Chapter C: Book VII: (irma's Journal.) (1)

Cast ashore--what is there left me, but to live on, because I am not dead?

For days and nights, this unsolved question kept me, as it were, hovering between heaven and earth, just as it was in the terrible moment when I glided down from the rock.

I have solved the problem.

I am working. I shall remain resolved, no matter what the result. I find it a relief to note down my thoughts and feelings.

I was ill,--of a fever, they tell me,--and now I am at work.

I had told the grandmother of what I could do, but there was no chance to apply it here. She took me out into the garden, and we gathered up the apples that Uncle Peter shook down from the tree. Then the old, blind pensioner, whose room is over mine, came out and told us, with angry cries, that a certain portion of the apples belonged to him. He tried to find one, so that he might taste it, and thus ascertain which tree we were shaking. I handed him an apple, and told him that I lived in the room under his.

We were still in the garden, when a man came who wanted to purchase two maple-trees that were standing by the cross road, in order to use them for carving. This seemed like a ray of hope. I told the grandmother that I knew how to mold in clay, and that I thought I could easily learn how to carve in wood. And now I'm in the workshop, as a pupil.

This is my first free Sunday, and, while all are away at church, I am writing this.

*

I once knew a man who had already been kneeling on the sand-heap, the muskets aimed at him, and--he was pardoned. I have often seen him. Oh that I had asked him how he lived on!

*

There is no mirror in my room. I have determined never to see myself again.

And since I neither have, nor desire a mirror, let these pages be the mirror of my soul.

*

Oh this repose! this solitude! It is like rising from the lake, like life regained. And yet how calm, how restful!

Up here, and in thousands of other places on this earth, 'twas ever thus, while, down below, I was about to commit a fearful sin!

*

I have just returned from the workshop. Formerly, when making excursions from the summer palace into the surrounding country, we would stop at the industrial villages and visit the large workshops, where everything was shown us. I used to feel a sense of shame--ah! that was long ago--at the thought of our merely looking on for a moment, while others were working. And when we returned to our carriages and drove off, leaving the men still at their work, what must they have thought of us?

I am now at the workbench myself.

*

Why does no religion place the command: "Thou shalt work" above all others?

*

They say that the wound sucked by living lips heals quickly. O thou who art called queen! I would like to suck up the blood that trickles from thy heart!

*

Did I destroy the letter to the queen, or did it reach her?

*

I started with fright, when the grandmother asked me why I had pained the queen by informing her that I meant to take my life.

Why? I know not why. All I know is that I could not help it; it was the last, the unavoidable tribute I owed to truthfulness.

Why is it that we only concern ourselves about what others may think of us after death when life has become but an empty sound?

*

Sad and painful days.

I regarded it as my duty to write to the queen from my place of concealment. Uncle Peter, a true-hearted and obliging little man, who is always at my service and would like to show me a kindness every moment, offered to carry a letter for me to a distant town. The queen shall not grieve on my account--not for my death, at all events. I will let her know that I am yet alive, but that my life is one of expiation. If I only felt sure that I had really burnt the letters, or that they reached him and her. Him I need tell no more. The good mother noticed that something was troubling me--something that I had kept from her. She often came to me, but asked no questions. At last I could bear it no longer, and told her what I had determined on. She took me by the hand--whenever she means to make her words additionally impressive, she does this, as if she felt that she must hold fast to me physically--and said: "Child, you've only to make up your mind clearly as to what you mean to do. Ask your own heart whether you wouldn't rather be discovered. Ask your conscience."

I started. It is true, I should not care to do anything, but if it were to happen--

"Don't give me your answer," continued the mother; "answer yourself, and then ask yourself whether, if you returned to where you once were, you wouldn't, on the morrow or the day after, wish to be away again. But let me tell you one thing: whatever you determine on, do it thoroughly. Don't write at all, and let the queen mourn you; for it's much easier to grieve for the dead than for one who, though living, is lost; or else, write to her honestly and frankly: 'Here I am.' As I said before, whatever you do, let it be done thoroughly. O my child!" she added, "I fear it will be with you as it was with the poor soul. Do you know the story of the poor soul?"

"No."

"Then I'll tell it to you. There was once a young girl who, having gone astray and died an early death, descended into hell; and there Saint Peter could always hear her crying, from amidst the flames, 'Paul! Paul!' in tones that were so heartrending that even the most wicked demons couldn't find it in their hearts to mock at her. So one day Saint Peter went up to the gates of hell and inquired: 'My dear child, why are you always crying "Paul! Paul!" in such a pitiful voice?' and the girl replied: 'Ah, dear Saint Peter, what are all of hell's torments? To me, they're nothing. Paul is worse off than I am. How will he endure life without me? I only ask for one thing; let me return to the earth once more; only for a moment, so that I may see how he's getting on, and I'll be willing to remain in hell a hundred years longer."

"'A hundred years!' said St. Peter. 'Consider, my child; a hundred years is a long time.'

"'Not to me. Oh, I implore you to let me see my Paul once more! After that, I'll certainly be quiet and submit patiently to everything.'

"Saint Peter resisted for a long while, but the poor soul gave him no peace, and at last he said: 'Well, you may go, for all I care; but you'll be sorry for it.'

"And so the poor soul returned to the earth, in order to see her beloved Paul. And when she got there, and saw him feasting and enjoying himself with others, she quietly went back to eternity and, shaking her head sadly, said: 'Now I'll return to hell and repent.' And then Saint Peter said to her: 'The hundred years you promised are forgiven you. During the one minute you passed on earth, you suffered more than you would have done in a hundred years of hell.'

"And that's the story of the poor soul."

*

I thirst for some spring outside of me, which would refresh and redeem me. I long for music, for faith, for some soul-liberating dedication of myself! I find it not. I must seek the spring within myself.

*

In deepest grief it often seems to me as if it were not I who have suffered thus. I go my way, and it seems as if some one were telling me the story of what had happened to another.

*

For the first time in my life, I know what it is to feel that I am being borne with and favored. I really ought not to be here. I am eating the bread of charity. Now I know how the poor homeless ones must feel. If Hansei cared to do so, he could send me out of his house this very day, and what would become of me then?

*

I am obliged to eat in the company of my hospitable friends, and I find it no easy matter to do so. I pity Hansei, most of all. To him, it must seem as if a strange apparition--the phantom of one whom he knows not, was seated at his table. I destroy his happiness.

*

I have punctured my hand with the gimlet, just because, while at work, I am busy thinking of other things. My little pitchman has brought me a healing salve.

*

Antique forms of beauty cannot be worked in wood. It is inflexible, stubborn stuff, and can, with difficulty, be made to yield to the designs of art. It is naught but a makeshift material.

*

"Oh, how glorious it must be to live up here!" How often is this expression heard during country excursions! But we forget that the atmosphere of country parties and that of home are two very different things. How different when the wind whistles over the stubble fields and rages among the leafless forest trees; when dull and heavy mists creep over the mountains; when, for days and days, the clouds hang upon the heights, and, now and then, suffer a summit to appear in phantom-like outline, only to hide it again; when, at night, the storms disturb your sleep, and it seems as if day would never come. Yes, ye picnic spirits, with garlands of fresh leaves on your hats! spend weeks up here without a sofa, without fresh bread; only think of it--without a sofa!

*

Solitude with happy, cheerful memories, must needs be peaceful and placid. It suggests the lonely tree that sends its roots through the rich soil and into the clear stream in the valley. But solitude with sad and dark memories reminds me of the tree whose roots, ever striking against rocks, must pass over and clamber around them. Thus, holding a rock in their embrace, they are like a heart laden with a heavy burden that it can never rid itself of.

*

Perfect solitude is when, for a whole day, no human eye has beheld your face. It does one good to know that no human eye has seen you, and that the glass that mirrors your features is, as yet, unsullied by the breath of another.

*

Solitude is apt to make one superstitious. One naturally casts about him for some external support.

It always alarms me when, on beginning work in the morning, one of my tools drops from my hand. I feel that the day which begins thus will prove a sad and troubled one. I fight down this superstitious feeling.

*

He who possesses a firm faith, although in solitude, is not alone.

*

My master is always out of humor. His wife and three daughters assist him at his work. Hansei has advanced the pay for my lessons. I am an apt pupil.

I notice that these people regard me as slightly demented. The little pitchman informed me that Hansei had given out this report, intending that it should serve as a sort of invisible cap. This gives me liberty and yet protects me, but at times it makes me feel uneasy.

My master also thinks that I am out of my mind. He addresses me cautiously, and is delighted when he finds that I have understood him.

*

The swallows are departing. Ah! I cannot deny that I fear the approaching winter. If I only do not become ill. That were terrible! It would force me to betray myself or--no, I dare not be ill. But I am still so nervous. It is hard for me to mention it, but it is hard to bear it. A cow in the stable near by has a bell on her neck, and day and night it keeps up its unrhythmic tinkling. But I must get used to it.

*

I really dread the winter. If it were only spring time, instead of autumn. Nature would be my friend. Nature is the same everywhere. But now winter faces me. I must reconcile myself to it, however, for we cannot arrange the seasons to suit ourselves. I will learn which is the stronger, my temperament or my will. I shall impose no thoughts upon my mind but those which ought to engage it.

I have determined upon this.

*

The shoemaker means to recognize Cinderella by her foot--he finds mine unusually small for that of a peasant girl.

I trust that the fairy tale may remain a fairy tale.

That touching air from Isouard's Cinderella:

Good child, thou must contented be,
A better lot's in store for thee,

has been haunting me, all day long.

How simple the words! Music is the fairy that invests Cinderella's accents with royal robes, and enthrones them on the lips of all mankind.

*

O happy nursery tale! Thou askest not how the princess lived as poultry-maid. Thy fancy uttered its creative: "Let there be--" and behold! it was.

But, in life, such transformations are not brought about without great effort.

Walpurga has rightly divined my feelings. It was but to-day that she said:

"You can't get used to things here. Life here must seem almost as strange to you as it did to me in the palace, but, of course, it's easier to get used to a silken bed than to a sack of leaves."

I felt like saying: "And if one means to go home again, it's far easier to put up with such discomfort," but I repressed it. One ought not to torment such people with logical consequences. Their thoughts and feelings are like the singing of birds, without rhythm and, at best, like the folk-songs, whose melodies close on the third, instead of on the key-note.

*

Since the alluring, glittering life of the great world could at any time have been mine, I find it easy to forego it.

Had I entered a convent and were living there, fettered by a vow and subject to restraint, I know that I should have mourned away my days behind the bars.

*

To be without gloves! I never knew that one's hands could become so cold. I cannot realize that I am without gloves. When he drew off my glove, a shudder passed through me.--Was it a presentiment?

*

In the mornings I feel the want of a thousand little conveniences, with which use had so familiarized me that I scarcely knew I possessed them. I am obliged to learn the affairs of everyday life from the good mother. It is just these things that we forget to learn. We are taught dancing, before we are really able to walk.

From cleaning our shoes in the morning to putting out the lamps at night, how many are our wants, how many the helping hands we need! What with cooking, washing, scouring, drawing of water, and carrying wood, man finds no time to think of himself. Nature furnishes clothing and food to the beasts; but man must spin and cook for himself.

I have imposed a difficult task upon myself, for I have determined to allow no one to wait upon me. An anchorite cannot afford to be too cleanly or fastidious; but then I was not intended for an anchorite.

*

At first it oppressed me to think that I had become a Robinson Crusoe in spirit, but now I am proud of it.

He who is thrown upon himself, and is no longer able to live in accordance with custom, is cast away on a desert island, and must create everything anew for himself.

But why should I, whose heart was already borne down with its burdens, be obliged to suffer shipwreck, too?

* When I look out into the night and all is dark, and there is no light to tell me: "Here are other beings like yourself," I feel oppressed with fear, as if I were alone upon the earth!

*

(October.)--This evening--ah! the evenings are already long--it suddenly occurred to me: There are thousands who lead a life of affluence and pleasure, who move in society, and yet--

Why should I alone renounce the world, deprive myself of its pleasures, and bury myself in solitude?

Because I must and shall! I live only by the favor and charity of others. I have wasted my life, trifled it away. Shall I try to regain it in bitter earnest? I once trifled with words, but now they fetter and judge me!

*

"You're still too heavily laden?" said the grandmother.

"How so?"

"If a wagon's loaded too heavily, you can't grease its wheels so as to stop their creaking. You must wait till it's empty. Then you can raise it with a jack-screw, take off the wheels and grease the axles. The burden you still bear is the thoughts of the past; lay them aside, and you'll soon feel relieved."

*

At last I know why I get up in the mornings. Something seems to say to me: "Thou shalt labor. To-day, this will be finished; to-morrow, that." And when I lie down to rest, there is always something more in the world than there was at daybreak.

*

"Work!" "Work!" is the daily, hourly watchword here. They think of nothing but work. It is a necessity of their being, just as growth is to the tree. It is this that makes them so self-reliant.

*

There is misery and discord, even here.

In the kindness of her heart, Walpurga said that she could not endure the thought of the old blind pensioner's being obliged to eat his meals alone, and that she meant to have him at the table with the rest.

"I won't have it!" said Hansei. "Not a word more about it; I won't have it."

"Why not?"

"Why? You ought to know that yourself. If Jochem has once been at the table, you can never get rid of him again. So we'd better not have him at all. You don't know how an old blind man eats."

After that, not a word was spoken during the meal. Walpurga made believe that she was eating, but she was merely choking down her tears, and left the table soon afterward. She is keenly sensitive to such rudeness and cruelty; but she never complains, not even to me.

*

(During a violent storm.)

What a fright I have had to-day! My little pitchman told me that a man had hanged himself somewhere in the vicinity.

"It had to come," thought he. "The man had hanged himself fifteen years ago, but they cut him down, and he lived on. But it was just as if he always had a rope around his neck--people who've once tried anything of that sort, never die a natural death."

How his words startled me.

Can it be that such dread fate is yet in store for me?

I answer: No! It shall not be!

*

To sit in my warm room and look out at the driving snowstorm, is like going back in thought to the hurly-burly of the great world.

Nine weeks have passed already.

I still have a dull, heavy feeling, as if I had been struck in the head with a hammer. I merely exist, but it seems as if life were again dawning upon me. When I awake in the mornings, I am obliged to ask myself who and where I am, and to recall all my woe. But then work soon summons me away.

*

I have nothing more to look for, be it from the outer world, or the morrow. I am forced back upon myself and the present. For me, there are neither letters nor books, and the very roads are closed. To arise in the morning and know that no tidings, whether of joy or sadness, can come from without; to have nothing to fall back upon but one's self and the undying laws of nature: he who can lead such a life, self-contained and yet contented, must be like the child illuminated by its own radiance--the child painted by Correggio.

Hammer and axe, file and saw, all that once seemed to me instruments of torture for poor enslaved humanity, I have found the instruments of deliverance. They banish the demons that dwell within us. Where these tools are wielded by industrious hands, evil spirits cannot tarry. The redeemer who will consecrate labor, is yet to come.

*

At last, I find myself obliged to be content without doing anything in the way of art.

Although wood is useful, and in many respects indispensable, it cannot be applied to serve beauty apart from usefulness. The substance with which my art, or rather trade, employs itself, is unequal to the demands of art, except for decorative purposes. Bronze and marble speak a universal language, but a wooden image always retains a provincial character. It addresses us in dialect, as it were, and never attains to the perfect expression of the ideal. We can make wooden effigies of animals or plants with which we are familiar, and can even carve angels in _relievo_, but to make a life-size bust, or human figure, of wood, were entirely out of the question.

Wood carving is only the beginning of art, and is faltering, or, at best, monotonous, in its expression.

What has once existed as an organism cannot be transformed into a new organic structure. Stone and bronze, however, do not acquire organic shape, except at the hands of man.

If a Greek of the days of Pericles were to behold our images of the saints, how he would shudder at our barbarism.

*

This journal is a comfort to me. I can express myself in my own language and feel perfectly at home. I cannot, at times, avoid regarding my constant use of the dialect of this region as a sort of affectation. Everything that I say appears to me distorted. I feel as if wearing a strange costume, and as if my soul were concealed behind an iron mask. Although I am a child of the mountains, the words I utter seem strange and foreign. A dialect proves poverty of resources. It is an imperfect instrument; a kettle-drum, for instance, on which one can play neither concertos nor fantasias. Or, to put it differently, the language of Lessing and Goethe is like the beautiful butterfly that has left the chrysalis to which it can never more return.

Alas! The one terrible thought confronts me at every turn. I have offended and denied you, ye who represent the spirit of my people and of humanity. You fostered me, and I have abused the gifts which education bestowed upon me. I must remain in exile.

*

The fire that still smolders within me must be extinguished.

My heart is so heavy that it seems to drag me down, as if weights were hanging to me.

*

I am so weary, so exhausted, that I feel as though my limbs must break under me! I should like to do nothing but sleep; to sleep always.

*

I should like to perform a pilgrimage to some place or person, as an act of expiation.

I now understand the basis of a religion of symbols--a religion that speaks to the eye.

I will go hence--to Italy, to Spain, to Paris, to the East, to America. I will go to Rome and become an artist. I must be one. If I am still to live on in the wide world, I must enjoy it fully and deny myself nothing, for I am not of a self-sacrificing temperament. I could hurl the full cup of life into the abyss, but to see it before my eyes, and yet languish and mortify myself--that I cannot do. I will, I must go. Something calls me hence. Naples lies before me. I see a villa on the shore; merry excursions by water; a crowd of laughing, singing, gayly attired creatures--I plunge into the current of life. Better there than in that of death. And yet--I cannot--

*

A gloomy, terrible, twilight hour. Something urges me to turn back, and tells me that the whole world is mine. What has happened? Are there not thousands like me, who live honored, oblivious of themselves? What is it within me that whispers; "You must expiate?" I can go hence. It will seem as if nothing had occurred. "A piquant adventure," "a disappearance for a few weeks."--What more can they say? All I need is to be bold--the carriage rolls along, all salute me. I am beautiful, and no one will see the writing on my brow, for a diadem sparkles there.

But the terrible words are written there--it seems as if I could behold my own soul face to face.

*

There is a childhood of the soul and, with all her experience, the grandmother possesses it. Oh, that I could gain that childlike feeling! But have not those who seek it, forever lost it?

*

Old Jochem often brings his money to me, and makes me count it for him, piece by piece. He maintains that one is so often cheated in money matters.

My little pitchman told me that the peasants almost always treat their aged parents who have given up their property to them, with great unkindness, and then he asked me: "Why must Jochem live so long? He has nothing in the world but hatred and mistrust." I know no answer.

Old Jochem is a veritable peasant Lear, but as he is able to complain at the court of justice, and has actually done so, his case is not pure tragedy.

But there is no court of justice at which a king can complain; nor does he desire one; and hence his fate is great and tragic.

My friend, call me when thou standest in judgment upon thyself. I am the only one who dare accuse thee, and yet I accuse not thee, but myself. And I am expiating my guilt.

*

The open hearth-fire affords me many happy moments. How beautiful a fire is! What are all jewels, compared with it? Poor old Jochem cannot see the fire. It is the most beautiful thing in every house-- Men should be fire-worshipers.

"You've had good thoughts," said Hansei to me, when I was sitting by the open window to-day. "I could tell it by your looks."

He evidently longed to put a question to me, but he is determined to keep his resolution. He never asks me anything and, to avoid doing so often changes the form of his sentences. I told him my thoughts, and his manner seemed to imply: "It isn't worth while to think of such things."

"Yes," said Hansei at last, "that's true enough. When one sits by the fire, his thoughts will roam."

To Hansei's notion, nothing in the world is so objectionable as taking a walk. He cannot conceive why one should roam about, where there is nothing to seek and nothing to do, and why, under such circumstances, one would not rather lie down on the long bench and go to sleep.

*

When I think of good Kent, I always imagine him as having a rich, full voice, like that of Bronnen, whom, in his youth, he must have resembled.

Certain figures pass in procession before my mind's eye. The queen and Bronnen are the only ones ever present; the king vanished with the forgotten past. In my dreams, many visit me, but he never comes. Why, I know not. I cannot solve the enigma.

To one who, when alone, stops to think, many things lose in value, human beings among the rest. Personally, Gunther was no more to me than another would have been. Emma was a mere echo.

If we thus reckon over our possessions, we find them little enough, and I have left but little behind me in the world.

*

The ringing of the sleigh bells is the only sound one hears. The woods are full of busy workmen. Snow and ice, which block the roads elsewhere, here serve as highways.

*

Labor, by sending its fruits out into the world, places our vital force at the disposal of others. The work which I have fashioned goes out among men, and yet I am left undisturbed in my solitude and concealment.

Man's work leaves him. It seems to me that I once met with the same idea in Ottilia's journal.

*

The dog is the friend and confidant of solitary man. Lonely, deserted spots, like this, aid one to appreciate his faithfulness, for he fails not to give notice of every unwonted occurrence.

*

I often rush to the window when the dog barks--who knows what stranger may have come?

Suppose the intendant or Gunther were suddenly to come, and ask me to follow them back into the world?

The very thought makes me tremble.

Would I be obliged to obey?

*

To know that I had, at one time, renounced the world, and that it was but a step and a leap--makes it easier to bear with life. I am now beyond misfortune's reach.

And yet--if life were to claim me again--

*

I am but an ant dragging a pine-needle.

*

I am not quite forsaken. I bear, within me, memories of melodies and pictures, and, above all, songs of our great master, Goethe.

"On every height there lies repose."

This passage has occurred to me hundreds of times, refreshing me just as if it were a gentle, cooling dew, falling upon a parched field. I delight in the harmonious cadence and in the simple words!

I could not rest until I had repeated the song to some one. I recited it to the old pensioner; he understood it, and my little pitchman has already gotten it by heart. How fortunate is the poet! One short hour of his life becomes undying to thousands after him. How I delight in these precious memories! I am like the old pensioner, who has learnt a few songs and quietly sings them to himself.

*

I am beginning to feel something like veneration for the old pensioner.

Early this morning, he came to me, dressed in his Sunday clothes, and wearing the medal which he received in the war of liberation. It was not without a certain air of pride that he said: "They're reading a mass for me at church to-day. I served under Napoleon in those days, just as the king did, too. It was in the year 'nine' and, on this very day, up to three o'clock--that is, some time between three and four--I was sound and hearty, when, all at once, I was struck by a ball, here in the third rib--that's why I wear my medal on the right side. I fell to the earth, thinking: Good-night, world! God keep thee, my dear sweetheart! She who was afterward my wife, was my sweetheart at that time. They extracted the ball with a crossbill, and I kept on smoking while they were at work. My pipe never went out once, and I was soon all right again. But one doesn't easily forget such a day, and so I arranged it, at the church, that they should read a mass for me on this day. See, this is the ball and, when they bury me, I want them to lay it on my third rib."

He showed me the ball. He carried it in a leather purse. After that a child that he had hired for the purpose led him down into the village.

I will now be more patient with the unfortunate old man. His life was a drop in the ocean of history--struck by the enemy's bullet--! A leaden ball can be extracted, why cannot also--

When I reflect on the daily events of the life I now lead, all my thoughts seem to lose themselves in the one unsolvable problem.

The grandmother told me a strange truth to-day. I had been telling her that, even in the past, I had never been perfectly happy, when she replied:

"You've deceived yourself. It's always so in the world. Those who are deceived, have deceived themselves, but they're never willing honestly to confess it."

*

Uncle Peter is the very embodiment of cheerful poverty. He is always in a good humor, and I have been the means of making him quite happy. He brings my work, carries away what I have finished, and, between us, we have quite a handsome profit. He also assists me in preparing the wood, and he handles saw and axe as deftly as a bird does its claws and beak.

*

To-day I received the first money that I ever earned by the work of my hands. Uncle Peter counted it out to me on the table. He refuses paper money. Nothing but silver will satisfy him. "Ready money smiles," said he, with a laugh in which I could not help joining. How small are these gains, and yet how encouraging. I have earned them. All my life long, I have merely enjoyed what others have offered me. It was a privilege, inherited from my ancestors, that others should labor for me.

I can now manage to pay Walpurga something for my support. She refused to receive pay, but I shall insist upon it.

*

It is well that my employment is, to a great extent, a mechanical one, comprising much which is necessary and requires neither reflection nor contrivance. Certain things must be done, and there is but one way of doing them. If I were obliged to do anything that required great mental exertion, it would be the death of me.

*

It is now four months since I came here.

My hands have become hardened.

The treatment I receive from those about me, satisfies me that their affection for me is sincere.

*

If one could only always remain the same--that is, in the full possession of one's powers.

I often give way to fits of depression and feel completely undone, forsaken, weak and helpless, and as if help must come from somewhere. But whence? and from who?

I am obliged, with each succeeding day, to overcome the melancholy that oppresses me during the mornings. In the evenings, I am calm--for I am weary then.

*

We hear the falling rain, but not the snow. Bitter grief is violent; resignation, calm and silent.

*

It is bitter cold up here; but the woods are near us, and my monster of a tile stove is a faithful friend who preserves his warmth.

*

Literally speaking, when Hansei returns from the forest it often takes him an hour to thaw, and regain control of his voice and movements. Until then, it is best not to talk with him, for he is easily offended; but when he has thawed, he is quite happy again, and always says: "I thank God that I've been a woodsman!"

He is evidently thinking of some method of improving the forests, but he does not say what it is.

The lower orders always have overheated rooms. They enjoy intoxication, even that of heat.

*

I have no mirror. There is no need of my knowing how I look. A mirror is the beginning and the cause of self-consciousness. A beast does not see itself,--it is only seen by others--and yet, whether it be the bird on yonder bough, or the cat that sits before my window, it adorns itself. I, too, dress myself carefully, and for my own sake, and am ill at ease when my clothes are loose and ill-fitting.

*

When I first came here, I found it quite difficult to associate with those about me, but now I find comfort and self-forgetfulness in my intercourse with them. I should not like to darken their existence, but to brighten it, instead. They feel that while I partake, I also contribute my share.

I think the idea is Goethe's.

*

There was great joy in the house to-day, owing to the unexpected visit of Walpurga's friend and companion Stasi, with her husband, a forester. What happiness, what joy, and what an interchange of experiences!

Hansei at once invited the forester to be sponsor to his boy, for boy it must be. Walpurga quickly said that she would like to show her friend through the house, and I was obliged to go with her.

Among the higher classes, love may be greater, may possess more energy, more depth, and more of all that is allied to passion; but the lower orders seem to possess greater faithfulness and constancy. Work teaches us to be faithful.

*

I have been out in the forest with Hansei. Oh how beautiful! We passed a frozen waterfall; the crystal columns sparkled in the sunshine. Hansei pointed out two trees that were far up the mountain. He means to have them felled for me, so that I may have the best wood for my work. Am I expected to work up two whole trees?

Hansei was quite amused, when I told him I had not forgotten his rule of the mountain: "Go right on and never stop."

Mountain-climbing in winter has made me very tired, but I feel quite well.

*

I have often wondered why I never heard any mention of Hansei's family. The little pitchman has just told me that his mother died an early death, and that he never knew his father.

This accounts for much in Hansei's behavior, and only renders it the more beautiful.

*

We are feasting on meat broth.

Great is Hansei, the dispenser of good!

Yes, he is great. How all our illusions vanish! An Homeric hero who cuts up swine and cooks and roasts them, remains a hero for all, and Hansei is as good as any of them, although it be not with the sword.

There is Homeric feasting throughout the farm. They all bite with teeth as good as those of Menelaus.

*

The greatest blessings are pure blood, steeled sinews and strong nerves.

But he who, besides these, possesses a quiet conscience, is the happiest of creatures.

*

I love the twilight--day fading into night. He who lives in communion with nature is the only one whose life does full justice to each day.

Man is the only being who lives, far into the night. Light and fire makes us what we are.

Schnabelsdorf the omniscient, once said: "The hour at which men retire is the measure of their civilization."

At court, they are just sitting down to dinner. They are joking and laughing, and telling each other anecdotes. If I were suddenly to appear among them?

No, I shall not disturb ye!

In a little while, they will be driving to the theater. Isn't to-day--? I had almost forgotten it--yes, this is my birthday. It was to-day a year ago that I went to the ball, in the character of the Lady of the Lake, and it was there he said to me--it was in the palmhouse--I can still hear his soft voice: "I have purposely chosen this day. You alone are to know it. You and I."

Oh! that night!

I wonder if they are thinking of me there?

The Egyptians, at all their festivals, displayed mementoes of their dead. I cannot write any more--I will light the candle--I must work.

*

There is a deaf mute who lives down in the village and works at coarse wood carvings. He has neither learned to read nor to write, nor has he ever had any religious instruction. He knows nothing at all; but he does know the church festivals, the holidays, and Shrove Tuesday especially. On those days he will plant himself, with his umbrella, in front of the church, and watch the peasants as they go by. If he sees one who pleases him, he walks up to him, takes off his coat and sits down at the table, and, without saying a word, they give him food and drink for three days.

And thus he happened to come to our house. Sometimes he cries, and cannot tell why, but he endeavors to express himself by dumb motions. The little pitchman declares that he cries because he can't eat any more.

I have tried to make myself intelligible to him, but we do not understand each other.

*

(Ash Wednesday.)--To-day, every one in the house is silent and thoughtful. Every brow was strewn with ashes, while they repeated: "Mortal! remember that thou art dust."

Ah! mine is a long Ash Wednesday, after a mad carnival!

In my mind's eye, I often behold the picture of the Egyptian princess. Her garments have fallen from her nude form and, with loosened hair, she kneels in prayer by her open grave.

When wilt thou receive me, all-merciful mother earth?

I am reminded of the grandeur of Antigone's answer to Creon, who has just announced to her the sentence of death:

"I knew that I should die; thou only tellest me when."

*

I shall quietly bear the consequences of my actions, relying on myself, looking for no aid, either material or spiritual, from without.

*

When the people have finished repeating the Ave Maria during the tolling of the vesper bell, they say "Good-evening" to each other. It is a beautiful custom, and deems to say that they have returned from heaven unto those whom they love on earth.

*

When there is no one by, Walpurga always addresses me as "Countess," and treats me with the deference she deems me entitled to.

Everything seems reversed. At one time, I used to address _him_ familiarly in private, and in public--

Ah! that one memory forever thrusts itself in my way!

If I were to become sensitive, it would be the most terrible thing that could happen to me. Perhaps I am so, already. The sensitive being is as one unarmed among those who are fully armed, as one unveiled where all the rest are masked.

I will, I must be strong!

*

Walpurga brought me some flower-pots to-day, with rosemary, geranium and oleander.

Hansei had brought them from the place of a great doctor who, he says, lives at some distance from here, in the valley. His gardener is allowed to sell plants, and Walpurga brought them to me, saying: "You've always had flowers about you, and these will last through the winter."

These few plants make me happy. The flower does not ask what sort of a pot it is in, so long as it gets its share of sunshine and rain. What enjoyment do those who dwell in the palace have, of the hot-house flowers? They neither planted nor tended them: they are strangers to each other.

*

Hansei came to me to-day and said:

"Irmgard, if I've ever wronged you--though I don't know that I have--I beg you to forgive me!"

"What makes you ask me that question?"

"Because to-morrow we go to confession and communion."

The tears that fall upon these pages are my confession, a confession that I cannot frame in words.

*

Why was I obliged to cross the threshold of evil before entering this circumscribed and yet peaceful existence? Why not pure and free, proud and strong?

I have somewhere read that Francis of Assisi, returning, early in the morning, with the merry fellows who had been his comrades in the drinking bout of the night before, was suddenly seized by the Holy Spirit and, renouncing the world, led a holy life ever afterward.

And must it always be through paths of sin?

But far sadder is the question: Why were you, O queen! obliged to suffer thus?

*

I often wander about the fields in the pouring rain, and feeling like a prisoner. What keeps me here? what lures me hence?

*

I lead the life of a prisoner, confined by walls and iron gratings formed by my own will.

I endure all the pain of exile!

I live in a state of torpor. Why must I wait for death?

It often seems to me as if I were lying at the edge of a precipice, and yet cannot awake and rise.

Whither should I go?

*

The thought sometimes flashes across the desert waste that fills my soul, and drags me along, like a powerless rider mounted on some enchanted steed: "You know nothing of the world you have left behind you: those who are about you conceal what knowledge they may possess, and you dare not ask."

How would it be if the queen were dead, and he who once loved you and whom you loved in return--ah, so deeply!--were doubly alone and forsaken, and grieving because of thee? Let him have but the faintest token that you are still alive, and he will come for you, and, mounted on a white palfrey, you shall again enter the palace as queen. All will be expiated, all will be forgiven. You will be a friend to the people. You know them, for you have lived and suffered with them--This thought often seizes me and envelops me, as it were, in an enchanted net. I cannot rid myself of it, and I seem to hear voices and trumpet tones, calling me hence. I have not yet quieted the wild brood that dwells in my soul.

*

Mysterious demons slumber within our souls. At the faintest call, they raise their heads and crawl from their hiding-place. They have cunning eyes and can readily change their shapes. They can appear as virtues, and, borrowing priestly robes, can speak the language of sympathy: "Have pity on yourself and others." They make a show of their power and love of action, and say: "You can bestow happiness on one and on many. You can do great and good service to one and to the multitude."

I annihilated them. I held the light up to their eyes, and they vanished.

Thou livest, queen! Friend whom I have so deeply injured, thou livest! I do not ask, nor do I wish to know, whether thou art dead.

Thou livest, and my only wish is that thou mightst know of the life of repentance that I am now leading, and how little compassion I have for myself.

*

The Greek drama, "Prometheus Bound," occurs to me. Prometheus was the first anchorite. He was fettered from without; we fetter ourselves by vows or the rules of an order.

I am neither a Prometheus, nor a nun.

*

There is but one thing, which the outer world might afford me, that I still long for, and that is the music of a large orchestra. Fortunately, I often hear it in my dreams. How strange! While sleeping, my soul plays on all instruments, and performs great orchestral works which I never entirely succeeded in committing to memory.

We lead a dual life after all.

*

Freedom and labor are the noblest prerogatives of man. Solitude and industry constitute my all in all.

*

Walpurga has never referred to the warning she once gave me. With a rude hand, she snatched me from the edge of the precipice and, in return, I scolded and deceived her, while deceiving myself. She represses everything that might remind me of that scene.

*

To-day, Jochem confided to me the one grief that clouds his life: "They lead old oxen and cows to the slaughter-house," said he; "old horses and old dogs they shoot, and old men they feed to death--that's all the difference."

*

The dwelling-house on our farm has been neglected and is sadly in need of repair; but Hansei is not inclined to begin building at once.

"We must make shift with the old house," he says, "the work must be done first." And, besides this, he has a certain dread of what people may say. The house had been good enough for those who had been there before him--why shouldn't it be good enough for him?

Even the farmer, on his lonely estate, is not perfectly independent. He who cares for the opinion of others, must allow it to affect his actions.

These are the chains that make slaves of us all.

*

(March 1st.)--Joy and happiness have entered the house. New light has awakened in me, too, as if my life were something more than mere darkness. Walpurga has a boy. Hansei's happiness is complete, and he never mentions the boy except as "the young freeholder."

*

The christening is over. I felt sorry that I was unable to accompany them to church, but I could not.

*

I have laid the peasant's garb aside. It was in place while I was a fugitive, but now I have no further need of it. I wear dresses of simple calico, like those worn by many of the country people who employ themselves with housework. All that I have retained is my green hat, which I find quite useful, as it helps to hide my face.

I have laid aside many outer garments; how many inner ones must I still put off?

*

Fear and anxiety are gradually leaving me.

I have been at the village, and for the first time. The houses stand apart, on the mountain meadows. Viewed from above, they almost look like a scattered flock of sheep.

*

The rushing of the waters and the rustling of the forests sound so strangely at night, and yet the rushing and rustling are unceasing. How vain, how small is the child of man!

*

Oh, how delightful it is to be awakened by the song of the finch, and to find all nature refreshed by the invigorating morning air!

*

(April 19th.)--A heavy fog all day. The mist forms a veil which hides nature's death and awakening from view.

*

The nightingale by yonder brook, sings all day long and through the night. What unwearying power! What an inexhaustible fount of song!

While I write, its song seems to come nearer, as if it knew that I long for it.

*

I see every opening bud, and wait to see the ferns unfold their leaves. Even the rough maple has a delicate blossom. Everything is blooming or singing. There is music, even in the cackling of the hens. The world is full of infinite variety.

*

Oh, how delightful to watch for every green leaf, and for the opening of every bud. Nature's greatest charm is that she is never in haste. She can wait, and all we need do is--to wait upon her.

*

At first, we attempt to note every stage of growth, but we soon find that an impossibility.

*

It needs but a single rainy day, and all the buds burst. Bright spring is with us once again. Spring produces a sort of mental unrest which seems to move in a course parallel with the impulse at work in nature.

*

The drooping birch is laden with rich clusters of blossoms, and its branches are swayed to and fro in mute yet melodious movements.

*

The best self-forgetfulness is to regard the things of this world with love and attention.--Perhaps attention already presupposes love, and that of the most unselfish kind.

*

A cuckoo comes quite close to the house at early morning and utters its cry.

*

(Whitsuntide.)--The preparations for the festival afford much pleasure, more perhaps than the festival itself. What kneading and baking, and what joy at the successful completion of the festal cake.

Joy which we have prepared for ourselves is perfect joy. And now comes the festival. Trees and human beings seem blooming with life, and yonder forest is borne toward us in the Whitsuntide favors they bring into the house.

Hansei has a new suit of the style worn in this section of the country. When he walked over the farm to-day, the kindly "good-morning" which he bestowed upon every one seemed full of happiness.

I am very sorry that I am again unable to accompany them to church. The festal feeling reaches its climax in church-going, but, even at home, the air is laden with the fragrant odor of the birch and holiday cake.

*

(May 24th.)--We have had a furious spring storm, accompanied by thunder and lightning. The trees swayed to and fro and bent as if they would break.

"That's bad," said my little pitchman, "though it's good for the rye. A storm in springtime brings cold weather, while one in midsummer makes the days warmer than before."

How well this symbolizes precocious passion.

The bright sunshine has returned. I have been out of doors. Millions of blossoms are strewn about the ground and, in the forest, lay many dead young birds. They had ventured out of their nests too soon; the rain had wet their young wings and they could not return. Besides that, the nest no longer contained room for them. Forsaken and hungry, there was nothing left them but death!