Schleiermacher to his Sister Charlotte.
[LXX.] Landsberg, 13th October, 1794.
I know, dearest, that in justice I ought before this to have begun a letter to you, and you may believe me that, during this whole time, the feeling that I ought to write has weighed upon me like a heavy burden, a most irksome task. I have not courage to speak to you about the mournful event which Heaven has ordained for us. I can return you nothing but a sad echo of your own lamentations; and even this I cannot give you. His tender, loving soul stands before me in a thousand images, and I cannot as yet realize the melancholy certainty that it is all over. It is the first time in my life that I have felt deeply what it is to sustain an irreparable loss; for when our mother died, I was still too much of a child; there was something phantastic and romantic about my feelings which, in the midst of my sorrow, made me experience a certain childish self-satisfaction. Had I felt when I lost my mother, that which I now experience in giving up my father, it would have been too much for a human heart. It is a rare happiness we have lost: ours is not the ordinary fate of orphans who have, perhaps, been deprived of a supporter whose loss may be compensated by any charitable person; we have lost a friend who had proved himself such from the commencement of our life, and whom we can honour, and love, and pray for, without any admixture of less elevated motives. A rare happiness we possessed, and have now lost. With the same sympathy with which I have thought of the actual enjoyment you have been deprived of, you have thought of the sweet hopes that I had, and which have proved vain. It seems as if it would have been but just that kind Providence should have allowed us to meet again after so many years of separation, after so many changes in me, the result of which our good father would, no doubt, have been glad to see face to face; but it was not to be. You suffer more, certainly than I do, from people who pity you, and would console you; but then, you enjoyed the happiness of seeing him frequently, and your mutual love never suffered any interruption. In my life, on the contrary, there was a period, the remembrance of which now often forces itself upon me, during which I mistook the heart of our excellent father; when I thought that he was too hard upon me, and judged me falsely because I was not of the same opinion as he. A certain coldness of feeling towards him, which arose in consequence, now seems to me the darkest spot in my existence. But in secret I have acknowledged my injustice, and he forgave me without my asking it. Afterwards I learned to appreciate his heart more truly, and I have at least rewarded him with some years of ardent and perfect love and unrestrained confidence. One thing pains me very much, and that is, that I still owed him an answer to his last letter, a debt which can, alas, never be paid; but I console myself with the thought that, if I had endeavoured to make the letter such as he desired it to be, he could not, at all events, have received it.
I grieve for the poor little ones. What will become of them? Will our mother be able, unassisted, to bring them up in a spirit and with a success worthy of our dear departed? This is a question that weighs heavily on my heart. Between us two, dearest, there will be no change except that the bond of friendship will be drawn still closer, that we will cling still more fervently to each other now that we have lost such a support, and that we will often remind each other of him who has left us. Peace—peace be with his ashes, and may his soul ever feel delight in his children!
I have just read your letter through once more, and, in a certain measure, I have redoubled my grief by participating in yours; but, on the other hand, I rejoice to see how entirely we are made for each other, and how our souls draw nearer to each other the nearer they approach to the common goal towards which we are both striving. The differences between us are being ground down so as to prevent their coming into sharp collision; and the similarities are gradually more and more developed, so that, eventually, there will be nothing to separate us. I have rejoiced that so much still remains to us: that you have me and I you, and that we both have our dear kind uncle; may God only preserve us from another such blow! I would not exactly exclude Carl, but you must forgive me if I do not reckon him as being in such close union with us, as I know him so little as yet, and he evinces such a high degree of laziness. It vexes me that he has not yet written to our uncle, notwithstanding that he is now so near to him.
For the present, my dear, farewell. This evening I will add a few words, and to-morrow the letter must be sent off, as it will be eight days on the road before it reaches Drossen.
You wish to know something about my dear Prussians? That I have not forgotten them you will readily believe; whoever gets into such a place in my heart is not so easily let out again. I have heard a good deal about them, but nothing explicit. The family have resided at Finkenstein this summer, where the Count has bought another estate. Count Wilhelm, who, during my stay in the family, was studying at Königsberg, has left the University, and has spent the summer at home. He intended to pass through this place this week on his way to Berlin; but the disturbances in Poland will, probably, retard his departure or oblige him to take another route, for which I shall be very sorry, as I wish much to see him. Count Louis, from whom I had a letter while I was in Berlin, has been made a lieutenant, and is with his regiment in Poland, participating in the dangers of the war. Such is the meagre news that I can give you. It gives me great pleasure that you interest yourself so much for these good people, as in like manner, it gives me pleasure to know that your dear Lisette so kindly keeps herself au fait of my affairs. Remember me most heartily to the noble girl, and wish her and her brother joy of their good sister-in-law.
To-day has been an important day to me, for I have begun to teach the catechism to the children of my parish—a difficult task with such a set of neglected heads; and I shall stand in need of God’s blessing and my own most strenuous exertions. It is only now that I begin to feel some of the burdens of my office; the preaching has, hitherto, been very easy to me; but this teaching is, in fact, the prime business of my office, and it promises to be preciously hard. Little Emilie, to whom, as you may remember, I give daily instruction, begins to afford me satisfaction; and on Mrs. B——‘s boy also, who is only three years old, I seem to have a beneficial influence. Such, in its main features, is my daily life, which in other respects is always the same. Be content herewith, for this time, my dear, and be as happy and useful as you can among your dear little ones. Soon you shall have more from—Your Fritz.