On the Heights Part 132

Convent life is not without its advantages. The different voices that join in a chorale sustain each other, and when the tone at last ceases, it seems to float away on the air and vanish by degrees. But here I am quite alone. I am priest and church, organ and congregation, confessor and penitent, all in one, and my heart is often so heavy, as if I must needs have, another to help me bear the load. "Take me up and carry me, I cannot go further!" cries my soul. But then I rouse myself again, seize my scrip and my pilgrim's staff and wander on, solitary and alone; and while I wander, strength returns to me.

For the first time in a year, I saw a carriage driving up the white road that leads through the valley. Those who were sitting in it, could not know how my eyes followed them. Whither go ye? who are ye?

I must write again. I believe that I at last know the full meaning of the word "gemuthlich." It includes careful thought for the comfort of others even in the merest trifles, and requires one to put himself in another's place. It is the heart, expressing itself in poetry; it is feeling, clothing itself in the garb of fancy.

True culture includes this feeling; for what is culture but the power to put one's self in another's place, and "to see ourselves as others see us"?

My opinion is still unchanged. Hansei seems dull and awkward, and yet he has far more of the best culture than many a one who is decorated with orders and epaulettes and is regarded as one of the most charming of cavaliers.

I constantly keep thinking that there is something in me which I have not yet discovered. It gives me no rest. Is it an idea, a feeling, a word, or a deed? I know not, but I feel that there is something within me that seeks a vent. Perhaps death may come before I discover it.

Old Jochem still remembers a few verses from the hymnbook, and keeps repeating them to himself, but in such perverted shape that they are sheer nonsense. I offered to teach him the verses correctly, but this made him very angry, and he told me that I was trying to teach him something new, and that it would not answer. His nonsense seems dear to him. He does not understand it, and the air of mystery thus imparted to it renders it far more impressive.

One who has never experienced the feeling, cannot know what it is to long for a few words of conversation with your equals. It is a consuming thirst. Any one who can speak my language would serve my purpose. I cannot endure this strain. I feel as if I were in a strange land, and were vainly listening for the beloved accents of my native tongue. It is well for me that I can work.

As long as I had Walpurga with me in the palace, I could speak to her freely on various subjects. When I came to her, it was a change, a stepping out of the sphere in which my thoughts were accustomed to move. But here, where I have her and nothing else, it is different. It is not pride--for what have I to do with pride? Is it alienation, or is it sullen listlessness?

_Navete_ pleases us only for a short time. Wisdom always remains attractive--such wisdom as mother Beate's or Gunther's. Yes, I long for him most of all.

Wisdom is cultured _navete_ or, to speak more correctly, the _navete_ of genius. It is the rosy apple; _navete_ the blossom from which it sprang, still dwells in the fruit, as its core.

Night and day, the various elemental influences, clear perception and the mysterious forces of nature:--all these help to perfect the finest fruit.

I cannot look upon work as the n.o.blest thing in life. The perfect man is he who does nothing, who cherishes himself--; such is the life of the G.o.ds, and what is man but the G.o.d of creation?

My heresy thus expresses itself. I have confessed and repented of it.

But in the confessor's chair sits one who is in the right when he says: "Very well, my child! And so the n.o.blest and most exalted life is simply existence, void of effort. But, since no one can live unless some other being labors for him, it follows that all must do something.

Nothing can be had without pay. The one cla.s.s has not been sent into the world merely to exist, nor the other merely to labor."

How happy I might become if there were no past. A life hereafter, filled with memories--how sad the thought! And yet without memories, would it be a second life?

True joy at last dwells with us. Whenever we partake of anything, Walpurga always says: "We planted this ourselves; on such a day, we set our beans. I put them in Burgei's hand, and she dropped them on the garden beds."

And thus it seems to be with all things. The past is being renewed to us.

I have found it difficult to go over the same task, again and again.

But the constant repet.i.tion is what const.i.tutes labor. Without that, it is mere amus.e.m.e.nt.

Nature constantly repeats herself, and we must serve her by imitating her. She repeats herself through her laws; man, through his duties.

I have, nevertheless, indulged in variations, and not without success.

While walking through the stable, I observed the cow lowing and turning toward her sucking calf. I have carved the figures in wood.

I should like to imitate every object in nature--to create the world anew, as it were, so that men might see all things as I see them.

I thank Thee, Eternal Spirit, for bestowing these gifts upon me.

The chief aim of life is not joy, nor is it repose. It must be labor.

Perhaps there is no chief aim, after all.

Love and labor are the body and soul of mankind. Happy is he in whom they are united. I have forfeited love--nothing is left me but labor.

My white foal! It looks at me, and I look at it in return. Free and uncontrolled, it scampers about the field, and yet I seize it and send it out into the world, so that others, too, may delight in the pretty, playful animal.

I have sketched it in various positions. Its every movement is replete with strength and grace.

I have carved the figure of my white foal, and have completed it with incredible rapidity. My friends are astonished, and so am I. I look upon it as a success.

My little pitchman--why should I dislike to mention it?--carried the figure down to the dealer. It grieved me to part with my work, but the little magic horse must, and does, support me. It was sold at a good price, and I received a large order, besides.

Sometimes, I find myself wondering what Countess Brinkenstein, pious Constance, Schnabelsdorf, or Bronnen, would say if they were to see me now; and at such moments, I am obliged to look around, in order to satisfy myself that they are not present.

So long as I cannot govern my imagination, I am not free. Fancy is the most powerful of despots.

Our fountain gushes and bubbles the whole night through, and when the moonlight rests upon it, it is lovelier and more peaceful than ever.