“People often complain,” I said, “that there are too few good days and too many bad ones, and as far as I can see, they do so unjustly. If we always kept our hearts wide open to receive the good things God has in store for us daily, we would soon have strength enough to bear the bad when they come.”
“But our spirit is not ours to shape,” the vicar’s wife objected. “Think how much depends on our bodies. If we don’t feel well everything seems out of joint.”
I agreed with her. “So let us look upon moodiness as a sickness,” I replied, “and ask ourselves if there be not a cure for it.”
“That’s a thought,” Lotte said. “I for one believe that a great deal depends on us. I know that it does from my own experience. If something is bothering or depressing me, I get up and hum a few dance tunes, up and down the garden, and right away it is gone.”
“That’s just what I was trying to express,” I said. “Ill humor is like indolence, because it is a form of indolence. Our natures tend toward it. But if we can muster the strength to pull ourselves together, work can be made easy and we can find true pleasure in activity.”
Friederike was listening attentively, and now her young man interrupted me, declaring that one was not always in control of oneself, least of all of one’s feelings.
“But what we are talking about,” I explained, “is a disagreeable feeling, and everyone should be thankful to be rid of it. And no one knows how strong he is until he has tried. After all, if a man is ill, he goes to one doctor after another and puts up with any restrictions and the bitterest medicine to preserve his good health.”
I noticed that the good old man was straining to hear what was being said so he could take part in the discussion. I therefore raised my voice and addressed him. “Our sermons speak out against so many vices,” I said, “but I have never heard a word spoken from the pulpit against ill humor.”*
“The preachers in the cities should see to that,” the old man replied. “Our peasants are good-humored by nature. Still, it wouldn’t do any harm from time to time, and it would certainly be a good lesson for my wife—and for the magistrate!”
Everyone laughed, and the old man joined in the laughter, until a fit of coughing put an end to the discussion for a while. The young man picked up the thread again. “You called ill humor a vice,” he said. “Wouldn’t you say that was exaggerating?”
“Not at all,” I replied. “Anything that does harm to oneself or one’s neighbor deserves to be called a vice. Isn’t it sad enough that we cannot make each other happy? Must we rob one another of the pleasure every heart can sometimes provide for itself? Show me the person who is ill-humored yet good enough to bear it alone, without destroying the happiness around him. Isn’t ill humor actually an inner annoyance with our own unworthiness, a dislike of ourselves, and isn’t it somehow always connected with the envy that is egged on by our own foolish vanity? We see happy people whom we are not making happy, and we cannot bear it.”
Lotte smiled at me because she could see how the topic touched me, and a tear in Friederike’s eye spurred me on. “What wretches they are, those who take advantage of the power they have over the heart of another,” I said, “and rob him of the simple joys within him! Not all the gifts in the world nor any favor can compensate for a moment of one’s personal pleasure that has been made bitter by the envious ill temper of this tyrant of ours!”
My heart was full. Memories of things past brought the tears to my eyes too. “If only man would tell himself daily: You owe your friends nothing but to leave them their joys and increase their happiness by sharing it with them. Can you give them a little comfort when they are tormented by fear? And when the poor creature, whose soul you undermined in fairer days, is struggling with his last, fateful illness and lies there pitiful in his exhaustion, looking up at the sky, all feeling spent, the dew of death on his pale brow, and you stand by his deathbed like one damned, with the profound feeling that with everything in your power you can do nothing to help, and you are gripped by a dreadful fear and would give anything in the world if only you could imbue his perishing soul with one ounce of strength…”
As I spoke, the memory of such a scene overwhelmed me. I covered my face with my handkerchief and left the little group and was only able to control myself again when Lotte called out to me that we had to leave. On the way back, she scolded me for my too intense participation in all things going on around me and warned that it would lead to my ruination. I was, please, she begged, to think of myself. Angel! For you I have to live!
July 6th
She is with her dying friend constantly and is always the same: ever-present, ever lovely. Wherever her eyes fall, she eases pain and brings joy. Yesterday, she went for a walk with Marianne and little Amelia. I knew about it and met them, and all of us walked on together. About an hour and a half later we were approaching town again and we came to the spring that meant so much to me once and now means a thousand times more. Lotte sat down on the low stone wall; the rest of us stood around her. I looked about me, and the time that I was alone came to life again within me. “Beloved spring,” I thought, “since then I have not rested in thy cool aura. Sometimes, when hurrying by, I have not even given thee a glance.” I looked down and could see Amelia carefully carrying up a cup of water; I looked at Lotte and realized what she meant to me. Meanwhile, Amelia arrived with the cup and Marianne wanted to take it from her. “No,” the child said, with the sweetest expression, “no…Lotte, you must drink first.”
I was so entranced with the child’s candor and goodness that I could express it in no other way than by picking her up and kissing her fervently, whereupon she immediately squealed and began to cry. “You shouldn’t have done that,” Lotte said.
I was abashed.
“Come, Melly,” she said, taking the child by the hand and leading her down the steps. “Wash yourself in the fresh spring water quickly, and it won’t matter at all.” I stood there and watched the child rub her cheeks energetically with her little wet hands, so confident that the spring’s miraculous powers would wash away all impurity, and she would not have to fear the shame of growing an ugly mustache. Lotte said that was enough; still the child went on scrubbing her cheeks as if more could only be better than little. William, I assure you that I never attended a baptism with more reverence, and when Lotte came up the steps again I longed to throw myself at her feet, as one throws oneself down before a prophet who has just washed his people clean of sin.
That evening my heart so overflowed with joy that I could not resist describing the event to a gentleman, a sensible fellow who, I was therefore sure, had a good understanding of human nature. But that was a mistake. He was of the opinion that Lotte was wrong—children should never be misled. Such nonsense could lead to innumerable errors and superstitions, and a child could not be protected from such things early enough in life. It occurred to me suddenly that only a week ago the man had had one of his children baptized, so I let it pass, but in my heart I remained true to my belief: We should treat children as God treats us when He lets us go our way in a transport of delightful illusions.
July 8th
William, we are children! Have you any idea how one can pine for a glance from one’s beloved? We are children!
We visited Wahlheim—the ladies drove out—and on one of our walks I thought I could see in Lotte’s eyes…I am a fool! Forgive me. But you should see those eyes.
I cannot write long. I am so sleepy my eyelids are drooping, but listen…the ladies were getting into the carriage. Young W., Selstadt, Andran, and I were standing beside it, chatting about nothing in particular. I tried to catch Lotte’s eye. She was looking from one man to the other, but not at me, me, me, who alone stood there waiting for her glance. My heart was bidding her a thousand farewells, and she didn’t even see me! The carriage passed us, and there were tears in my eyes. I looked after her and could see her bonnet as she leaned out and turned to look at—at whom? And that, in brief, describes my uncertainty, and my consolation. Perhaps she did look back at me. Perhaps. Good night. Oh William, what a child I am!
July 10th
You should
