spending that hour. I saw the laborer in the forest, the king in his cabinet, the sewing-woman in her garret, the miner in the shaft, the bird on the tree, the lizard on the rock. I saw the child sitting in school, and the dying old man drawing his last breath. I saw the ship, the coquette rouging herself, and the poor working-woman weeding in the fields. I saw all--everything. I passed one hour of infinity.
And now I am fettered again--a small, isolated, miserable, stammering child. The one great thought of eternity passes like a fugitive through my mind, and finds no resting-place there. I must again hold fast to trifles.
I shall return to my workbench.
I have read, somewhere, that the Arabians wash their hands before prayer; when in the desert, where they can find no water, they wash them in sand and dust. The dust of labor purifies us.
The masses should have no books, but should talk with, and listen to, each other.
Books serve to isolate man; that which is told us by word of mouth is far more potent.
The teachings--or, rather, the experiences--of a ruined worldling have two things in their favor. She who has gone astray has become observant of everything, and is, therefore, the best guide. And, besides that, it seems to me that those who receive a precept from the lips of one who is perfectly pure have no, choice left them; for purity is the highest authority, and its teachings must be accepted. But when a ruined being speaks to us, every word must be tested. It will not do to reject it at once; and this is well, for it makes one free.
The swallows are departing. They gather in flocks which, like thick clouds, darken the air and, with lightning speed, they move in their zig-zag course. How they can keep together in such irregular movements passes our comprehension. When, or by what means, do they signify to each other when a sharp turn is to be taken?
The thought of flying suggests a sphere of life of which we can form no conception. And yet we imagine that we understand the world. What is fixed, we may comprehend; at least, the portion that is fixed.--Beyond that, all is conjecture.
I overheard Franz, Gundel's lover, saying to her: "A woman who looked just like Irmgard was once with the queen at the military maneuvers; and she wore the uniform of our regiment, and rode up and down the line."
If the soldier were to recognize and betray me?
How the confused feelings that fill the human heart seem to play at hide and seek with each other. With all my misery, it is not without a certain feeling of triumph that I learn that my image has impressed itself on a thousand memories.
I have not yet accustomed myself to go out alone, and it often seems to me as if a servant must be walking after me. Ah! what an artificial life we all lead.
I have spent a whole day alone in the woods. Oh, how happy I was! I lay on the ground listening to the rustling of the leaves overhead, and the prattling of the brook below. If I could but end my days here like a wounded doe--for I am one, and drops of blood mark my track.--No, I am well again. I was once in the world; that is, in another world; and now I lead a new life.
The little pitchman knew my father. During one summer, he worked in our forest, gathering pitch, and my father, who understood everything, went up to him and taught him how to boil the pitch in order to obtain a better and purer article than he would otherwise have got.
"Oh, what a man he was! I only wish you'd known him," said the little pitchman to me. "He was so good. Many a one has told me, since then, how he used to help everybody. He knew all about everything. He taught me that you can get the best turpentine from the larches. He never liked to give anything to people, but he wasn't stingy. He helped all who'd work, and showed them how things might be done with less trouble and with greater profit, and that was better than giving them money. Every year he would lend them some money, so that they could buy a pig, and when they'd sold it, they had to pay him back. They often laughed at him and gave him a nickname, too, but it was an honor to him. Yes--and would you believe it?--he had a great misfortune. His children deserted him."
How these words rent my heart!
During the whole evening, the terrible mark on my forehead burned like fire.
This is the anniversary of my return to the summer palace.
At that time, I dreamt that a star had fallen down on me, and that a man, with averted gaze, was saying: "Thou too, art alone!"
There are depths of the soul, which no safety-lamp ever enters, and where all light is extinguished. I turn away--for naught dwells there but the angry storm-wind.
My thoughts go back to my childhood. I was three years old when my mother died. I have nothing to remind me of it, except that the moving about and pushing in the next room greatly frightened me. Oh mother! why did you die so soon? How different I would have been--
I? Who is this I? If it could have been different, it were not I. It was to be thus.
They put black clothes on me and my brother, and I only remember that father went with us. He said that it would be better if we did not remain with him, and that it was not well for us to grow up in solitude. He kissed us at parting. He kissed me and my brother, then he kissed me once more. It seemed as if he wished to retain my kiss for the last.
What are the memories of my childhood? A silent convent, my aunt the lady abbess, and my friend Emma. I remember this much, however: when strangers came, they would turn to me and say: "Oh, what a pretty child! what large brown eyes!" Emma told me that I was not pretty, and that the visitors were only laughing at and mocking me; but my mirror told me that I was pretty. I frankly said so to Emma and she confessed that I was. My father came--he had been in America--and he looked at me for a long while. "Father, I am pretty, am I not?" said I to him.
"Yes, my child, you are, and much is required of one who is beautiful. Beauty is a heavy charge. Always bear yourself that others may justly feel proud of you."
I did not know what he meant at the time, but now I understand it all.
I do not remember how the years passed by. I went back to father. Bruno, who was intended for an agriculturist, entered the army against father's wishes. Father, absorbed by his work and his studies, lived entirely for himself, and left us to do as we pleased. He was proud of this, and often said that he did not wish to exercise his authority over us, and that he meant to allow us to develop our characters freely and without restraint. I returned to the convent, and remained there until my aunt died.
And there--forgive me, great and pure spirit!--there lay your great error. You cast aside your paternal majesty and meant to live in love alone. And we? Bruno would not, and I could not. And thus, while you were lonely, we were miserable.
Bruno went to court. He was handsome, gay and full of life. He presented me at court, also. Father had allowed me to follow my own choice, and there my troubles began. I knew that I was beautiful, and I had the courage to think differently from others. I had become the free nature which my father had meant me to be; but to what purpose?
When I look over what I have written, I cannot help thinking of how much one has lived and labored during a year, and how small the yield is, after all. But then flowers, too, require a long time before they blossom, and fruit ripens but slowly; many sunny days and dewy nights have helped to perfect them.
A rainbow! Rest and peace are intangible. They exist nowhere except in our own imagination and in the view we take of things around us. Now I understand why the rainbow that followed the deluge was described as a token of peace. The seven colors have no real existence. They only appear to the eye that receives the broken rays at the proper angle of refraction. Rest and peace cannot be conquered by force; they are free gifts of the heaven within us--smiles and tears meeting like the rain cloud and the sunshine.
I am often oppressed with a fear that I shall lose what culture I possess, because of my having no one with whom I can speak in my own language, and--I hardly know how to express myself--in whom I can find my own nature reflected. And yet, that which makes man human is possessed by those about me, as much as by the most cultured. This being the case, whence this fear? and of what benefit is culture? Do I still mean to use it in the world? I do not understand myself.
Our fashionable culture cannot supplant religion, because, while religion makes all men equal, education produces inequality. But there must be a system of culture that will equalize all men, and that is the only right and true system. We are, as yet, at the threshold.
I have a great work before me, and am determined to succeed.
Hansei put little Peter on the white horse and let him ride a few steps. How happy the little fellow was! and how Wodan looked around at father and son! I retained the scene in my memory, and am now working at the group--Hansei, Peter, and the white foal, all together. If I only succeed! I can scarcely sleep for thinking of it.
The group has proved a success, although not so great a one as I had wished for. The human figures are stiff and without expression; but the horse is full of life, and every one in the house is delighted with my achievement.
Hansei wishes me to accompany him when he goes out hunting, so that I may copy stags, deer, and chamois. Those, he thinks, are the best subjects, after all.
I have tried to copy the animals in the forest, but did not succeed as I did with the horse. I can only hold fast to that which has no fear of me and which I, therefore, love. I shall stick to my horses and cows.
All the mountain summits that I see, have such strange and yet appropriate names. Who bestowed them upon them? And who accepted them? What names could we invent nowadays? The earth and language have both become rigid and unyielding. I think I once heard the same thought expressed one evening, while we were at tea with the queen.
The carnival is a great festival--the very realization of jollity. Peasants from the village come to visit us. They often come on Sundays, but I never heard them speak of anything but cattle, the crops, or the price of grain. I sometimes remain in the room to listen to them, for I love to hear the sound of human voices.
The stories they tell each other seem simple, but, after all, none better are told in thesalon.
Why did I not live out my life in purity? I was intended for a noble and beautiful existence.
My white foal is running about, while I sit here modeling it. The power of giving permanent shape to impressions received by the eye is the prerogative of man alone. We have words for everything about us and can imitate all objects, and, over and above that, we have music and pure thought. What rich stores of knowledge and delight are at man's disposal.
We have passed three sad, sorrowful days. The grandmother was ill. The whole household was in alarm. Hansei feared the worst and did not venture to leave the farm. It was a comfort to me to find that my nursing did the grandmother so much good.
Hansei, proud as he is of being a great farmer, was so anxious to do something for the mother, that he chopped the wood with which to make a fire in her room, and carried it in, himself.
He always told the doctor to spare no expense. Nothing was too dear, or too good for the grandmother.
The doctor explained the grandmother's illness to me, just as if I were a physician.
She often sent Uncle Peter out into the woods to me. It was still raw out there, and we soon returned.
The grandmother is well again, and is sitting in the spring sunshine.
"Yes, one must have been out of the world, to be grateful for coming back again," said she. "One who doesn't get away doesn't know what it is to come back." She had much to tell me about the deaths of her five children. "This one would have been so old, and this one so old," she kept on saying. In imagination, they had grown up with her. Then she told me of her husband's death: how he had been dragged into the lake by the driftwood, and drowned; and how Hansei had remained with them afterward. "He was a strange man," she always said of her husband, "but good-hearted."
During his sister's illness, the little pitchman was in great despair.
"She was the pride of our family," he kept on saying, as if she were already dead. But now he is the happiest of us all, and when the grandmother sat on my bench under the maple tree, for the first time, he said: "I'll get a golden seat in heaven for making that bench. The king hasn't got a finer place than that, and he can't get any one to paint bluer skies or greener woods for him than we can see from here."
I am quite distressed by what the little pitchman tells me. He brings me word that the man who purchases my work intends to pay me a visit. He has just received an order to furnish carved wainscotings for the palace at the king's new hunting-seat, and wishes to see me about them.
How shall I avoid meeting him?
The good mother has helped me out of my trouble. She received him when he came, and told him that I would see no one. She would not consent to tell a falsehood, a point on which Walpurga would have had less scruples.
I now have the working designs, and beautiful woods with which to carry them out, for I have undertaken to execute a portion of the order.
It matters little what manner of life one leads, so long as there is self-awakening and self-consciousness. All arts, all science, merely exist in order that our own consciousness may be acted upon and aroused by that of others. He who can do this unaided is fortunate. He who awakes of himself when it is time to go to work in the morning, has no need of a watchman to call him.
Hansei has become a juryman. Walpurga is quite proud of it, and when he took leave of us, it was with a certain air of pride and importance. The idea of appealing to the conscience of the people for the verdict of justice, is a beautiful one.
Hansei has returned, and had many terrible stories to tell.
It seems to me as if our lives and destinies were nothing more than shadows playing on the wall.
Hansei was deeply affected when he said to us:
"Yes, all my sins came back to me, and I felt as if I were doing penance when I pronounced judgment on others. It's nothing but good luck that prevents us from falling into sinful ways and keeps us off of the anxious bench."
(Sunday, May 28th.)--The grandmother is dead.
I cannot write of it. My hand seems as if paralyzed.
She kissed my eyes and said: "I kiss your eyes, and hope they may never weep again."
Two hours before her death, she said to Hansei:
"Make a sled for Burgei. She is so anxious to have one. It'll please me if you do. You needn't fear, she won't harm herself. I beg of you, do it."
"Yes, yes, grandmother!" replied Hansei, with thick voice, and deeply affected by the thought that, even then, the grandmother's only care was for Burgei's pleasure.
The fear of death lies heavily upon me, and yet I feel an inward sense of freedom. I have beheld a beautiful end. My hand closed her eyes in death. I had not believed that I could do it. There was a time when I could not, when I lay on the floor feeling as if I were buried far under the earth, and beside me lay my father, cold in death.
The grandmother's death has relieved me of all fear. I am able to assist Walpurga. Her lamentations are excessive. "Now I'm an orphan like you!" she cried, throwing herself on my bosom. Then she cried to the dead one: "Oh mother! how can you be so cruel as to leave me? Oh God! and there's the bird still hopping about its cage. Yes, you can jump about! but mother never will again!"
She took a cloth and covered the crossbill's cage with it, saying: "I'd like to let you fly, you dear little creature, but I can't. Mother loved you so much that I can't let you go." And then, addressing the corpse, she said: "Oh mother! can there ever be sunshine when you're not here? Yes, the clock ticks and keeps on going, and can be wound up. But, oh! the hours that will come and go without you! God forgive me for the many hours I was away from you!"
The door of the clothes-press suddenly flew open and startled Walpurga. Regaining her self-command, she said: "Yes, yes; I'll wear your clothes. I'll wear them for the sake of good. No evil thought shall enter my heart, no evil word pass my lips. Help me, so that I may always be yours! Oh God! there's no one left to say 'child' to me! I remember how you said: 'So long as you can say, father, and mother, there is yet a love that bears you in its arms. It's only when the parents are gone, that one is set down on the cold ground.' I'll hold fast to all you've told me to do, and so shall my children. And, Irmgard, you remember many other wise sayings, don't you?"
Such was the burden of Walpurga's lament, and I could only reply:
"Yes, and hold fast to one thing she said: 'One may sin even in speech.' Don't give way to your grief."
Walpurga took down her mother's prayer-book and read the prayer for the soul of the departed.
After that, she handed me the book, and what I read there filled me with gratitude and devotion. When our feelings are most violently agitated, we cannot give definite shape to our ideas. We, too, sing melodies that have been arranged by others. Our lips repeat the words of poets who have sung and suffered for us; for the poet's heart, in truth, contains the New Jerusalem of civilization. The great gulf that separates man from the beast, the plant, or the stone, is the possession of sympathy, by means of which men are enabled to anticipate, or to follow, each other's emotions. From the beginning until now, humanity has been chanting an undying melody in which my voice, too, forms a part. An everlasting sun, of whose rays I am one, has been lighting the path from generation to generation. The silent mountains outlast the races of men and no new one is added to their number; but, from generation to generation, new watch-towers of thought arise from the soul of humanity.
A happy death is the greatest good. Wondrous power of religion! Over the couch of the sick, there are bell-pulls, reaching into heaven, by which the patient is enabled to draw himself up and support himself. He imagines them there, even in their absence, and, supported by faith, thinks that he is holding fast to them.
After the grandmother's death, a strange feeling of quiet rested on the house. It was a great comfort to Walpurga to know that there were so many people at the funeral.
"Yes, they all honored her; but they really didn't know her. You and I knew her. Do you remember, Hansei, when the potatoes were stolen from the field, and she said; 'If one only knew who stole them,' and I said: 'Mother, would you inform against them?' 'You foolish thing,' she answered, reproachfully, 'how could you think I'd mean that? What I mean is: if we only knew who the people are that stole our potatoes during the night. They must know that we have but little, ourselves; and they must be very unfortunate people, whom we ought to help as much as we can afford to.' Yes, she said that; was there ever another creature who'd think of such a thing? That's the way the saints must have been who thought so kindly of all. She had no fear of the sick, nor hatred of the wicked. Her only thought was, how much they must have suffered before they got so sick or so wicked. If I could only grow to be like her. Remind me of it all, Irmgard, when I get cross and scold. You'll help me, won't you? to become like my mother, so that, some day, my children will think of me as I do of her. Ah! if one were only always as good as one can be. Yes, she was right when she used to say: 'Wishing in the one hand and blowing into the other, amount to about the same thing.'"
I shall now return to my work. At such times, there is hardship and yet comfort in labor. Hansei and Walpurga are obliged to work. They cannot afford to give themselves up to grief, for too much depends on them. Be it with king or beggar, poet or peasant, the key-note of the highest emotions is always the same.
Walpurga's lament was pitched in the same key as that of Lear for Cordelia, and yet how different. To a father who loses his child, the future is dead. To a child losing a parent, the past is dead. Ah! how weak is language.
I was quite alarmed by something that Hansei said to-day. Has doubt entered even these simple hearts? And they do their duty in this world without a firm belief in a future state.
In his funeral sermon, the preacher had said: "Behold the trees! A few weeks ago, they were dead. But with the spring, they return to life." "The pastor oughtn't to have said that," remarked Hansei; "not that way, at any rate. He might convert children by that, but not us. What does he mean by talking about trees in that fashion? The trees that still have life in them will get new leaves in the spring, but the dead ones won't; they'll be cut down and others will be planted in their place."
We all of us have a strange feeling of loneliness--a feeling that something is missing. Uncle Peter is the most inconsolable of all.
"Now I must wander about the world alone; I haven't brother or sister left. She was the pride of our family," he repeats again and again.
Heretofore, he always slept in the garret, with the servants; but now Hansei has placed the old pensioner's room at his disposal. He is quite proud of it, but often complains, saying: "Why did I have to wait so long for all this? How stupid it was of my sister and me. We might have moved in there. Could we have found a prettier place? Oh, how nicely we would have lived there, and you could have gone along with us. Oh, how stupid old age is. We don't see the good nests till the trees are bare and there's nothing more left in them. 'One gets nothing to eat, till there are no teeth to bite it with,' as my sister used to say."
He always uses the words: "As my sister used to say," when he is on the point of making a statement which he does not wish contradicted, and I imagine he really thinks his sister did say it. He inherited her closet and, before opening it, he always knocks at the door.
My little pitchman is a good bee-master. He knows how to take care of bees and he calls them the poor man's pasture cattle.
"Since my sister's death," said he to me to-day, "I've had nothing but bad luck with my bees. They won't have anything more to do with me."
I have written nothing for months. For whom are these pages? Why do I torment my mind by recording every trifling incident or passing emotion? These questions unsettled and perplexed me, but now I am calm again. For months I have done nothing but work.
It seems to me that I must soon die, and yet I feel that I am in the fulness of my strength. I am often rendered uneasy by the thought that people trifle with my supposed madness.
At last I feel that my rest here was never complete, and that it might have been disturbed at any moment. But now, let what will come, I shall remain.
A storm! To us who note the sun, the moon, and every change of weather, a storm is quite a different affair from what it is to those who only look to see what weather it is when they are idle, or have a pleasure party in prospect.
One feels as if transported back to the time of creation, as if all were chaos once more; for the voice of the Infinite is heard in the thunder, and His glory blazes forth in the lightning.
At a public gaming-table, while the thunder was pealing and the lightning flashing, and the frivolous throng had withdrawn from the game, I once saw a lady of noble birth who insisted upon going on with the game after all the others had been frightened away. The croupiers were obliged to keep at their work. This lady gives elegant entertainments, and a servant who stole a silver spoon from her, was sent to gaol. How low, to steal a spoon--! But what of her mistress?
There is, of course, one circumstance that I must not omit to mention. Every morning, before repairing to the gaming-table, she attends mass.
To be killed by lightning, must surely be the most beautiful death of all. On a lovely summer's day, to be suddenly struck down by the great marksman!
I have seen a man who moves in the polite world. He is a musician; young, good-looking, lively, and with delicate, well-cared-for hands. The storm had overtaken him, and he passed the night in our farmhouse. While here, he told us:
"I am already blind in this eye, and my physician tells me that I shall lose the other in less than a year, and so I have determined to see the great, vast, beautiful world. He who has not seen the Alps, does not know how beautiful our earth is. And so I take it up within me once more. I fix the sun, the mountains, the forests, the meads, the streams, the lakes and, above all, the human face, in my memory. Yes, child," said he to me, "I shall preserve my memory of your face, for you are the loveliest peasant girl I have ever seen. I shall learn your face by heart, just as I have learnt poems, so that I may repeat them to myself and call them back to me when darkness and solitude close in around me."
I felt quite constrained, but he was exceedingly cheerful. Now and then, he cast a curious glance at the bandage over my brow. What may he have thought of it?
I should like to have told him that I had once, at Gunther's house, sung a song of his, but he did not mention Gunther's name.
I cannot find words to describe the impression that this handsome young man made upon me. He seemed so full of power, and without the least trace of weakly sensibility. He comes from the north, and possesses somewhat of the austere beauty of the northern races. He has breathed the salt sea air, and that is what makes him so sturdy, as they call it there. Such natures impress and arouse me; one cannot remain languid, brooding or self-complacent, while in his society.
Oh, what cannot a strong will do! How the human mind wrestles with the powers of nature and conquers them!
To-day, I have wept for the first time since the grandmother's death. I now feel light and free again.
The young musician has left, and I could hear him sing while on his way down the valley.
If I could still be aught to another human being--I could feel doubly as kind toward one who could neither see my brow, nor praise my beauty.
It is over--
What strange shadows does the game of life project, even unto us up here!
This visit has satisfied me that there is a large share of vanity still remaining in Walpurga. She could not help gradually directing the conversation to the subject, and, at last, told the stranger that she had been the crown prince's nurse, and had lived at the palace nearly a year. There is something in her that reminds me of the man who has many orders of merit, and who, like a general in citizen's dress, goes about without his medals and decorations. He modestly deprecates being addressed as "your excellency," but nevertheless enjoys it. The one year spent in the atmosphere of the court, has not been without its effect upon Walpurga.
Hansei, who felt kindly toward the stranger, and evinced great pity for him, was evidently annoyed by his wife's ostentation; but, with his usual great self-command, refrained from expressing his annoyance. But to-day, when they were going to church, Hansei asked:
"Wouldn't you like to have a ribbon around your neck and wear a picture of yourself and the crown prince, so that no one may ever forget what you once were?"
I do not think that Walpurga will ever again allude to her brilliant past.
The grandmother's death and funeral afforded me an opportunity to become better acquainted with the village schoolmaster. He has a tolerably fair education, but delights in making a display of it, and is fond of using big words, in order to impress the listener and to imply: "You don't quite understand me, after all." But the hearty feeling with which he entered into our grief, has raised him in my esteem, and I have frankly let him know as much. And so one day he said to me: "Your skill in wood carving is as good as a marriage portion. You can earn much money by it." I had no idea what he meant by the remark.
Last Sunday, however, I was enlightened.
He came here, dressed in a black coat and white cotton gloves, and made me a formal offer of marriage.
He could not be induced to believe that I would never marry, and he urgently repeated his offer, saying that he would only desist if I really loved another.
Walpurga fortunately came to the rescue. The good man seemed as if utterly crushed by his rejection, and went away. Why must I fill yet another heart with pain? Of my own, I do not care to speak.
I have not yet done with the schoolmaster's suit.
Walpurga asked me why I wished to remain so lonely. As long as I did not care to return to the great world, I might as well make this good man happy, and would be able to do much good to the children and the poor of the village. I have thus come to know myself anew. I am not made for beneficence. I am not a sister of mercy. I cannot visit the sick, unless I know and love them. I could nurse the grandmother, but no one else. I dislike peasant rooms, and the dull, heavy atmosphere of these abodes of simplicity. I am not a beneficent fairy. My senses are too easily offended. I do not care to make myself better than I am; that is, I should like to make myself better, but all one can do is to improve the good traits that already exist, and that one good trait I do not possess. I must be honest about the matter. I could find it easier to live in a convent. This confession does not make me unhappy, but melancholy. The desire to enjoy life, and to commune with myself is so strong.
Franz, Gundel's betrothed, had been summoned to join his regiment.
My little pitchman has just returned from the town, and brings me news that "there'll be war with the French." He tells me, too, that our business will become poor, that the people do not care to buy, and that our employer offers only half the usual price; and so I will be working for stock.--I, too, must help to bear the world's burden.
How strange it seems that I no longer know anything about my country and the age in which we live. One consolation is left me. In such warlike times, they will not seek the lost one.