Frau M. is very ill. I pray for her as I share Lotte’s anxiety. I see her only rarely, at the house of a friend, and today she told me something very strange.
Old M., it seems, is a miserly, avaricious fellow who has tormented his wife throughout their life together and forced her to live exceedingly modestly, but the good woman always managed somehow. The other day, when the doctor had declared that her last hour had come, she sent for her husband—Lotte was in the room—and addressed him thus:
“I have a confession to make that might prevent confusion and chagrin after my death. Until now I have kept house as frugally and properly as possible and I am sure you will forgive me for having deceived you these past thirty years. At the outset of our married life, you set aside a very modest sum for our household needs.
As our mode of living expanded and business prospered, you could not be persuaded to increase my weekly household allowance to match our circumstances; in short—when we were most prosperous, you insisted that I manage on seven guilders a week. I accepted the seven guilders without demur and took the rest of what was needed out of our receipts, because I felt no one would ever suspect your wife of robbing the till. I never wasted any of it and would have gone to my rest happily now without mentioning it, were it not for the fact that whoever has to care for your household after me will not know how to manage, and you will insist, of course, that your wife always made do with the sum.”
Lotte and I then spoke about the incredible fatuousness of a man who does not become suspicious when his wife manages on seven guilders a household that obviously betrays the fact that twice as much is being spent. But I have known people who accepted the widow’s never-failing cruse of oil6 without surprise.
July 13th
No, I am not deceived—I can read true sympathy in her dark eyes. Yes, I feel…and here I know I can trust my heart…that she…dare I, can I express heaven in a few words? That she loves me.
Loves me. And how precious I have become to myself, how I—I can say this to you, who have understanding for such emotions—how I worship at my own altar since I know that she loves me!
Is this presumption or fact, I ask myself? I don’t know the man who, I fear, has a place in Lotte’s heart, yet when she speaks of her betrothed with so much warmth and love, then I am a man degraded, robbed of his honor, title, and sword.
July 16th
Oh, how wildly my blood courses through my veins when, by chance, my hand touches hers or our feet touch under the table! I start away as if from a fire, a mysterious power draws me back, and I become dizzy…and in her artlessness and innocence she has no idea how much such little intimacies torment me. When she puts her hand in mine in the course of a conversation and, absorbed by what we are talking about, draws closer to me, and the heavenly breath from her lips touches mine…then I feel I must sink to the ground as if struck by lightning. William, if ever I should presume to take advantage of this heaven on earth, this trust in me…you know what I mean. But I am not depraved. Weak, yes, weak God knows I am…and can this not be called depraved?
She is sacred to me. All lust is stilled in her presence. I can’t explain how I feel when I am with her. It is as if every nerve in my body were possessed by my soul. There is a certain melody…she plays it on the piano like an angel, so simply yet with so much spirit. It is her favorite song, and I am restored from all pain, confusion, and vagaries with the first note.
Nothing that has ever been said about the magic power of music seems improbable to me now. How that simple melody touches me! And how well she knows when she should play it, often at moments when I feel like blowing my brains out! Then all delusions and darkness within me are dispelled, and I breathe freely again.
July 18th
William, what is life worth without love? A magic lantern without light. All you have to do is put in the light, and it produces the loveliest colored pictures on a white wall. And if there is nothing more to it than these oh, so transient phantoms, always it denotes happiness when we stand in front of it like naïve boys and are enchanted by the magical visions. Today an unavoidable gathering prevented me from visiting Lotte. What could I do? I sent over my servant, if only to have someone about me who had been near her! The impatience with which I waited for him and the joy, when I saw him return, are indescribable! I would have liked to embrace and kiss him, but was, of course, too ashamed.
They say that when the stone of Bonona is exposed to the rays of the sun it attracts them and shines for a while into the night. That was how the boy affected me. The idea that she had looked at his face, at his cheeks, at the buttons on his waistcoat and the collar of his jacket, made every one of these things sacred and invaluable to me. At that point I wouldn’t have let anyone have the boy for a thousand talers! I felt simply wonderful in his presence! Dear God, William, don’t laugh at me! Do you suppose it is illusory to be so happy?
July 19th
I shall see her today! When I awaken in the morning and look blithely into the sunlight, I cry out, “I shall see her today!” And I don’t have another wish for the next twenty-four hours. Everything—everything, I tell you—is lost in this one anticipation!
July 20th
I can’t agree with you that I should go to——with our ambassador. I don’t like subordination, and we know only too well that the man is obnoxious. My mother, you say, would like to see me actively employed. I have to laugh. Am I not actively employed now, and does it make any difference, really, whether I am sorting peas or lentils? Everything on earth can be reduced to a triviality and the man who, to please another, wears himself out for money, honor, what you will, is a fool.
July 24th
I realize that it means a great deal to you that I do not neglect my sketching, so I would rather say nothing at all about it except confess that I have not done much work since I met Lotte.
I have never been happier. My appreciation of nature, down to the most insignificant stone or blade of grass, has never been more keen or profound, and yet…I don’t know how to explain it to you. My powers of expression are weak and everything is so hazy in my mind that all contours seem to elude me. I tell myself that if I had clay or wax, I could shape them. And if this mood prevails, I shall certainly get hold of some clay and model it, even if all I turn out is a patty cake!
I have started three times to draw Lotte and three times made a complete mess of it. This irritates me, because only a short while ago I was quite a good portraitist. So I did a silhouette of her, and that will have to suffice.
July 26th
Yes, dear Lotte, I shall attend to everything, only please give me more errands to do and give them to me more often. And one more request: no more sand, please, on the little notes you write to me. Today I pressed your letter to my lips and felt the grains on my teeth.
July 26th
Every now and then I make up my mind to see her less often—as if anyone could possibly adhere to such a rule! Every day I give in to temptation and swear that tomorrow I will stay away, but when tomorrow comes, I of course find an absolutely irresistible reason for going to see her, and before I know it—there I am! Perhaps it is because she said the evening before, “Will you be coming tomorrow?” So who could stay away? Or she asked me to attend to something, and I tell myself that the only proper thing to do is go personally to inform her that it has been done. Or the day is so beautiful that I go to Wahlheim and, once I am there…well, after all, she is only half an hour away. I am too close to her aura…whoosh! and I am there.
My grandmother used to tell a fairy tale about the Magnet Mountain: The ships that came too close to it were robbed suddenly of all their metal; even the nails flew to the mountain, and the miserable sailors foundered in a crash of falling timber.
Albert has come back, and I shall leave. He might be the best, the most noble man in the world,
