[XCI.] Potsdam, 25th February, 1799.

… . I entreat you, dear friend, let us not look out so much for what may be coming, but let us endeavour to place ourselves in as lofty a position as possible, so that when it does come it may dwindle to our eyes into insignificant dimensions… . . We are all victims of our times, and each person is so in a sense peculiar to himself. If we but live, and are ourselves, and love—this alone is important. You know that I can do something in the way of melancholy, and I only wish that you could convert your suffering into sweet sadness, for with this the bitterer feeling would disappear. But, for Heaven’s sake, do not give way to these thoughts of separation and solitude, and remember that the will counts for something in the world. Consider now whether I should be less unhappy if I were obliged to be anywhere else in the world. What would become of me under such circumstances—I who cannot even thrive upon the feeble affection of indifferent people—I who know from the experience of these few days how I sink together, as soon as the only true nourishment of my soul fails me—I who am utterly deficient in that persevering activity which would always help you to combat successfully any sorrow and misery? But I do not fear anything of the kind, because I need not allow it to come upon me, and if you should die and leave me, well, I should neither commit moral nor physical suicide; but I should continue to live without being myself, and my epitaph would be written on my forehead… . .

Mrs. S——f forms a special chapter in your letter. I wonder that what you were saying of her did not give another direction to your thoughts—did not lead you from the individual to the general. I always looked upon her as a true disciple of Helvetius. Only do not persuade yourself that she loves you more than you love her—in that case what do you mean by loving? For, in fact, she loves nothing and nobody. I am willing to believe that people who have adopted this system really may love—that is to say, practically; but as for persons in whom reflection has attained such a development as in her—for she is put together of nothing but reflection—they have no longer the capacity of loving; for they always begin with I and end with I. She fully betrayed her system that evening, when she declared that every kind of enjoyment was of equal value.

For the rest, dear friend, be not displeased with the analogon of affection for you, which you may find here and there in indifferent persons, though with that which we feel for each other, and which is of so different a nature, it can never be amalgamated. I would not like to miss this apparent affection in the world. It is a fermentation which proves that, in spite of their smoothness and hardness, oyster-shells are also composed of lime, the cement with which the greatest and most beautiful things may be bound together; and it is this very fermentation that converts them into cement. There is also a kind of reciprocal affection felt for these persons, which I should likewise be sorry to miss.

You see I look upon everything from the point of view of religion, but in the meanwhile I am not writing religion. How is this to end? My third discourse is not yet ready in my head; I am waiting for an inspiration, and until this comes I cannot begin. But such inspirations are often long in coming. If I did but know how Wilhelm Schlegel manages de se battre les flancs whenever he is in need, I would willingly follow his example. From Friederich I have not yet received a line, which makes me very anxious.

May I soon hear that you are in a calmer mood, one in which no discords prevail. How tortured I shall feel in Zehlendorf on Friday, half way nearer to you, and yet not able to accomplish the other half, because I must be back again here on Sunday! My being nearer to you will, indeed, be but an optical illusion, yet it tortures me. How are you getting on with the Greek? I recommend you strongly not to neglect it.

[XCII.] Thursday Evening.

I ought certainly to have had your letter this morning; and yet, again, I did not get it until after dinner; it is the laziness of the letter-carrier which is alone to blame; thus I am always made to suffer by the immorality of men. It spoilt my morning; and, after dinner, I took a run out of desperation, and drank coffee out of desperation, and then he came. Mrs. B—— says this laziness is a vulgar vice, and there is no remedy for it. But I know what I will do. I will continue in the morning whatever I may have been occupied with in the evening—thus I shall annihilate the night; and, after dinner, I will lie down to sleep on principle—and thus I shall make my morning fall regularly in the afternoon. Your letter found me engaged on Plato’s Criton, which has given me exquisite pleasure. Do you know this beautiful little dialogue? It is translated into German, if I be not mistaken, and you ought, by rights, to have read it; it is not difficult, and who knows but that we may soon read it together in the original.

[XCIII.] Potsdam, 1st March, 1799.

On Sunday week I shall, at all events, be with you; sooner, it would be impossible. If Sack would but conclude the censure of the second discourse by that time, and I could learn how he has taken it, this might serve me as a guide in future. Should he allow it to be printed, I do not see any reason why I should any longer conceal my name from him, and he seems so strongly convinced, that he might eventually be offended at the concealment. If, however, the conclusion of the discourse has proved to him a thorn in the flesh, I shall be obliged to continue the incognito, whatever the result may be.

In writing, I may in the meanwhile steer my way entre deux; but verbally! I confess to you my wits begin to waver. The wisest thing to do—and you will perceive that this is always the acme of my wisdom—is to take matters easy. After all, the discourse may possibly please him; for, when he is in the humour to be pleased he can bear very strong things—and these are not so very bad.

As you will perceive, I have placed the worldly matters (for, as a book, my religion also belongs to worldly matters) in the middle, in order to be able to conclude with the spiritual. To these I reckon a remembrancer to you to tell me something about the manner in which I ought to treat the subject of God and Immortality. As regards letters, I am just the same. This morning I sent one to the post, and this will be despatched to-morrow morning, and thus I shall probably continue, except that I fear I shall not be able to write to-morrow, which will torment me, and make me preach a bad sermon. One thing only I deny—there are no such things as indifferent letters. Indifferent visits there are, as, for instance, when I was trying in vain to sit out some one else, which cannot be the case in letters.

[XCIV.] Sunday, 3rd March, 1799.

To-day I have read the greater part of Phædon, but only done two pages of Religion. I have now only six more to do, and, therefore, hope to get ready by Tuesday. Seriously, I perceive that things with me are getting gradually worse here, and if the future discourses are not to turn out very poor, religion will oblige me, on account of my Religion, to return to Berlin—religion will oblige me, for, in truth, I require to behold the universe in you. For many reasons I need this indulgence. In my desire to see you there is more of a necessity than there can be in yours to see me. You may concede this, for it only makes your desire the more beautiful.

The Athenæum I have received, and I have looked over the pictures, which are, indeed, very fine. I have also looked through Hülsen’s book, but merely as a pastime, for it must be read, and read with attention. Lucid he cannot be said to be, and I trust that my Religion will be superior in this respect.

You seem to me to see less of Mrs. Veit than usual, as you neither mention Schlegel’s indisposition, nor the treatise which Hülsen sent him several days ago, and which, it is asserted, is both religious and holy. But it is nature-religion, and I doubt, therefore, that it will produce much effect on me. My religion is so through and through heart-religion, that I have not room for any other.

[XCV.] 15th March, 1799, 2 o’clock, a.m.

K——‘s observation on the Lucinda is very good; but about your judgment, dear friend, I can say nothing until I know the work better. In regard to the dilemma, I must, however, enter my protest beforehand. It is not the question as to whether a work of art is so in the strictest sense of the term, but the question as to whether it aims at being such, that must determine whether it shall have an object or not; from the material point of view you may, therefore, be right in regard to what you think ought not to have been printed. It remains a question, however, whether the form did not render it necessary, and whether if this part were to be different, the whole must not have been otherwise.

You will, no doubt, understand Hülsen, but you will have to work hard at his style first; the thoughts do not seem difficult. I am curious to know what he and Hardenberg will say to my Religion. What you say to me about it is delightful; but are you sure that you pumped out your affection for me sufficiently before you put in your judgment? Not to be misunderstood I deem a great advantage; but are you certain that, in order to avoid misunderstandings, it is not necessary that the reader should not only know the Discourses on Religion, but also know me? This is the very question which we are unable to solve, because our experiments are so much wanting in the ἀκρίβεια.

[XCVI.] Potsdam, 16th March, Evening.

My dear friend, I am very much displeased with myself. I cannot produce anything consecutive; and with the exception of a few disjointed thoughts, I am not further than I was at noon to-day. My thoughts will not take shape and get into proper order, and, at the same time, I am so stupid that I can do nothing else. Schlegel would, no doubt, in the meanwhile, “because he could not get on,” have read through a couple of books, and have been all the better for it; while I, though I feel that brooding leads to nothing, spend my time in waiting for thoughts. I could beat myself, so angry am I with myself.

[XCVII.] Sunday Morning.

I was just going to complain of having been disappointed in the hope of a letter, when I heard the postman at the door, and my name. Heaven forbid that that idea should take possession of you. Indeed, I require, above all things, to hear it from you, although I can give you nothing in return. You see I was right when I said that doing was unnatural to me. It is this that disturbs me so; and it is this that causes an emptiness in my letters which would render me very anxious if I were not persuaded that you understand me in spite of it. Nay, either the art of doing must become more natural to me, or I must give it up altogether. It consumes too much of my life; and, after all, the result will, neither to myself, nor to my friends, nor to the world, prove worth the cost. You fancy that, if I were not to write, you would not be enabled to participate in my ideas, and yet I lay you a wager that not a thing that I say is new to you, and that the pleasure which the perusal of the Religion affords you does not compensate you for what we have lost in consequence of my having written it.

[XCVIII.] 20th March, Evening.

Hm! hm! And what is the reason? Because my tea tastes of elder-blossoms. That is the greatest positive evil that has as yet befallen me during my stay here. You see, Mrs. B—— has taken it into her head to drink an infusion of elder-blossoms made in my tea-pot, and the cook has not washed it well out. That I shall be able to continue the composition of the discourses while drinking this tea, I greatly doubt.

Ah! I must tell you an amusing little adventure that I met with to-day. Contrary to my determination (such are the results when we act contrary to our determinations), I took a little walk towards evening, and on my return I met close to the city gates a number of officers on foot; on looking up, I perceived that the one nearest me had a cross on his breast, and that I had brushed close by the King without taking off my hat; but when I perceived it, it was too late! You may conceive that the guard and everybody in the neighbourhood of the gate looked after the King, but what you cannot conceive is the scandal that my rudeness created. The soldiers thought, I suppose, that it would be too partial on their part to undertake to punish the offence, as in a manner the King belongs to them more especially; but the patriotic excise clerk took me seriously to task, asking me, “if I had so little regard for the King as not even to take off my hat.” I delivered a short speech on the misfortune of being visited by God with blindness and with thoughts, but the majority seemed to look upon it as nothing more than an impudent subterfuge. In truth, I feel annoyed at the incident, and my only hope is that the King is not blessed with a memory for faces, for some day or other he will obtain a very close view of mine.

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