[CLVIII.] Stolpe, 21st June, 1802.

To-day, dear friend, my joy at receiving your letter was somewhat retarded. I had to go to my annexed parish, and had taken every means to obtain my letters before I started: but to no avail; and I did not, therefore, get them until I returned home in the afternoon rather tired. I began almost to doubt that I should have a letter, as it had not come in the morning. I endeavoured to prepare myself for the melancholy fact, while jogging along on my peasant waggon, but was obliged to confess to myself that it would considerably upset me, and that I knew not how to help myself. I am already spoilt by your promise and its regular fulfilment up to the present moment, and I should unquestionably feel very uneasy, were your letters ever to fail without your having prepared me for it. You will not be surprised at this, if you picture to yourself distinctly how I treat your letters, how I first devour them, then read them, then enjoy them, and then ponder upon them, and finally make all kinds of critical conjectures relative to particular passages; how I give myself up to all the memories which they awake in me; how I watch every emotion of your mind and every change in your features, which appear so vividly before me; and how willingly, nay, how joyfully, I turn my eyes inwardly whenever you make any remark about myself. This time, however, I cannot quite agree with you.

[CLIX.] Tuesday.

You do not, I hope, anticipate from the above that I mean to defend my indolence in paying visits? No; to this I plead guilty, though I do not think that I should have been called upon to do so had you been here. But I cannot submit to your including in my laziness the deliberation with which I seek others and wait till they find me. No, dear friend, either we do not understand each other on this point, or you imagine my way of proceeding otherwise than it is. I am by no means passive in regard to this process. I look well about me, and endeavour to discover those who would care to understand me. This seeking and finding must be reciprocal, and must be induced by the natural power of attraction exercised upon each other by kindred souls. The more design there be, the more the parties endeavour to promote the meeting, the more danger there will be of spoiling the whole. Without designing it, every man reveals himself sufficiently to those whose eyes and ears are open, and who are capable of understanding him, and thus they approach each other naturally in a proper ratio and in the only manner which is consistent with perfect truthfulness, and with the belief in perfect truthfulness on the other side. Everything that is done with design is liable to be misunderstood and distrusted. No delay arising out of adherence to this principle (which is part of my real positive character and not of my negative character or my indolence) has ever been, or will ever be, a cause of regret to me; and, consequently, should I entirely neglect a given opportunity, I shall console myself with the thought that it was not so ordained. For that which a human being cannot attain without doing violence to his peculiar moral nature, that must be as little appointed for him as is that which it is physically impossible for him to accomplish.

Though with a very different purpose, I have been looking over the fragments in the Athenæum this afternoon. I do not know if I ever pointed out to you those among them that are written by me. In some of them I have explained as clearly as I possibly can, the subject I have just been touching upon. You cannot by any means point to yourself as an example. It is quite true that that which is most individual and deepest in your nature is very difficult to discover. Who was ever so happy as to understand you before I came? But now that the course has been laid down upon the map, others also find the way. In you I found the one of these two powers entirely thrust back and held in bondage. Do you know with what I am tempted to compare you? With a magnet that has wrapped itself in iron-filings, because it never found a solid bit of iron to attract. When such a bit arrives, it does not recognize you on account of those surroundings, but at the most has a vague feeling of your presence, and everything depends upon a bold grasp, that shall shake off the filings.

When the thought occurred to me, “Of that woman a great deal might be made,” I had not yet discovered your innermost being—for that is, and nothing more need be made of it—but only your understanding, and you know that the understanding alone makes very little impression on me. I could not, indeed, have found you in any other way than I did find you—through a revelation of love. And had it not been for this, what could you have done with my confidence? Did you not also discover my inner being after and through this revelation? Until then, was it not my understanding, or, if you will, my intellect and my manner of viewing the world, that interested you? And should we have got much farther in that way than to a communion of intellect? But I will dwell no longer on ourselves, but return to my indolence. In fact, it consists merely therein, that there are certain things on which I am loth to spend thought, because I do not find it worth my while to reflect upon them; in consequence I prefer spending time upon them. And it is only because, as you say with truth, that the time thus spent despoils me of thoughts, that I look upon it as a defect, for the same reason that the maxim, rather to spend money than time upon an object, is a wrong principle in those who are obliged afterwards to purchase money with time… . .

[CLX.] Stolpe, 8th June, 1802.

… . . The account of your travels you have drawn up very much in nuce. To spoil all works of art through parsimony, is a very common fault in our country. I recollect a very excellent observation of a Frenchman on the subject. He said “que tout était très beau chez nous, mais qu’il y manquait toujours un écu.” When I heard that, I noted in my memorandum book that such was exactly my character. Do you not think so likewise? Not that everything in me is très beau or even très bon; but whatever it be, un écu is always wanting, be it in industry, or in good manners, or in genius. I see it in all my works when they are finished and I am able to take a survey of them, and I always discern very clearly where I might have put in the additional écu; and probably I had it all the while in my pocket, as is mostly the case with the Prussians; it being merely kept back in accordance with a misapplied and unreasonable system of economy. In my behaviour towards others it is just the same; yet, upon the whole, I think it is based upon a well-understood plan, and I would not for a great deal either add anything to or deduct anything from my principles. With my manners also I am upon the whole satisfied; but in all the great sacrifices which I make to men and society, there is almost always an écu wanting, which prevents them from bearing their fruits. Do teach me to have this écu always at hand. How much would I not be improved by it. This would be a glorious jewel in the crown of your merits towards me.

Last Wednesday the synodal assembly of this diocese took place, and the dean was so kind as to invite me to be present. This occupied almost the whole day. How sad it made me! Ah! dear friend, to find yourself among thirty-five such clergymen!—I did not feel ashamed of belonging to the profession, but with my whole heart I longed for and I pictured to myself those future times, which, I trust, are not far distant, when such an assembly will be impossible. I shall not live to see it; but could I only in some way contribute to bring it about! Of the openly disreputable among them I will not speak, and I would even submit patiently to there being a few such among the great number, particularly as long as the livings are only worth one thousand dollars; but the universal degradation, the entire unsusceptibility to all higher influences, the base and sensuous views—depend upon it, I was the only one among them who mourned in heart, the only one; for had there been another I must have found him, I knocked and searched so earnestly.

As for my not loving Friedrich Schlegel, do not allow Jette to persuade you that this is so. That she should believe it, is but natural. She knows that Friedrich’s character and mine are utterly heterogeneous, and she does not think it possible that any one can love a nature quite unlike his own. In addition to this, I have often, with my usual openness, expressed to her my disapprobation of many things in him, and have also agreed with her in what she has blamed. She knows that Friedrich’s impetuous and overpowering sensuousness is disagreeable to me in many of its utterances, and, as it were, repellent to my taste; also that I have expressed great disapproval of the levity which sometimes gives almost a character of unfairness to his dealings; and now these qualities appear to her as the essential features in his character, because the reverse of them, namely, calmness and order, are the essential features in her character. She knows that he is wanting in taste and feeling for much that I appreciate very highly, and she believes, therefore, that he is wanting in heart altogether, and that it is his intellect only that has attracted me, though I do not see this myself. But I am quite clear about my own feelings in this case! For his intellect alone I love no man. Schelling and Goethe are two mighty intellects, but I shall never be tempted to love them, and certainly I shall not either fancy that I do so. Schlegel, on the contrary, has a high moral nature; he is a man who bears the whole world in his heart with love; his sensuousness is not offensively disproportionate to the rest of his powers; and, according to the spirit, he is by no means wanting in uprightness, though, according to the letter, he may sometimes be so. I have often pointed this out to Jette; but she has not been able to see it, and I have therefore given myself no further useless trouble about the matter. I feel certain that when he has completed himself in as far as regards the outer presentment of his inward nature, she will understand him and me better. In the meanwhile I leave it to you to make an attempt to teach it and comment upon it to her: perhaps you will be more successful!

[CLXI.] Monday, 19th July, 1802.

You put my faith to the test, dear friend; for this Monday again I have received no letter from you. You will at least find it natural, that to compensate myself I should now indulge in a quarter of an hour’s chat with you. Much longer time my conscience will not allow me, for I have set myself a task, by the completion of which I must first earn the right of gratifying my heart. This is a rule of action which I find sometimes very wholesome. Yet, see how well man knows how to accommodate things to his wishes, even in such cases: first, I seldom have recourse to this rule, except when I am not quite inclined for that which otherwise I like better; and, secondly, when I apply it to my work, I have many auxiliary means of escape. At present, for instance, it is in the translation of one of Plato’s Dialogues that I set myself a daily task; but if a technical term in philosophy occurs, about the rendering of which in German I cannot quite agree with myself, I quickly decree that it must be postponed until the second revision of the work, as I shall then be better able to judge of its exact value. Sometimes this delay is founded in the nature of the case, and proves a real saving of time; occasionally it originates in mere love of ease, and is therefore a waste of time; but I do not examine very narrowly in each instance how matters may stand in this respect, for that would mostly be to lose time. At the present moment I have nothing to upbraid myself with, for it is a settled thing that when I receive letters, or when I have been disappointed in the receipt of one, I am for some time unfit for work. I require first to recover the equilibrium of my mind after the recent disappointment, or to take in leisurely the contents of the letter, whereby a great difference becomes apparent between the effect produced upon me by a letter and by a conversation. How often have I not gone to work immediately after deeply interesting conversations with you, during which we have been most conscious of our mutual affection, and yet the work has proceeded pleasantly and satisfactorily—merely the time occupied by the walk home I devoted to the pure enjoyment and thorough diffusion through my soul of the beautiful thoughts and feelings, which we had conjured up and contemplated together. After the receipt of a letter, even of the most delightful letter, imagination and aspiration require more time for the exercise of their functions.

Two letters I received unexpectedly to-day instead of yours. The one might have been very disagreeable, but did not in the least affect me. In it, M———announces that last month the Erlangen Literary Journal ceased to exist. It is quite in accordance with the laws of necessity that publications which are deficient in vigour, though not failing in good intentions, must perish, while others which, in spite of their bad tendencies, are conducted with a certain amount of ability and skill, flourish, and deserve to do so. My regret at our failure in regard to the annals is painfully revived on this occasion. I am convinced the office of critic could not have been intrusted to better hands than Wilhelm’s and mine, and sooner or later something of the kind must be started… . . According to M———‘s letter there must be a review of my sermons in the last number for June. Do take courage and give a report of it when you have an opportunity.

The second, most welcome, letter was from Spalding,² who has, in the most friendly manner, anticipated my writing to him. We had made no verbal agreement to write to each other, but it seemed a matter of course that we should do so, and I have several times been in the act of taking up the pen to address him. On this occasion, as whenever anything agreeable happens to me, my first wish was that you were with me (for if I had been with you, I should not have received the letter) to participate in my joy at the noble and amiable sentiments of this worthy man, and at his hearty affection for me; and also in the pleasant mental stimulation which a correspondence with him cannot fail to produce. He also is of the number of those of whom I have spoken too little to you; but you know my weak side. At present I cannot give you a better sketch of his character than by transcribing a few lines from his letter. I have so often applied the term noble to Spalding: tell me whether, after this specimen, you do not think that it has been properly applied:—

“In wishing to discuss with you in writing many a subject which either did or did not occur in the verbal communications between us, that have now been interrupted, I give you a decided proof of my confidence. Not because I may, perhaps, express disapprobation of many things that you have spoken or written; for having the courage to do this in your case, I do not take very great credit to myself: but in showing myself to you in all my weakness, with all my prejudices, in all my poverty of acumen and philosophical knowledge, I shall be doing you true homage, and a homage which I consider your due. Only to one whom I look upon as thoroughly good could I do this.”

The favourable opinion expressed in the last words of this passage will, I hope, prove lasting, or will at least only be momentarily suspended; of losing it, I think, I no longer run any risk.

Most likely many philosophical and philological subjects will be discussed in our correspondence, but in such a way as also to afford the heart some nourishment. Dohna and Henrietta Herz were much pleased at the friendly relations existing between Spalding and myself, and often watched with a certain anxiety the height of the barometer in regard to them. It was, however, in a great measure, worldly considerations that made them do this; they desired for me the support of a man whose personal and literary worth the whole world appreciates. This often made me smile. You know how little I value such things. But, that a man of such principles—who is capable of thoroughly despising intellect when not combined with character, and who, on the other hand, does not always penetrate into the inner depths of man—has conceived love and esteem for me, is a gratifying proof to me that my moral worth is not so hidden and difficult to discover as I imagine.

[CLXII.] 29th July, 1802.

I read every day, if only for half an hour, something beautiful and interesting. At present I am engaged on Heinrich von Ofterdingen. You ought really to possess this book; and as soon as Reimer has returned from his native land, he shall send you a copy. This book treats not only of love and mysticism — these points in Hardenberg I knew beforehand—but gives evidence of the fulness of knowledge that underlies all that he has written, of that respect for knowledge which is so rare in persons of his stamp, and of the immediate application of the same to the highest objects, to attain a conception of the world and of the Godhead! In addition to everything else, Hardenberg would, most certainly, have become a very great artist, had he been allowed to remain longer with us. But this could hardly be desired; not only his melancholy fate, but his entire nature, pointed him out as a tragical personage, as one doomed to die. And even his fate seems to me to have been connected with his nature. I do not think that he had made a right choice in his beloved, or rather that he had found the right one; indeed, I am almost convinced that she would not have been enough to him, had she remained to him. Do you not think that we may conclude this from his Mathilda? Does it not appear to you that, in comparison with the rest of the book, she is not sufficiently highly endowed, and fails to satisfy the mind? And would he not have depicted a very different woman, had his heart been filled with the image of a richer womanly nature? At least I console myself with this thought, but it is difficult to say anything decided on the subject, as the whole is, unfortunately, not extant.

[CLXIII.] 7th August, 1802.

I often rejoice at the thought, dear friend, that your good mother may now be with you, though at other times I think that it can hardly be the case as yet. But it is the most agreeable picture which I can form to myself of your condition, and, therefore, I cling to it. How tenderly you will nurse the worthy old lady, and what fresh life and blossoms the filial love, which is so deeply rooted in your heart, will put forth! Ah! there are few things in the world more beautiful than this; indeed, I know none, for is not this an essential part of every other thing that is beautiful and noble? You know how long I have been an orphan, yet hardly a day passes by that I do not think of my father, in particular, with love. It is true I lived more with my mother, but I lost her early; him, on the contrary, I knew at least at the commencement of my maturer life. An unhappy misunderstanding had estranged his heart from me for several years. He believed me to be on the road to perdition, and thought me conceited and puffed up, while I was simply following out my deepest convictions, without carrying my thoughts one step farther, and without wishing or hoping for anything. I suffered much in consequence. I thought of what a beautiful relation there might have been between us, and that it was not! and yet without any fault on my side. I was touched by his tender, anxious love, which, in spite of the sorrow I caused him, was never withdrawn from me. But you know how I am; I never took any decided steps to draw him nearer to me, but went on my quiet way, fearing that explanations on my side might only produce a contrary effect on him. Gradually, however, his understanding and his judgment took counsel of his heart; but hardly did I hold in my hands incontestible proofs that he was again entirely mine, when he was taken from me. Had but the happiness been vouchsafed to me to sweeten his last moments, to close his eyes with filial hand! most willingly would I have borne the impaired health which might have been the consequence, as in your case. Oh! dear friend, enjoy with melancholy but calm consciousness, and undisturbed by any considerations that might possibly deter you, the last great banquet, perhaps, that your filial heart has prepared for itself; and the moments which you devote to me, during the presence of your mother—and it must only be when she is reposing—will be doubly sacred to me should they bear the impress and traces of your mournful feelings.

You will, I hope, believe that, notwithstanding this chance at Königsberg, and quite independently of the improbability that anything favourable to me will come out of it, I have never yet felt the very least regret at having come hither; nor has my doing so given rise to any bitterness of feeling whatsoever. How could I wish that I had acted differently, when I am conscious of having acted rightly and prudently? And to wish that circumstances had occurred otherwise than they did, is a kind of folly to which, as regards my own affairs at least, I am little given. I have no doubt that on this subject also we think alike, and therefore I shall not dwell further upon it. Even the next vacancy there I look forward to with great patience; I am persuaded that, should I be proposed and chosen for the place, it will be more as a matter of favour than from any belief in my merits; and in all civil relations—and, unhappily, the clerical profession belongs to these—I prefer an inferior benefit bestowed by my regular superiors, to a far greater one obtained through private favour. And, therefore, I trust God will be with me; and the longer I am here the more pleased I feel.

Schleiermacher to Henrietta Herz.

[CLXIV.] Stolpe, 10th August, 1802.

I am looking forward with fear and trembling to the news about Plato, which I am to receive from Fromman; for if Schlegel again plays him false, and he gives up Plato in consequence, then farewell to my delightful project of paying a part of my debt, at least this year, and I shall be badly off indeed. For though I will in that case stir heaven and earth to find for myself alone a publisher for Plato, even under the most favourable circumstances at least half a year will be lost. It would be unpardonable in Friedrich, but I almost expect it. From himself I have, as yet, heard nothing, but hope soon to learn something about him through you and Mrs. Veit. I have been pretty industrious. To-morrow I shall complete the first rough translation of the Sophists, one of the richest in thought of the Dialogues, in which I have only found two very difficult and garbled pages that I cannot quite comprehend; but when I have conquered the difficulties of these passages, I believe I shall be able to make this dialogue also as clear as anything of the kind can be made. Indeed, I am daily learning to understand Plato better, so that, at last, no one will find it easy to equal me herein. The prophetic quality in man, and the fact that the best that is in him originates in vague presentiments, has become clearer to me than ever through my experience in regard to Plato. So little did I understand him upon the whole, when I first read his works at the universities, that the meaning merely floated before me like a misty vapour; and yet how I loved and admired him even then! while, with respect to Kant, whom I studied at the time with equal energy and success, I had the same impression of incompleteness, of confusion, of short-coming as regards the understanding of himself and others, as I have now after the most mature acquaintance with his writings.

Schleiermacher to Eleanore G——.

[CLXV.] 12th August, 1802.

I am going to Rügenwalde; on Monday, on my way back, I shall perform divine service in S——, and on the evening of the same day shall be here again. The first thing which will give me joy on my return will be your letter; the second, my little boarder. That I am friendly inclined towards him, you may be assured; it is so natural to me to be so, that I am persuaded that I could not feel otherwise towards any child whom I had to deal with, either alone, or in common with a friend. When I was a tutor I did not, it is true, always feel thus, but this was mostly owing to circumstances, and when not so, my apparent want of friendliness may have been the effect of shyness. I could do the children but little good; their little joys did not depend upon me; but, in regard to their lessons, I alone bore the burden of the labour of counteracting their negligence, their disorder, and their deep-rooted tendency to superficiality. It was a difficult task; and, at length, it came to an open rupture between the parents and myself on this point. For the rest you are right when you say that men generally leave heaven empty, or, rather, the imagination, whence love and heaven are to proceed. Men are always busy with the understanding, and, worst of all, with that understanding which is directed towards the social relations in which alone they live, and move, and have their being; and even the morality which they endeavour to inculcate has only reference to these. It is therefore I have such a disgust for their educational books and their educational undertakings. I have once already poured out my heart on this subject; and, most likely, I shall do so again! Two years ago I promised Eichmann’s Franz, half in joke, to write a child’s book for him; who knows if I may not one day do so in earnest? In the meanwhile I am curious to see Schwarz’s System of Education, although I shall now no longer be able to review it in the Erlangen Journal. When you find time you might get it from K——; I should like to know what you think of it.

… . What you say about Heinrich von Ofterdingen I have perfectly understood, and not only with my head, but also with my heart and imagination. You have in this instance, as on so many other occasions, expressed a great truth in a few words, and a truth about which, I am sure, not a syllable is said in B——‘s Art of Reading, though this is a work in many volumes. It is, indeed, a miserable thing when a book is merely taken in by the understanding, in which case, generally speaking, there is not much to be said either about the reader or about the book. He, however, who is endowed with the greater gift of understanding through the imagination, may easily acquire or do without the lesser capacity, as best may suit him. This power of judging through the imagination women possess in a pre-eminent degree, more especially because they enjoy so much repose; and if it could possibly be justifiable to exclude them from assuming a position of their own in respect to science proper and to the business of society, it could only be because active life extinguishes the imagination, and because the less they know, properly speaking, the more clearly apparent it becomes how they might know everything. It would be a master stroke, if you could teach M—— to understand the Monologues with his imagination, which comprises the heart.

[CLXVI.] 19th August, 1802.

Certainly, dear friend, you do a kind and generous deed when you write to me. You may with confidence count it among your good works, and I trust also among your works of joy and pleasant recreation. For you cannot but feel joy at the gratification you afford me; and what recreation can be more delightful than the close, tranquil self-contemplation, the unconstrained play of the deepest feelings, to which you give yourself up, when writing to me? You are right when you say that to us has been vouchsafed every blessing that the children of the Almighty can expect; for even while so painfully separated, does not the bond between us ensure to us everything that is good and beautiful? At present I quite rejoice in my taciturn nature. While I am reading your letters, it is as if I were by your side; for what more did I do in general but listen to you in silence, and feast upon my inward joy in you? The same I do now, and even in your tears, the traces of which do not escape me, I exult. I see how, great and pure like the feeling from which they spring, they glitter in your eyes, and then suddenly roll majestically down your cheeks. Give yourself up to the full enjoyment of the varied feelings which are at present stirring in you; the present juncture in your life is like a transitional passage in a great musical composition, during which an unskilled ear hears only discordant tones, but which is nevertheless full of harmony, and a harmony which cannot fail to re-echo in the ears of those who have caught all the tones, while even those who are not able to do this, would no doubt, if the sense of music be not entirely denied them, feel gratified by each single chord, were you to repeat them consecutively in your sweet resigned manner. You will not, therefore, I am sure, allow yourself to be too much troubled, but calmly, though sorrowfully, you will wait to see which string of your heart will be most violently jarred in the nearest future.

Be not astonished that your good mother clings so strongly to life. Why should she not? She is independent, she has reason to be satisfied with her children, and is happy in their love. To despise life, is either enormous pride or revolting levity; to be indifferent to life is only permitted to him who feels that his inner being is a ripe fruit, and who enjoys himself as such, or to him whose real life is already destroyed, and to whom, therefore, death is no more than an outward formality; but to be able to detach ourselves from life in spite of nature’s clinging to it, that is the highest triumph of faith and religion. Often the last radiant moment is called rapidly into being, even in souls wherein the eternal Light has not always shone with bright effulgence. You will discover it, when it comes to your mother, even should others overlook the fleeting phenomenon. But I think that your melancholy foreboding is as yet unfounded.

From Henrietta Herz I have already had two letters; but she had, in reality, long arrears to make up. She thinks that I ought to feel like a king here, free and rich—in short, like the Stoic sage, and even better; and on mature consideration, I cannot say that she is wrong. I flatter myself that I possess riches of which no mention is made in the declamations of the Stoics; and if you are now to be hailed as a prophetess, I ought to rejoice in the emptiness and barrenness that surrounds me, as it leaves me freer scope for my lovely phantasies. If Providence will but allow me a continuance of the post-days, which nourish and refresh me, and will secure to me a tolerable state of health in respect of my eyes, with which I am by no means satisfied, the winter—which I will look upon as an intermezzo between the last generation of this year’s roses and the first generation of next year’s—shall not pass by without bearing fruits for me. For if I were called upon to utter paradoxes regarding the sages, the first should be one which the Stoics have forgotten, viz. that sages are the only persons who ever do anything.

Do give me categorical orders as to when I am really to begin to write the criticism on ethics; but you must fix a term that will allow of my previously reading a good deal, as, for instance, after my return from Marienfeld, whither I intend going on the 24th September. I must absolutely make some such arrangement, or else the undertaking will be ever longer deferred; for you must allow that I obey orders!

Do you know that Friedrich once regularly sold an idea to his brother Wilhelm, and that for a flannel night-jacket? If you feel inclined to make a similar barter, pray do send me all your luminous thoughts, as you call them: about the price we will not disagree, for I shall not haggle. One thing only you must not ask, and that is, that I shall make something out of them.

You know that I determined long ago that my reward, after catechizing, should be to write to you, and to-day more especially, I will not allow the reward to escape me, as I have been more than usually satisfied with my catechization, although otherwise I have not felt much of the heat and burden of the day, but have been mostly occupied with trifles. I often wish that you could be present during the catechization, for I believe I might learn much from your remarks. In spite of the original plan of our—thank God, not Heidelberg, but only Herringian—catechism, which I am bound to follow, I have made a plan of my own, with which I am very much pleased; yet, in carrying it out, I am afraid I allow myself a little too much licence in regard to those things that interest me most. However, I am always willing to turn off again when I find that I have got into a region in which the little ones cannot follow me. As a general rule, I think Plato undoubtedly the best teacher of the art of catechization; in particular instances a woman would be so, for women are ever our best teachers in cases requiring presence of mind and quick judgment.

My essay in education is going on pretty well; every day I enlarge the sphere of my operations, and shall soon have extended my care to the whole of the little man’s being. To my delight, he is already growing a little less shy and a little more polite. You know what I understand by this latter word, when I use it in a eulogistic sense, and that it only excludes uncouth bearishness, not anything truly human. Much feeling I do not as yet discover in him, for his attachment to me is only the consciousness of dependence and increased well-being. But I do not think much of the want of feeling in children, and rather value in them understanding and self-will. Have we ever conversed on this subject? I believe that my opinion on this head is intimately connected with my conviction that true feeling is the highest attribute of man; for, according to my views, it is nothing else but the constant and, as it were, omnipresent activity of certain ideas. Now of such feeling children are incapable, and that which in them is called feeling is only utterances of instinct, whereby, however, they themselves, as well as others, are led erroneously to believe that they possess real feeling. Understanding and self-will, on the contrary, are, in my eyes, forerunners of reason and self-dependence, and with the growth of imagination we may then hope that feeling also will come, if care be taken that the imagination be not crushed.

Tell me whether you had much feeling as a child? It would surprise me if it were so, and I should then have further reason to admire you for having so successfully mastered the false feeling! As regards myself, I can answer in the negative; the first element that developed itself spontaneously in me was the religious: I can still remember its first movements in me during a walk with my father. He never allowed me to lose sight of it again after it had developed itself; and it was therefore no wonder that he misunderstood me when I withdrew from a society to which he was greatly attached, and in which he had placed me in accordance with my own wishes, and with great hopes of saving me from the united power of the world and of those sceptical tendencies in me which did not escape his observation. He attributed to the inspirations of a vain-glorious heart, and to an impious desire to throw myself into the abyss of scepticism, that which was only the effect of my sense of truth, without any desire for, or repugnance towards, whatever might be the result. Far from loving the vanities of the world, I feared them; and had I known of any other retreat like the Herrnhut establishments to which I could fly from them, I would have fled thither in preference. In like manner, I lived at the university like a true Herrnhuter, without taking any heed of what my fate might be; and had it not been for my uncle, I believe literally, that I should never have thought of presenting myself for examination, in order to establish some claim upon an appointment.

I have now given you a regular fragment of my life, and not an insignificant one; and it has led me to begin this new leaf, which I meant to have cut off; but as it is begun, I must chat a little longer with you. First of all, let me give you a testimonial, or, rather, a sketch of my character, while I was at the university, which somebody, I no longer recollect whom, gave to my father. He communicated it to me afterwards, and even at the present moment I cannot conceive who it can have been who knew me so well then, when I hardly associated with any one. I was, he said, negligent in my person; had entirely the manners of one whose eye is turned inwardly; was cynical in my whole mode of life; very frugal when alone, but when in society, and to please my friends, capable of sacrificing even my most urgent necessities; industrious, but only by starts, and at all times a very unsteady attendant at the professorial lectures, which I seemed to despise; for the rest, seeking concealment, but when thrown into the society of the rich and high-born, behaving as if I were both in a still higher degree; cold and proud towards all who held a higher position than myself, but more especially so to my teachers and superiors.

Do you recognize me in this picture? Some strange features there may very likely be in it, as in all portraits, because the painter looks at everything from the same point of view; but there is also much resemblance, only you must remember that at that period much that it now awakened in me was still sunk in profound sleep. I had already very correct tact in regard to all that is false, mean, incomplete, and wrong; but the right I had not yet discovered. Of art and women I had then no knowledge whatsoever. My regard for the latter was awakened during my sojourn in the domestic circle in Prussia. This merit, in regard to me, Friederike has taken with her into eternity, and it will, I hope, not prove the least beneficent work of her noble existence; for it is through the knowledge of the feminine heart and mind that I have learnt to know what real human worth is.

Schleiermacher to Henrietta Herz.

[CLXVII.] Stolpe, 20th August, 1802.

As regards my riches, my dearly beloved Jette, you are quite right. Be assured I keep a strict account of them, but you can hardly picture to yourself my joy at every increase with which—thanks be to Heaven—I have been particularly blessed since my exile. Only think of Reimer, of your growing intimacy with Eleanore, of Lotte’s affection for her, and of the pleasant commencement she has made towards entering my whole circle. Do you believe that I do not feel all this? and that it does not make me happy? Nay, I am not such a miserable wight as that; on the contrary, I often say to myself that there are probably few persons happier than I. But may not the richest man at times feel a momentary want, when he has just put his all out on interest? Now this is exactly my case, and there is no money to be had here, however high a rate of discount I may offer. There is no one who can help me but yourselves, and that by sending me very frequent remittances. Since your return I have, indeed, every reason to praise you in this respect. But I cannot understand your surprise at that which has not only been known to you so long, but which is moreover deeply grounded in my innermost nature. For can you deny that it is in my nature not to have any independent existence? that all my activity is but the product of communion? and that the former is, therefore, always in proportion to the latter? It is of the greatest importance in regard to whatever I may have to do, that I should be strongly affected, and your letters, therefore, not only promote my being, but also my doing: yes, it is upon them alone that I depend, and without them the consciousness of my riches will neither suffice to stimulate me to action nor to work.

[CLXVIII.] Tuesday, 24th August.

If you have the same degree of heat as we have here, I do not know what is to become of you. When you are complaining in duo, imagine me as adding a third voice; and in return, while refreshing myself in the water, I will think of you with pity. Never since I left Barby have I so thoroughly enjoyed bathing. I do not mean so much in the sense of physical well-being, as in regard to the play of ideas—which no bathing-tub and no bathing-house, but only nature can call forth—the organic environments, the mass of the element, which here is not indeed great, but which makes up in energy for what is wanting in expanse, and then the clear blue sky overhead. All this gives you a strong republican view of the relations of man to the other phenomena of nature; and besides this, there is something majestic in the feeling of your being in the water, whether one looks at it from the historical or the transcendental point of view, which is rendered particularly vivid when I reflect that the water that is playing round my limbs will, in a few hours, be in the sea. In the sea itself I should, therefore, experience the feeling in a still higher degree, and I am greatly inclined to make a journey one day to Stolpemünde, merely for the sake of trying a bath in the ocean. Of all modes of committing suicide, that of throwing oneself into the water is the most poetic, but it must not be into a little pool, but into the sea, or a large river; and the man who intends to drown himself must not resist when he is once in, for that is pitiful… .

Only think, I have had the courage to ask Fromman if, in case Schlegel should play him false, and his present engagement with us should in consequence become void, he would venture upon Plato with me alone. Should he agree, fancy what a load of work I shall have to do between this and Easter, should Schlegel really prove faithless. Nevertheless, I am quite determined, if Fromman refuses, to look out for another publisher, for I cannot possibly give up Plato now, after having spent so much labour upon it. To my great consolation I feel that I am getting into excellent working trim. For some time I have been sleeping like a badger, but now I require only a few hours’ sleep—you know how variable I am herein—and am nevertheless well disposed the whole day through, if I vary my occupations and do not give too much time to each. In philology I am making constant progress; and who knows, supposing that I can command the money required for the necessary auxiliary means, whether I may not in time, while merely seeking recreation, work myself up to be one of the best Greek scholars in Germany? You see that from all sides I take a bright view of the future, and I believe that, if I live, I shall prove myself to have been a good prophet.

Schleiermacher to Eleanore G———.

[CLXIX.] 26th August, 1802, Evening.

In fact, my dear friend, I do not deserve the pleasure of writing to you after a day in a great measure wasted. I did, indeed, sit down to work again after tea, in order in some degree to get rid of this feeling of unworthiness, but it remains nevertheless, and I therefore humble myself before you, as in truth I often do, when I think how at this very time you are combining the execution of all the most troublesome business of every-day life with the active performance of the most sacred duty, and how I invariably fail in all these little matters. You will smile when I give you an account of my proceedings, whereas our friend Jette would feel vexed. In the forenoon I did, indeed, work for some hours, though with little success, partly because I had been disappointed in my hopes of receiving several letters (in which case I generally waste the more time in reading the papers very minutely), partly also because I knew what was before me. The fact is this, the court-preacher’s widow having been here again for a few days, and having now entirely vacated the house, I determined to remove from the upper story down to the lower, and this great affair was to come off to-day. The people came in proper time, as ordered, to take the great writing-bureau to pieces and to transport it downstairs. To rest myself after the heavy work of putting in the drawers and setting all the papers to rights again, I made myself very comfortable for a couple of hours with Hippel’s Biography,³ which Pastor H——— has lent me, and also in looking through Schwarz’s Educational System, which had just arrived. Not until evening could I make up my mind to proceed to the great work of removing the books. With the help of the old housekeeper, the books were unpacked, and we were in the act of transporting the book-case downstairs, when we were suddenly brought to a standstill, the thing refusing obstinately to go down the last flight of stairs, and my mathematical knowledge being insufficient to enable me to discover any direction in which I might force it so to do. I was ashamed to send again for the carpenter—because he would, of course, think that if I had had the sense to unpack the books before he came, he might have done this piece of work at the same time as the others; although when he comes to-morrow he will probably not think me a bit more sensible: and in the meantime the wooden monster is lodged on the stairs, and the books are strewn about the floor, some upstairs and some downstairs, and to-morrow the whole thing must be begun over again. But I fear nothing so much as the opinion of the carpenter. I have laughed most heartily at myself, and pictured to myself very vividly how Jette would have scolded, and how she would at once have pointed out how I ought to have set about the matter. It is strange enough, but I enjoy a laugh at my own awkwardness on such occasions, just as much as I would were it any one else.

Hippel’s Biography—which, in fact, I have not either deserved to read to-day—has interested me very much, although my unacquaintance with the Lebensläufe⁴ has prevented the whole from making as distinct an impression as it might. I have a great deal to say to you on the subject of this book, but I will reserve it for a future occasion. One thing I must mention directly, viz., the allusions made in the appendix to the strange mixture in his character, his artfulness and other defects—accusations which seem to be partly based on testimony derived from his own papers and from the lips of his friends, and partly on facts. That there must have been something wrong, I always concluded; more especially from his observation that where entire sincerity prevailed, even the best friends could not help despising each other; and I have often speculated upon what the evil in him might be. That which I stumbled upon accidentally, I now find to have been correct. But besides this, I have found a great deal which has in another way made me sad: I mean all that is said about his avarice, his domineering spirit, and his reserve, bordering upon falseness; for this shows me distinctly how even such distinguished persons as his friends could misunderstand and misrepresent him. These vices Hippel cannot possibly have possessed in the sense which they attach to the words, and I am certain that if I were in possession of all the facts which are supposed to prove these defects, I should be able to bring them into greater concord, and to explain them differently. Ah! dear friend, even in regard to that shadow of himself, the judgment that is formed of him by others—the conception of his character that remains after he is gone—a man fares ill if he has not been loved in the true sense of the word, or if he has not formed, what is I think far more rare, a perfect friendship. “Love is blind,” such is the common saying, and of course the dictum is consented to. But on the contrary, is it not love alone that is clear-sighted, that is truthful? What more I have to say I will say to myself, and wish you a good night, and also your mother. To-morrow I am to catechize, and I want to think of this while preparing for sleep, in order that I may render myself the more worthy of writing to you afterwards.

[CLXX.] Saturday, 28th August.

I am now regularly installed downstairs, and thus somewhat nearer to a permanent and desirable state of existence, though as yet all my arrangements are provisional. My books occupy the only place in the room in which I could put a small writing-table, the want of which I feel more and more every day, and at which, my imagination foretells, will be penned the most delightful things that I shall write from here. The windows are still curtainless, because I have not got the brackets to nail them to, and the ameublement looks as yet rather meagre. Thus, even in these matters, I retain the feeling of imperfection and of yearning after the more perfect, which my heart so highly prizes. But I will not give myself up to this feeling at present, but rather refer to various matters in your last letter.

Is it possible that you can believe in earnest that I could take anything amiss that you do or say? And can you doubt that even in writing I have borne in mind what you have said and written to me, namely, that in fact I was always (as a tribute to truth, we ought not to omit almost) right? Such a dictum is too gratifying to me to allow of my ever forgetting it, and I was quite aware of how applicable it was in the case in question… . .

From Friedrich I have heard nothing directly, and indirectly through Jette you will probably hear of him before I shall. With reference to our common work, I look forward to the first accounts from him with fear and trembling, but as regards himself personally, with great pleasure. Whatever he may think of France, he will there—supposing that his pecuniary means be not too limited—live in perfect quiet, and enjoy the feeling of undisturbed possession; and the character of the nation, as well as the treasures of art that are heaped up there, will stimulate him in a thousand ways. An abundance of thoughts will be called into being; but whether any works will be the result, and if so, when they will appear, time alone can show. In my own future productions I gain every day more and more faith, and I also shall spend the winter very quietly and very industriously. The critical inquiry into all existing systems of ethics shall be produced, and my sweetest recreation shall be long and delightful letters to friends, more especially to you. I enjoy it already in advance; and when I compare these letters in my mind with those which you received from Potsdam, while I was engaged in writing the Discourses on Religion, I see that both together will afford an excellent survey of a very remarkable period of my life.

[CLXXI.] 3rd September, 1802.

… . You exercise your dominion in a way quite peculiar to yourself. It is the way most natural to you, and, therefore, no doubt, the best, at least as regards me. Jette has undoubtedly also been very useful to me, and is so still; but so immediately and so decisively as you she cannot act upon me; and what makes your triumph the more perfect is, that the difference between you as regards this matter lies entirely in your character and in your manner… . . For Heaven’s sake, dear friend, take care that you be not served in regard to mirthfulness as I have been in regard to cleverness. I was often provoked to find that people saw in me cleverness, satire, and God knows what, rather than that goodness which I felt and was conscious of possessing, and that even my female friends often called me the “clever Schleier.” Now that I have at last prevailed in making the good that is in me acknowledged, it fares so badly with my cleverness that, although I am not conscious of any particular change having taken place in me, I am called stupid by half the world, i. e., half my world. There is, indeed, a certain degree of similarity between our two cases, for that which was called cleverness in me was not always in reality that which it was taken for, and the like is not unfrequently the case in regard to your supposed mirthfulness.

But to return to your dominion and your commands, from which I started. Help me on, the latter will no doubt; and your curiosity ought in equal degree to help on the Critical Inquiry, if I could but allow you to persevere in it. But I am afraid I must advise you to keep it for the Ethics themselves, for in the Critical Inquiry you will only find detached indications of what you are seeking; because, as I do not mean to preface the Inquiry with a statement of my own principles of morality, I cannot attack the prevailing systems on account of what I consider their immorality, but must do so on account of their scientific incompleteness and worthlessness; and, in so doing, I can only let my own principles shine through dimly and obliquely as it were. Lazy I am not, in fact, and I grow daily more attached to my work. But you can have no idea of how slowly my reading proceeds when it is to be got through for a critical purpose. In part, this defect arises out of a want of confidence in myself, which I ought gradually to have conquered by this time; in part, it is also the result of habit, but of habit of such long standing that I can hardly at present distinguish it from that which is inherent in my nature. You would scarcely believe how far this goes; but, to give you an example, only fancy that to understand a dialogue in Plato—as I wish to understand it, and taking for granted that all linguistic difficulties have been overcome—costs me more than double the time that it takes me afterwards to translate it and put it into perfect form. And yet Plato is undeniably the writer whom of all others I know best, and with whom I have almost grown into one.

Now consider all that I shall be obliged to read for the purpose of the Critical Inquiry, and that it will be the more difficult to understand the more confused and the more defective it is; that almost all of it will be disgusting to me because of its unsoundness, and doubly so because of the esteem in which it is held by the world; consider further, that all the works of antiquity which I shall be obliged to read for the purpose will, at the same time, constitute a philological study, in pursuing which I shall not be able to resist the temptation of devoting many a half-hour, perhaps in vain, to clearing up some garbled passage. At present I am suffering more especially from Kant, who becomes more troublesome the longer I occupy myself with him. When I have got happily through him, then I shall come to Fichte and Spinoza, which will be quite a recreation. In the latter I shall, at least, find inward life, and in the former a certain outward perfectness, which prevents his readers from being thoroughly wearied. Hitherto, the Stoics have been my worst plagues, but now I know exactly what poor creatures they were.

It will cost me a great deal of trouble, I know, to make that gentleness prevail through my book which ought ever to be the companion of thoroughgoing and strict criticism. But I will think much of you; that will help me more than anything else; and, secondly, I will allow myself the prospect of giving vent to my anger in the Dialogues, where I can do it without bitterness, in the light and pleasant play of ideas that characterizes the Platonic irony. If I only reach half way to the ideal that floats before my imagination, these Dialogues shall, for the world also, be the best that I have ever produced.

Schleiermacher to Henrietta Herz.

[CLXXII.] Stolpe, 6th September, 1802.

According to the newest regulations, it is to-day your birthday, dear Jette, and I am going to celebrate it in solitude during the quiet evening hours, by drinking Russian tea and devoting to you many good and faithful thoughts. This is the first anniversary of the day since our separation; how many more will there be? How long will this separation last? how will it end? And of all our delightful projects, how many will succeed in the distant future? But of the Future I will not think; this silent, veiled personage shall not force herself in between us, for she always makes such a strange impression on one, so that one cannot help growing silent like herself. Let us neither think of time nor space, but merely of each other and of what is dearest to us both. Our inward and true life will and must ever develop itself more beautifully to greater perfection. Yes: let us confess with pride and joy, that there are not many such united circles of love and friendship as ours, which has been brought together in such a wonderful way from almost all the extremities of the moral world. All who belong to it are at this moment present to my soul. May they all draw closer and closer around you, each in his own way and with such gifts of mind and heart as he may possess.

To-day I have made considerable progress in the Critical Inquiry. I have sketched the entire plan and made a separate cahier for each division, into which I shall gradually introduce the materials I have collected; by this means they will attain a certain shape, and, in future, when reading and collecting, I shall be able to give more attention to the place to be assigned to each passage or thought, and thus the whole will be much facilitated. But I have still to read Kant’s Tugendlehre and Fichte’s Sittenlehre, and a good deal of Plato, and the half of Spinoza; and that is something. Besides this, I ought, in fact, to feel myself in duty bound to read Helvetius’s two works, if I only knew where to get them. I have written to Dantzic on the subject, but I fear to no avail. Could you, perhaps, procure me the loan of them for a few weeks? For the rest, the Critical Inquiry will be a very good book, and so artfully got up, that no one, not even such a critical genius as Friedrich, shall be able to guess from it what my own system of ethics is, and consequently, when the latter appears, it will be quite new to people. God give his blessing to the completion!

With fear and trembling I am expecting every post-day a letter from Fromman. If Friedrich has not sent any “copy,” or, rather, has not sent it all, then, to my great grief, it is all over with our common translation of Plato. Should Fromman next refuse to accede to my proposal, I shall be sorrowful indeed. Should he agree, I shudder at the thought of the work with which I shall be overwhelmed, and that during this winter, when I ought to spend so much time on my solitary friend. If, under these circumstances, I do not learn to perform wonders, I shall never learn it. The art of making time do, is, after all, a great art; nay, I might almost say, the most important one in this world next after the art of loving, for upon this depend all others.

Schleiermacher to Eleanore G——.

[CLXXIII.] Friday, 10th September, 1802.

… . I knew that my few cursory observations on Hippel would suffice to suggest a great many thoughts to you; for was it not often, nay, I might almost say, generally, the case when we were conversing with each other, that I had only to strike the first note? Our mode of viewing each person as a whole, and not judging his inner being from individual and external features, but, on the contrary, of explaining the latter by means of the former—of believing in the existence of dissonances in human nature, but not of incongruities; and not in total transformation, but only in development and improvement—this method is identical in us both, and is undoubtedly correct, as, indeed, our example proves; for we understand ourselves, and also others, much better than most people do. Some traits in Hippel you have presented to me in a more perfect, I mean a more finished form, than I had pictured them to myself; and that so entirely in your own peculiar manner, that I quite exult in my silence on the subject. Other traits you have made clearer to me, but on some points I feel inclined to contradict you, if for no other reason, at least for the purpose of contributing some gleanings of my own.

First of all, I do not quite understand why you attribute his wit to the restless and fluctuating emotions of his soul. Do you mean that this is generally so, or only in his case? Do you mean that wit, considered as a talent, is dependent on such a state of mind, or only that the expression of it is called forth by this state? In putting these professorial questions, I remind myself of the late Garve; and in order to render the resemblance perfect, I must tell you that I consider this view of the nature of wit as being in your case in the highest degree subjective. Indeed, wit is a peculiar thing, and not easy to define. The greatest difficulty, however, I think, lies in the term, which is made to bear such a fearful number of very different meanings.

Evening.

But is not wit the expression of a light heart and lively imagination? Satire may, indeed, spring from that inward disquietude to which you allude; but, as far as I know it, Hippel’s wit was not bitter; and witty, as I understand it, I think he must have been from his childhood, previous to all inward restlessness. As regards his piety, you have unquestionably hit the truth, and how I love you for having done so! I understand you perfectly, although I always picture to myself Christian piety—as I have described it in the Discourses—as excitatory of pain. But it is the sweet pain of melancholy, so well calculated to soothe other pains. Surely, if there was any good in Saul’s soul, it must have been an adagio that exorcised the evil. But why do you think that piety and wit are seldom found in company? On the contrary, I have often found them united. Nowhere are playfulness and earnestness more intimately blended than in a pious soul; and is not such combination the greatest incitement to wit? I am vexed that I have not given utterance to this in the Discourses, though it was always floating before my mind, and in such lively colours that I cannot help thinking, indeed, that it must be expressed somewhere between the lines without my being conscious of it.

In unison with himself this extraordinary man certainly was not, and his friends seem not to have been of the kind that could help him to become so. But, indeed, this was a task that not friendship, but only love, could thoroughly have accomplished. Love alone, however late it might have come to him, could have had the power to heal the one great schism in his inner being; friendship could only have soothed the pains occasioned by it, and consoled him by pointing to the times and to destiny. Unless we consider the political misery as greater still, it seems to me that there is nothing in our day that affords so complete a subject for elegy, as the fact, that we have attained a point of civilization at which every better man, who does not learn to know true love at an early age, must inevitably, and against his will, either fall into the snares of his imagination or of his sensuality; and this melancholy “against his will,” is all the advantage he has over the others. And yet he, who is at variance with himself in this way, is better off than he who allows himself to be deceived by a false appearance of love. But may it not be Hippel’s own fault that, even at the last, love did not come to his rescue? For that first love, on his entrance into the world, was hardly of the right kind. May he not too soon have given up seeking for it? That you would have been very dear to him, had he known you, I have always told you; but I should like to know whether you could have felt love for him? Such questions are, in truth, foolish, yet they will arise in all minds from time to time. I answer this one in the negative, though I can give no definite reason for so doing. You have declared me to be a virtuoso in friendship, and you may be right, for I do believe that I am this by the grace of God. But, would I have been a friend to Hippel? It is strange that you should think so, knowing his reserve, and my expectant and silent manner; yet I believe it might have been so. I know that I am able, when it is needed, to place my hand on another’s heart; and I trust I should have been able to seize the favourable moment to call to him to pour his sorrows into my bosom, for I divined them and felt them all. In that case I might, indeed, have been a great deal to him—more, for instance, than I shall ever be to the good Friedrich.

Since I have touched upon Friedrich in my revision of my capacity for friendship, allow me to say something further about him, although I am doubtful whether I shall be able to make everything clear to you, as I do not exactly know what it is that you have not as yet understood. Jette, I know, raises objections on account of the great dissimilarity in our dispositions, of his rude and violent manner, of all those traits in him which shock and render him disagreeable in general society, of that levity of conduct which frequently borders upon dishonesty, and of the other defects which spring from the pride and arrogance of his heart. But all these are only outward appearances, which are, indeed, very different from the outward expressions of my character; but it does not follow that the inward divergence between us is proportionately great. I admit, however, that the latter also is considerable; but great similarity of character is by no means necessary for friendship. The centre of his whole being, of his activity and his aspirations, I have recognized as something exalted, rare, and, in the true sense of the word, beautiful. I see the natural connection between this and all that appears faulty, contradictory, and wrong in him, and which cannot be otherwise without a total and impossible change in his relations to the world; and because I understand the nature and origin of his faults better than other people, I can also be more indulgent towards them. I cannot help loving the ideal that dwells in him, although I am very doubtful whether it will not be shivered to atoms, before he succeeds in embodying a harmonious presentment of it, either in his works or in his life. However, I see before me, in imagination, the great and truly sublime image of what he may be if he ever attain his true development. How could I, then, feel otherwise towards him than I do? How could I do otherwise than, as far as I am able, remove every obstacle out of his path, embrace all his plans with love and sympathy, afford him every assistance in my power, which he can accept, towards its accomplishment, and allow him sometimes, though very cautiously, to contemplate the completed image of himself which dwells in me. As regards myself, his existence alone is so beneficial to me, that it would never occur to me to wish to make any special use of him; and in how far I can and ought to open myself to him, must, in every case, be regulated by the effect likely to be produced. Early in our acquaintance already he had a vague conception of much that was in me, though my real nature he did not recognize until later. I know that, taken as a whole, he loves and honours it, but it would be quite contrary to his ways, were I to require him to give his attention to its various aspects. I feel quite convinced that he derived the wise and fine aphorism, that in friendship the most important thing is to know its limits, from his experience in regard to the connection between himself and me and from my bearing towards him; for it is in reference to this very point that the strength of my friendship for him has frequently been proved.

Does it appear to you that there is anything forced or purely imaginary in what I have been saying on this subject? Tell me whether I have cleared up all that was obscure to you, and try whether through your understanding of the subject you cannot be useful in helping our friend Jette to understand it. She seems to think that in reality you and she are of the same opinion; pray undeceive her! When you say that you believe that Friedrich is one of my sorrows, you are right, but it is only on account of his sorrows and the dissonances in him. Jette and A——, on the contrary, seem at times to think that it is because I take too much upon myself, and suffer too much for the sake of the connection, and receive neither thanks nor reward in return. This is such a very worldly view of the matter that I feel it more easy to speak to you about it than to those who entertain it, and who ought not to entertain it. He who earnestly wishes for a thing must also be willing to accept everything necessarily connected with it. And let me ask you, what trifles must not those be, which can be combated and destroyed by mere inactivity? They could only be vexatious to me as indications that the world is far too partial, to admit of my fulfilling my vocation as mediator between it and Schlegel, otherwise than indirectly and, as it were, behind its back. But there are too many indications of this kind to allow of any special one making a particular impression. That Friedrich is prosperous would be very gratifying to me if I did but know what kind of prosperity he is enjoying. Jette writes me, that probably he will not stay long in Paris, and this is still more gratifying to me; it was a false tendency that led him thither, and his harebrained notions on this subject surpassed everything of the kind he ever took into his head. It is to be hoped that he will now again draw nearer to the German frontier. In regard to Plato, however, he will hardly do anything, and this will pain me very much, though I try to prepare myself for it. Every post-day I am in expectation of the Urias’ letter from Fromman.

I have given Jette a full account of my labours, which you must make her repeat to you, should you see her before she starts for Lanke.

Saturday.

… . The account you give of your own experience cannot be cited as an instance opposed to my idea. That you had at a very early age a strong feeling of justice or injustice in regard to yourself is very natural. But the longing for a sympathizing heart can only have come later with increased and deeper self-consciousness. Happy for you that it was so early developed. But what I specially want to know is, whether you ever had a very strong instinctive love for your parents and your sisters and brothers? My theory and my experience concur in proving, that where this feeling exists in a high degree, a more elevated love is very rarely developed subsequently, but only a feeling of good-will without any special character. There may, however, be many exceptions to this rule, for if human beings have the power of conquering their lower instincts when they become conscious of them, why should they not also be able to conquer their higher ones and to supplant them by something higher still.

Schleiermacher to Henrietta Herz.

[CLXXIV.] Saturday, 11th September.

I have written pretty fully to Eleanore about Schlegel, but I perceive from your letter that it is nevertheless necessary that I should make some further remarks on the subject. You refer to his conduct in regard to myself. This has not, indeed, according to our ideas, been very noble, but it is entirely in harmony with his nature; and why should the expression of his nature in regard to myself, lessen my affection for him more than the same expression towards others? If it were so, would it not prove that I was wanting in the first principles of justice in my judgment of men? Besides, in fact, he does not conduct himself differently towards me than towards himself—and can a friend ask for more? But that which most offends you in him is his want of sentimentality. But then, why should everybody be sentimental? Can you not conceive of a loveable soul in any other form? To tell the truth, this seems to me a strange term; and I wish you would once try to define exactly what you mean by it… . .

Schleiermacher to E. Von Willich.

[CLXXV.] 15th September, 1802.

… . Sectarianism.is not so hateful in my eyes as it is in yours; correctly understood, it is nothing more than an inevitable semblance. Do you not think that we, with our modes of thought, our manner of living, loving, and being, also appear to others like a sect? Yet we know that we are not, and thus it is in our case likewise only a semblance, which is inseparable from the indirect presentment of that which is peculiar yet common to us all. You will very likely answer, that what you detest is the desire in people to be, or to appear, a sect. But to desire such indirect presentment belongs to human nature, and is often the only means which renders a direct one possible. Even you yourself, were your entire activity in the world known, would appear to people tremendously sectarian; they would say you were an idealistic Herrnhuter, a missionary of the incorporeal Saviour, and of prevenient grace; and I should be pleased to hear them judge you thus, and I would tell them approvingly, that they had hit the truth, and that you were in reality what they supposed.

I have at present a little boy under my care; but no sooner shall we have learnt to get on together, than, in all probability, we shall be obliged to part again.

Farewell, dear Friend.

Schleiermacher to Henrietta Herz.

[CLXXVI.] 16th September, 1802.

… . In addition to this I awoke this morning with a tremendous cold in my head, and was very drowsy, and, in spite of this, I commenced Fichte’s System of Ethics, which, like a hedgehog, sticks out its bristles in all directions, and very cleverly covers all its own weak points. All this taken together has made me spend an intensely disagreeable day. I have thought of you, and with how much indulgence you used to treat me when I came to you in such miserable plight; otherwise, none but stupid, perverse thoughts have come into my head, and I have been regularly good for nothing. I believe, in truth, that I should not even have been capable of a good deed, as it is called, though of many unworthy ones. Eventually, during the afternoon, I caught myself in the act of wishing that I could get up a party for a rubber. This enlightened me at once as to the degraded condition in which I was; it was the culminating point of my moral good-for-nothingness. I forced myself to think of you all, and I felt a little better. I tell you all this, because you speak so much of the sunshine in me, and that you may not another time forget the shadows. Ah, may I only not have many such days, while I am alone! To-day I must have no other motto than, “As the dog, so is man, a pitiful scrub.”

In what way you can help me, I ought, in fact, not to say. You know, I suppose, Schiller’s little moral-arithmetical apophthegm about the numeration of elevated souls? But perhaps the truth is, that you have doubts as to your being one yourself, and if so, you are wrong. Are you not as much an individual as any one else? Have you not formed for yourself a very particular mode of life? Do you not see united in yourself, in a peculiar manner, many qualities which elsewhere you see disconnected, or, at least, otherwise modified? Shall I, perhaps, enumerate some of these, such as your fidelity to your vocation, your lovingness, your passive taste for science, your social tact, your wonderful power of mimicry, which is the source of your linguistic acquirements as well as of your knowledge of human nature, your talent for everything practical, in the application of which you are so indefatigable? But why should I come to the assistance of your indolence? for indolent you are in this one point of self-contemplation, and for this very reason you ought to write.

Perhaps you are wrong in allowing L—— to have this advantage over you, that she loves me on account of my preaching. Preaching is, in the present day, the only means of exercising personal influence over men in masses. In reality the influence is, indeed, but a small one, because but little is effected; but if the preacher takes and treats the matter as it ought to be, and not as it is, and there be but three or four who hear with the right ears, the effect must be good. I do wish I could properly hear myself preach; sometimes I can do so during a few minutes, and this always produces deep and exalted emotions in me. My reading the Monologues to you was, in fact, the same as preaching to you, for, as far as I remember, we spoke but little on the subject at the time, or afterwards; and what else could be the cause of the peculiar effect they produced on you? I also remember full well how I felt in regard to the Monologues. Nothing that I have ever written has taken form so spontaneously. When I first conceived the idea, my intention was to produce something quite objective, and the subjective part was only to constitute the form. But while sketching out the plan, the subjective views grew so rapidly over my head, that suddenly the matter stood before me as it now is. The polemical element now only appears here and there as the product of a temporary mood, and the objective matter is somewhat concealed and only discernible by the sharp-sighted. However, those who cannot quite understand the subjective aspect, I may refer to the objective, and they may take the former, as originally intended, as a mere form… .

With me winter has already set in. I am writing this at about ten o’clock at night, and I am not out of bed in the morning before half-past six. These are good prospects for the Critical Inquiry, which still progresses very fairly. I am at present engaged on Fichte, and find that I succeed pretty well in giving a reduced picture of him, if it were only not so fatiguing a manœuvre to admire and to despise a man in the same breath… . .

Schleiermacher to Eleanore G——.

[CLXXVII.] 17th September.

You have kept your word, dear friend, and in spite of my self-love, I almost feel inclined to say that you have kept it too well—that is to say, more faithfully than I have deserved. You know that with me to deserve means to know how to use properly; and only imagine, I was yesterday in such a wretched mood, and spent such a miserable day, that even your letter did not entirely rouse me; and consequently I proved that I did not deserve it. I think you do not know me in those moods, at least it must be through Jette’s or my own description, for you have never seen me in them. It is a state of perfect prostration, not only of the intellect, but also of the heart and the imagination. In a great measure, no doubt, this arises from physical causes. I awoke in the morning with a bad stuffy cold in the head, which made me very stupid, and kept me in a state of extreme drowsiness; nevertheless, it is a mental dereliction, and we are always guilty of a certain degree of voluntary incapacity, when we allow ourselves to be so completely overruled by bodily conditions. And while in this state I was so childishly perverse as to commence the study of Fichte’s System of Ethics, although I might just as well have undertaken something easier. To this you must further add, that when my better self is thus asleep, my original and baser nature reappears more conspicuously with all its defects. Towards evening I was quite aware of what I had to do to rouse myself, but not until matters had come to the worst did I do this. It is only the presence of friendship or of love, with their many sweet incitements, which can effect a sudden and thorough cure.

Heaven preserve me from any more such days, while I am here, deprived of all counteracting influences. I will do my best to ward them off, and have, therefore, determined to make a full confession each time they occur—that is sure to help… . .

[CLXXVIII.] Wednesday. ·.

Only fancy, I have made up my mind to read an essay by Jenisch in the Brennus, thinking that there may possibly be something in it. Is that not like taking a ticket in the lottery, because of the possibility that I might win? This Jenisch, whom we all know, gives himself an air of being intensely interested in religion. Those who know how to discern inward truth, cannot, indeed, help judging from the exaggeration of his words to their emptiness; but how many are there who can discern truth? That such a personage should succeed in throwing sand in people’s eyes is so revolting to me, that were I to follow my inward inclination I would give him a good hard hit with my fist in the open literary highway… . .

I wish half the sense in the world were at the devil—I would even give my quota, though unwillingly—if we could but get in exchange, say one-fourth of the amount of imagination which fails us in this beautiful world. But the devil will take care that it shall not be so, for he must know that his rule would then soon be at an end… . .

… . How much, and what, is not required, dear friend, to see a man exactly as he is! He who would do so must not only know himself, but he must have found everything within himself. True innocence and simplicity will never attain to such knowledge of human nature. But he who has discovered within himself, if it be but one element of every kind of evil and perversity (for in each of their elements the essentials of each reside), and can trace in himself germs of all that is good and noble, while at the same time he possesses sufficient conceit to venture to construct in imagination the whole completed image out of these elements—he has every requisite for attaining a knowledge of human nature… . .

I have next to enter my protest against your supposition, that my thoughts treat me with great tenderness and indulgence. By no means, dear friend! The wretched things are even sometimes such précieuses ridicules that they are hardly to be borne with. If I were to describe to you the dance they sometimes lead me, it would, I am sure, make you both laugh and sigh. It is a fine maxim of Friedrich’s, that a truly cultivated being ought at any moment to be able to attune his mind according to will. The most ridiculous part of it is, that no one in the world is farther from possessing this capacity than himself, and the saddest part is, that we have indeed as yet far too little true liberty, and the best is, that if this problem were to be completely solved, the loveliest spell of human life, the charm of self-communion, and the sweetly melancholy feeling of the magic power of nature—all would vanish… . .

[CLXXIX.] 16th October.

… . Shall I tell you in what form your melancholy has been transmitted to me? Surely in the same form as it has assumed in you: deep, yet strong and courageous, not only suffering from the thought of the transitoriness of life, but also active and watchful. No wish of our hearts can so fully realize itself as this, that our inward strength may ever concur with the occasions for exerting it, and that in the when and the how of our actions a divinely happy chance may ever seem to prevail; while, after all, it shall prove to have been nothing more than the mental clear-sightedness and the free activity of a pure and sensitive soul, maintained even under the most painful circumstances. All honour be to suffering, for in the present times it is an indispensable element of a noble life. Is not every one, to whom it does not draw near of itself, obliged to go forth into the wide world to seek it, in order that he may grow strong in love and faith?

Schleiermacher to Henrietta Herz.

[CLXXX.] Königsberg, 26th October, 1802.

Dear Jette, I have just been reading something about coquetry in a book by Schaffner, which very naturally brings me back to your last letter but one and the confessions contained therein; and again I am inclined to begin with the question, What do you understand by coquetry? Shall we refer to Socrates teaching an Athenian Hetære the art of catching men? Something of the kind there is, indeed, in all coquetry, but it makes a great difference, whether it be practised as a liberal art or as a mere trade, that is, whether it be the whole man or only his senses that are to be taken captive. According to my views, it is the latter kind of coquetry only which is properly blameworthy, and the more so when it not only uses sensuous attractions to captivate the senses, but also makes use of mind and intellect as means of conquest, although the real triumph sought is that of sensuousness. The purpose and the conscious endeavour to attract men, lie deep in woman’s nature, and belong to it (in girls it is more wish and instinct, in married women will and set purpose) not as a defect, but as one of its necessary and essential attributes. For it is only in this way that women avoid the degradation, to which Fichte condemns them, of being inactive throughout the whole process of love, from the very commencement. But it is not only in love, but also in friendship, that you avail yourselves of coquetry, because even friendship you are not, in your actual condition, allowed to offer openly; for which reason this to me so well-known phenomenon in no way interferes with my views of the difference between love and friendship. Nor does it confuse me that the coquetry of friendship and of love differ little from each other. Both necessarily have their origin in the difference of sex; but a clear though tacit understanding must be come to regarding the limits to be observed in their feelings towards each other, before the connection between a man and a woman can develop itself into one of friendship… . .

One word more about your sentimentality. Surely you confound two very different things; the upright and the noble is not the same as the refined and the delicate. There are great minds that are more political and artistic than ethical; and who find the circumstances amid which the delicate and the refined qualities of our nature are revealed, too circumscribed, because they are always looking further; yet, if we contemplate these minds from a point of view which will allow us to take a wide survey of them, we cannot, by any means, say that they are deficient in the beautiful. In a measure Friedrich belongs to this class, although it is not always what is great in him that makes him susceptible of what is refined. But I am inclined to go a step farther, and to maintain that there may be great and fine characters, who are not indeed deficient in the feeling for what is right, but who are destined to wound the feeling in others, because they are placed in a position in which they are called upon to determine the limits of right. You see, that even in these latter characters I cannot dispense with the feeling of right, though in the former I can dispense with the appreciation of the delicate and the refined, not altogether however, but almost in every special case. You must make it your particular duty to endeavour not to lose your appreciation of what is great, in your predilection for what is delicate and refined.

I am in a tremendous hurry, as the post is so impolite as to refuse to wait for me. The two or three days that I shall remain here I shall employ in making the acquaintance of a few savans.

[CLXXXI.] Stolpe, 14th November, 1802.

… . Among other letters, I have had one from Fromman, who, having received from Schlegel a short introduction, and a promise of the remainder in a week, has once more allowed himself to be talked over. To me this news is most unwelcome; and just as great as was the delight with which I formerly thought of Plato and worked at it, is the disgust with which I now contemplate the undertaking, partly because I know it will be postponed ad infinitum, partly because I see more and more how little many of Schlegel’s views in regard to Plato are to be depended upon, and I hardly agree with him on a single one of the pieces which are to constitute the second and third volumes. I have communicated my doubts to him in nuce, and if they have any effect, they will induce him to stop working for the present, and to read Plato through once or twice more, from beginning to end, after his own peculiar fashion.

From the public this difference in our views cannot either be entirely concealed, for in my Critical Inquiry into the Ethical Systems I shall be obliged to refer to many passages which he considers spurious.

Monday 15th, Evening.

I have done for to-day with the Herculean task of working myself anew into the abandoned Critical Inquiry, and the interrupted Fichte. Am I not a miserable creature to find it each time so dreadfully difficult to begin anew? and ought I not to sit chained to my work, without intermission, until it is finished? But, unfortunately, that would not either do with me; and thus it is decided that I cannot get on in any way. So far, then, I am clear about myself… . .