But really, they are good people. Sometimes, when I forget myself and indulge in a few of the pleasures still left to mankind and sit down at a prettily set table to enjoy myself with them quite naturally and sincerely; or when I arrange a drive or a dance at the appropriate time…things like that…it does me good. The only thing I must not think of is that I am possessed of other potentialities as well, all of them going to waste, and that I have to keep them carefully concealed. And oh, how this constricts my heart! Yet to be misunderstood is the miserable destiny of people like myself.
How I regret that the sweetheart of my youth is no more; how I deplore the fact that I ever knew her! If I had not known her, I could say: “You are a fool. You are looking for something that does not exist.” But she was mine. I experienced the warmth of a heart and the nobility of a soul in whose presence I seemed to be more than I was because I was everything I possibly could be. Dear God, was there a facet of my soul then that was not alive? With her I could fully develop that wonderful feeling with which my heart embraces nature. Our relationship was a constant interplay of the most subtle perception, the keenest wit. Even its nuances, right down to occasional outbursts of mischievousness on her part, showed every indication of genius. And now! Alas, the years she was my senior took her to her grave before me. But I will never forget her—not her resolute mind nor her divine tolerance.
A few days ago I met a young man called V., an ingenuous fellow with a very pleasant face. He has just left the university and doesn’t consider himself overly wise, yet thinks he knows more than most people. As far as I can make out, he seems to have been very diligent; in short, he is well informed. He had heard that I sketch a great deal and that I know Greek—staggering accomplishments in these parts—so he came to see me and unloaded his store of wisdom, everything from Batteux to Wood, and De Piles to Winckelmann; and assured me that he had read all of Sulzer’s Theory (Part One) and owned a manuscript of Heyne’s on “The Study of Antiquity.” I let him talk.
I have also met another good fellow, the magistrate of this principality, a forthright, simple man. I have been told that it is perfectly delightful to see him with his children—he has nine! There is a lot of talk about his eldest daughter. He has asked me to visit them, and I shall do so as soon as I can. He resides in one of the Prince’s hunting lodges, an hour and a half from here. He was given permission to move there after the death of his wife made it too painful for him to remain at his official residence in town.
Aside from these two, a few curious characters have crossed my path about whom everything is insufferable, especially their efforts to be friendly. Farewell! This letter should please you…it is strictly factual!
May 22nd
The illusion that life is but a dream has occurred to quite a few people, and I feel the same way about it. When I see the limitations imposed on man’s powers of action and inquiry and observe how all his efficiency is aimed at nothing but the satisfaction of his needs, which in turn has but one purpose—to prolong his miserable existence—and when I see how all his reassurance on certain aspects of his inquiries is little more than a dreamy resignation, in that he chooses to bedaub the walls of his prison with motley figures and bright prospects—all this, William, makes me mute. I turn in upon myself and find a world there, again more in a spirit of presentiment and dour longing than dramatically or with vitality. Then everything grows hazy in my mind and I go on smiling dreamily at the world.
All learned schoolmasters and tutors are agreed that little children do not know what they want, but no one likes to admit that grown men stumble across this earth like children, not knowing whence they came nor whither they are going, and that a grown man can be just as poor at pursuing the higher aims of life and can be ruled, just like a child, by cookies, cake, and rod. To me all this is quite obvious.
I am perfectly willing to admit—because I know very well what your answer will be—that those people are happiest who live for the moment, like children dragging their dolls around with them, dressing and undressing them, eying the cupboard where Mama keeps the cookies with the greatest respect and, when at long last they get what they want, stuff their cheeks full, chew, swallow, and cry, “More!” Happy creatures! And they are lucky, also, who know how to give high-sounding names to their shabby professions, even to their passions, passing them off as great achievements that will benefit humanity. Any man is well off who can do that. But he who is humble knows very well where it all ends and can see how neatly every contented citizen prunes his little garden to suit his idea of Paradise, with what perseverance even the unhappy man bears his burden, and how all of them have but one thing on their minds—to see the sun shine for one short moment more. Believe me, such a man remains silent and learns how to create his own world by himself, and is happy—as they are—to be alive. And however confused he may be, he always carries in his heart a sweet feeling of freedom in the knowledge that he can leave his prison whenever he likes.
May 26th
You know my old habit of settling down in a place that suits me and of taking refuge there, however primitive it may be. Well, I have found such a spot here.
About an hour away there is a place called Wahlheim.* Its location on the top of a hill is quite unusual, and if you take the footpath that leads to the village, you suddenly find yourself overlooking the entire valley. At the inn a good woman, who is pleasant and lively in spite of her advanced years, serves wine, beer, and coffee; but the crowning glory of the place are two linden trees that stretch their wide branches over the little green in front of the church, which is surrounded by cottages, barns and farmyards. I don’t think I have ever before seen a place which was so secluded and in which I could feel so much at home. I have them bring a table and chair outside for me and there I sit, drinking coffee and reading Homer. When I came upon the place for the first time quite by chance on a beautiful afternoon, I found the spot deserted. Everyone was out in the fields.
Only a boy, about four years old, was sitting on the grass, holding an infant of about six months pressed with both arms tightly to his chest between his feet, thereby forming a sort of armchair for the child. In spite of the alert way he was looking about him out of his dark eyes, he sat perfectly still. The sight amused me. I sat down on a plow that was standing nearby and began, with great enthusiasm, to sketch this little picture of brotherly devotion. I put in the fence, a barn door, and a few dilapidated wagon wheels—everything, just as it was—and found, after an hour had passed, that I had produced a very well-arranged and interesting drawing without really having contributed anything to it. This strengthened my decision to stick to nature in the future, for only nature is infinitely rich and capable of developing a great artist.
There is much to be said for the advantage of rules and regulations, much the same things as can be said in praise of middle-class society—he who sticks to them will never produce anything that is bad or in poor taste, just as he who lets himself be molded by law, order, and prosperity will never become an intolerable neighbor or a striking scoundrel. On the other hand—and people can say what they like—rules and regulations ruin our true appreciation of nature and our powers to express it. Very well, say that I am being too harsh and that rules and regulations merely serve to curb us, cut down the rank vine, etc. Would you like me to give you an example? We can, for instance, apply what I have just said to love. A young man’s heart belongs to a certain girl. He spends every hour of the day with her and expends all his strength and his entire fortune on assuring her at every moment that he is all hers. Along comes a Philistine, an official, let us say, and says to him, “My dear young man, to love is human, but you must love properly.
Arrange your time more circumspectly into time for work, and spend only your hours of recreation with your sweetheart. Count your money and give her a present out of whatever remains after paying for the necessities of life…there is nothing to be said against that, only don’t do it too often…for her birthday, let us say, or her nameday,” etc. If the fellow
