Schleiermacher to Eleanore G——.

[CLXXXII.] 16th November, 1802.

… . You say that I shall have grown one year older before your next letter reaches me. Heyday, dear friend, is it thus that you keep the covenant between us? No, not even separation and suffering shall make us grow old. Bind yourself to this with me once more. I know how much you suffer, and I suffer with you, and I also know what strength dwells in a soul that has reached the point to which you have attained, and how there may be courage even in melancholy, and what beautiful alliance there may be between suffering and action. Only be prudent and careful of yourself. Eternal youth does not grow wild, but requires to be tended.

Schleiermacher to Henrietta Herz.

[CLXXXIII.] Stolpe, 22nd November, 1802.

This time I have celebrated my birthday during two whole days; and, undoubtedly, its regrets, as well as its joys, merited a whole day’s devotion. Its joys have come to me to-day with your letters, and those among my dear ones who have not written have been as near and as present to me as those that have. Dear children, tell me whether there be a happier and a richer man in the world than I? To be beloved by such beings, and so many—verily a whole troop. I know full well that amid all that is affectionate and hearty in what you, more especially, say to me, there is much that is too flattering; but I accept it, nevertheless, willingly, because it is affection that has inspired the flattery. How heartily have I not embraced you in thought, my own dear Jette, and not without tears! Yes, you will always remain to me with your love and your faithfulness—you and all of them; for I hope I shall not live to be dissevered from a soul so closely allied to mine, otherwise than by the hand of nature. Fidelity, dear Jette, cannot be anything separate or distinct from affection, if the latter be mature and self-conscious; it is only in reference to less perfect relations than mine (of the first class, I mean) that there can be a question of fidelity… . .

Schleiermacher to Eleanore G——.

[CLXXXIV.] 24th November, 1802.

… . . On my birthday I felt deeply the affection of all my friends, and in the midst of my sorrows—but not in spite of these, but through them—I was conscious of the rare happiness that is bestowed upon me in life. This happiness has long been quietly preparing. Had it not been for the calm disposition to await and to look on—had it not been for the true feeling, which ever kept me back from the less worthy—I might long since have rendered it impossible; but its real commencement dates from within the last few years: it has still to me all the charms of novelty, which, indeed, it will never lose, and I find myself still dwelling on its every feature, and asking myself if these be, indeed, all mine. Then again turning from the sunshine of life towards the dusky cloud that is passing by, bearing in its lap a higher beauty and increased fertility; but which, while it is there, weighs upon the chest and obscures the mental vision: even that I bless; for to have felt everything—everything that has the power of touching a feeling heart, never mind how or what it be—it is this that constitutes the richness of life.

Continue to think of some present for me. Is it not exactly those gifts that we do not need that are the most delightful and the only true ones? A sweet gift you have bestowed upon me in the few short words in which you tell me that your mother is fond of me. There is something so soothing in the feeling, that I would not miss it for a great deal.

Farewell, dear friend; God give you strength to bear all that you have still to go through. Seek solace from time to time in the happy thought of how much you are valued and loved.

[CLXXXV.] 27th November, 1802.

… . But it is time that I should speak to you of myself and my, perhaps, self-inflicted paroxysms! You are right, dear friend; you ever speak to me of yourself, and only of yourself. If you could but speak out all that is in you, how happy I should be! Even to that to which I cannot, in fact, say yes, I listen with pleasure, viz., when you flatter me with the assurance that everything in you, even the best of your possessions, your unwavering inward tranquillity, is my work. I know full well that at the most I was only the cause of your looking deeper into yourself, and of your thus acquiring greater self-control, and with this honour I am quite content. The inward state of one human being cannot be the work of another. This can only be said of such qualities as are merely a product of exercise, and in relation to which a new direction given to the thoughts is often decisive, and the friendly attention of a sympathetic soul may be more impartial, more uninterrupted, and more clear-sighted than one’s own. In this way much of what is in me is your work; and how much more would not be so, were I again to live near you! This was one of the pleasant subjects of thought to which I gave myself up on my birthday. Among all the minds that have stimulated mine and contributed to its development, there is not one whose influence on my heart, and on the purer presentment of my inner being, can be compared to yours; and this grateful conviction was the sweetest thought I could indulge in. But I can tell you nothing about this, that I have not already told you, except that each time I feel it with increased vividness and delight. Indeed, what other consolation can I have at this distance from you, than this retrospective and prospective view of the sweet relation in which you have stood, and will again stand, to my life?

Schleiermacher to E. von Willich.

[CLXXXVI.] Stolpe, 8th December, 1802.

Your long silence, dear friend, made me the more uneasy, as I felt convinced that I had mentioned to you when I should be back again. I would now willingly give you a lively and detailed account of Prussia, but I must beg you to rest satisfied with a few hasty lines. Time, and more especially such moments in which I feel desirous of communicating with others, are measured out to me very sparingly, as, independently of various other matters, I am at present buried in the Critical Inquiry, in connection with which I have still to fight many a hard fight.

The first agreeable incident of my journey was making acquaintance in the post-waggon with a pleasant young officer, a nephew of Colonel G——. Then followed a cozy evening with Alexander Dohna, in Dantzig, where he happened to be at that moment on business. Thence I went straight to Königsberg, where I stayed with Wilhelm Dohna, and was a joyful witness of his young married life. In this marriage the right proportions obtain to a degree which is seldom witnessed. There might be hundreds of such marriages; why are there so few? Besides this, I only renewed one interesting acquaintance in Königsberg, that of Professor Kraus, a man of great merit, and who, in consequence of his writing very little, is in the uncommon position of being and knowing a great deal more than the world, at least the world not immediately surrounding him, has any idea of. Statistics are his academical department of knowledge, and in this he combines the purest principles with the most lucid views, and inculcates them with the discreet enthusiasm of a moderate man; but in addition to this he is a mathematician, and as such certainly excels Kästner in profundity and extent of knowledge. At this moment, moreover, he helps to govern the province, as lieutenant of the minister and the president; and in the appointment of the right men to the right places his action is more especially beneficial. The rest of the world there I either did not see at all, or only caught a rapid glance of.

But now come the happy days with the Wedikes, about which, however, there is not much to relate. Of the present times we spoke but little, except of such subjects and persons as Wedike has latterly been immediately interested in, as, for instance, the glorious Novalis, whom, however, W—— confessed that he did not quite understand. This is, indeed, often the case with one mystic in regard to another. The most frequent subjects of our conversations were short accounts of friends and events; and how thoroughly W—— entered into all my friendships; with what freedom from prejudice he adopted Friedrich as well as yourself, Henrietta Herz (inclusive of our “thou”) as well as Mrs. Eichmann! But the life in that house ought to be seen, for it cannot be described; it is the most perfect amalgamation of liberty and love that I have ever witnessed. The same is the case with the children, who, in the midst of this life, develop themselves with a freedom and purity that I have never seen before. In Wedike himself I have discovered nothing new, as, indeed, it was not possible that I should; but his wife I have learnt to know more thoroughly than formerly. Freedom and energy, self-consciousness and modesty, sensibility and firmness in action, are blended in her and make her, in every respect, one of the most distinguished female characters I know. But she bears the penalty in a sickly body, and was confined to her bed when I arrived. However, she got up and kept up the rest of the time.

Schleiermacher to Eleanore G——.

[CLXXXVII.] 10th December, 1802.

Your case is the contrary of mine, dear friend; you will receive my greetings for your birthday on the preceding day. It will be one more added to the series of mournful days which you have lately spent, but as an anniversary it will be distinguished from its predecessors by the feeling, which cannot fail to force itself upon you, that it is the last time that you spend it with one of your dear ones. I also shall think a great deal of this, and I shall feel grieved at not being able to be present to participate in your pains and sorrows. It is a solemn year of your life that you are ending, and so also that which you are commencing. You are ending a year during which you lost the presence of a friend, who feels with mournful pleasure that he was always something to you, and that his presence called forth much that was beautiful in you. You are entering upon a year which will rob you of your dear and tenderly beloved mother. I shall say no more of how much I love you, because of this filial love of yours, and of all the sorrows that it has entailed upon you. But while dwelling on the grave events of the coming year, let us not fail to remember with melancholy pleasure that, in fact, the passing time takes nothing away with it, however much it may seem to do so. You can never, indeed, lose your mother, for even now your sweet love for her, and the image of her which you treasure in your heart, is the only way in which you possess her; and in the same sense—so much so that the same words might almost be used again—you have not either lost me, and I trust that you will remain faithful to our covenant to hold fast eternal youth, and through this to instil fresh youth even into your temporal life; then your soul will, as beseems every phoenix, rise up renewed from out of the purifying fire of sacred sorrows. Thus I hope to see you in the new year of your life, and to show you that I also, remembering my happy fate, have, in spite of many privations and not a few sorrows, remained faithful to the covenant of this day. May you in this year enjoy every happiness that my grateful heart wishes for you! I had thought of a present for you, which I am sure would have given you pleasure. I hoped to be able to obtain in Königsberg Hippel’s earlier literary essays, which are somewhat rare, but I did not succeed, and I have now, therefore, nothing to offer except the few trifles by him and about him, which will be transmitted to you through Jette. I am not very much concerned at the gift being so trifling. When friendly hearts make each other presents, it is the affection which is expressed in giving and in taking (and for which it is so essential to be bodily present) which constitutes the true value of even the costliest gift. But I had nearly forgotten that you will also receive Heinrich von Ofterdingen, at least it is my intention that you should receive it. Accept it even now, as from my hand. A book like this, the monument of a pure and noble mind and heart, which attracts to itself every other heart and mind similarly attuned, and adapts itself to every worthy mood of such, is at any time a valuable possession.

You have not, I think, been misunderstood by me, but you must allow me to continue my little legitimate war against the dead letter. Am I not at present suffering as much from it as the Apostle suffered from Alexander the Smith; for remember I am now really writing the Critical Inquiry. How many dead letters about the most sacred subject, and one so full of life! And now I will waste no more dead letters upon what I have said about them. But even herein I am just, and I have never complained of the dead letter that has been called into life by a woman, but have, on the contrary, always felt and still feel, how much that is beautiful has been bestowed upon me through its mediation.

Same date.

It must have been a most edifying morning that you celebrated with all your dear ones—a morning worthy of your sorrows and your tears! and what a deep impression must it not have made on your gentle and sensitive heart! Certainly, there can be no more beautiful act than this, for taking a calm leave of a beloved soul, and, so to say, closing life; for after this, physical death may come when it will. I might almost say, that if Christ had done nothing more than institute the holy communion, I should have loved Him to adoration.

[CLXXXVIII.] No date.

I had a foreboding, dear friend, that your beloved mother would not live to see this day. In deep mourning it will be spent by you. It will be to you as something new and strange, and well may we wish that it may be followed by others happier than it can possibly be. Even this wish will only glance cursorily through your heart, which will do little else than pronounce funeral sermons, such as the one I have before me now. It is one of the greatest advantages possessed by true men and women, that in all their joys and sorrows though there may be an evanescent element, there is also something indestructible and immortal, which soon makes itself felt and becomes dominant. When the news of my father’s death was to be imparted to me, they took a great many precautions to soften the suddenness of the impression. But how little has this to do with true sorrow, though it plays so great a part in the strange sensibilities of ordinary people. Oh, you are right indeed when you say, that when oppressed by solemn grief, there is nothing that we must avoid so much as the face of man! It is a comfort that kind H—— is going to assist you in keeping visitors off, and may you both on this day at least be saved from every intrusion that would disturb the communion of your filial and sisterly hearts. How many moments will there not be in your future life, in which you will both wish that you could call back the departed spirit to witness your peace and your faith, the blessed fruits of your sorrows and your tears. In this way she will ever remain in the circle of her children, or in the circle of one or other of them, should a time come when they cannot all be gathered together in her name. Nevertheless, at all times, and under all circumstances, the remembrance of her will ever form a point of union for those whom she loved so nobly and so tenderly. Even the disappearance from earth of human beings awakens new powers and new activities, and how much unalloyed gold may not an ingenious human heart draw from the bosom of the earth! … .

[CLXXXIX.] 5th January, 1803.

I am still inclined to maintain that I was never destined to be a writer, because each work so entirely absorbs me at the time that, while it is going on, I dare hardly venture to read anything else or to pour out my heart upon paper on any other subject; and, for this reason, conversation becomes a greater necessity to me than ever. Far from this constant work making me forget my solitude, as might be supposed, it only awakens a more intense longing to exchange the dead letter for the living word.

The Critical Inquiry is also the cause of my having lost the most precious part of my new-year festivities, viz., the delightful task of putting my papers in order, and of transferring the letters received, from the common receptacle in which they are placed during the course of the year, into their separate portfolios. This always leads to a pleasurable dwelling on the occurrences and feelings of the past year, and to a pleasant survey of the whole circle who share thoughts and feelings with me, and thus gives me a holiday in the true sense of the word, only that most generally it turns out to be a night, and this year I have put it off until I shall have completed a further portion of the Critical Inquiry. Will you, perhaps, chide me for allowing this latter to press so hard upon me? Do not do so; I will not, indeed, maintain, as precipitately as Jette would be inclined to do, that it belongs to my nature to proceed in this unwise manner; but, for the present, I do not see the possibility of altering it, because the conviction that I thoroughly understand my subject never comes to me until it is highly urgent that I should get on with the execution. On the other hand, were I not to fix a term for myself, I should, probably, never carry out anything… . .

Schleiermacher to Henrietta Herz.

[CXC.] Stolpe, 26th January, 1803.

Alas! my own Jette, how unexpectedly and suddenly this has come upon you! What a strange, critical period is this, which thus suddenly and violently agitates the life of each of us! I look wistfully into the eye of fate, to try and discover what it may be preparing for us out of all this; but up to this moment not a feature has betrayed the hidden purpose. You are quite right in what you say of earnestness. Everything that touches our life nearly makes us earnest, and death more than anything, and more especially such a death; for Herz’s relations to you and to your life were manifold and strangely complicated. I will not burden you with many observations regarding your confession, that you were prepared for everything: there are serious impressions and effects of accompanying circumstances, for which it is impossible to be prepared, and these are always the first that are felt. Leave them quietly to vindicate their rights. Your real preparation and tranquillity will not be interfered with by them. However, I wish much to be informed how everything happened, and what is stirring in you. Do write to me, as explicitly as you can in the midst of the confusion in which you are living.

Schleiermacher to Eleanore G——.

[CXCI.] March, 1803.

… . You cannot but know in what manifold ways all that you say in your letter has affected me, and how I have recognized you in every act and thought, and almost approved of you throughout. But allow me to touch at once upon a point that in a great measure spoilt my pleasure in your letter, and in regard to which I cannot approve of you, however little it may be an act of your own will. You desire me not to send my letters any longer direct to your house. You see that I obey at once, provisionally, but also unwillingly. You know my principles, dear friend, and you have never wished that I should do anything contrary to them. Now, if this request is based upon a promise, whether it be one that has been forced from you or obtained from you by pressing instances, then it will be contrary to my principles to write to you through any other channel. You know how glad I was always to see you alone, at the time I visited your house publicly, and what a necessary part of our intercourse this seemed to me to be. But you will no doubt also remember how firmly we had determined that, if our open intercourse should ever be broken off, we would never meet anywhere clandestinely or by appointment. In regard to writing, the case seems to me to be exactly the same, and I should even think it indelicate to propose to any one to convey my letters to you, when it could not otherwise than soon become evident that I did not any longer write to you openly and directly. Even if G—— himself should be cognizant of it and wish it to be so, I should be sorry to extend the inconsistency from him to myself or any of my friends. If, then, the matter stand so—and I am sure you will tell me the entire truth in regard to it—then I fear that these will be the last lines that you will for the present receive from me. All observations on the subject I shall refrain from. I cannot help thinking that had you been in health you could not have allowed such a promise to be extorted from you. But under such circumstances, I must say, it is also doubly ungenerous to desire you to do anything of the kind, be it expressed ever so delicately. However, if the case be different, and this request is but a precautionary measure of your own, then I entreat you to consider the matter once more from the point of view I have indicated, before you confirm it. Consider that it would be tantamount to a total interruption of our correspondence in as far as regards my letters to you… . . Reflect, whether any ultimate object which you may hold in view, would be worth such a sacrifice. How I rejoice at being able to give utterance to this proud thought with so much calmness and so much truth! But you, and that which I am to you, and my faith in this, will always be my pride and my joy. For the rest, you know how fully I resign myself to everything that you may do or determine… . . In the worst case I shall always have the consolation of being able to hear from you; you may learn from Jette and others how I am getting on; and it will be a new incitement to me, when speaking publicly to the whole world, to treat such subjects that will allow what I say to be spoken to you in particular also. Or will you further promise not to read what I have published? For the limits of your doing and desisting seem to be constantly contracting. Yet I hope that it will not come to this… …

[CXCII.] March, 1803.

I wish, dear friend, that I had awaited the arrival of your next letter before writing, for I fear that my uncalled-for scruples may have caused you pain and annoyance. It is true that I could not possibly have guessed the matter to be such as it is; but why did I this once fail in my unconditional faith in you. Did I not know that you were acquainted with my principles of action, and that as long as you had any power of reflection, you would not ask me to do anything at variance with them? Now you must rest satisfied with my remorse—which is also a rare phenomenon—and find an excuse for me in circumstances and the present state of my mind.

Schleiermacher to Henrietta Herz.

[CXCIII.] 7th March, 1803.

… . Only think, Spalding sent me not long ago a poem addressed “To a Noble Thinker;” it pleased me very much, and, half in joke and half in earnest, I wrote to him that I was bold enough to apply parts to myself. Now I read in a letter from Heindorff the following: “What do you say to Spalding’s poem upon you?” It had never entered my head to think that, prosaic as I am, any one could ever write a poem on me. You will now again say that I am modest, and yet it is not that.

Schleiermacher to E. von Willich.

[CXCIV.] 1st April, 1803.

Accept my greetings, my dear friend, on occasion of your entrance into your new vocation, and my welcome as a brother in a new sense. It is now just nine years since I also, on a Good Friday, performed the first duties of my office. Since then my profession has become ever dearer to me, even in its obscure character and its unfortunate relations to the spirit of the present times; and, I believe, that were I obliged to renounce it, I should feel still deeper grief at all that I have now lost. To be thus attached to it, it is indeed necessary to rise above all mere outward, individual, and petty adjuncts to it, which will otherwise always be causing disagreeable interruptions—to labour constantly, and without diverging to the one side or the other, for the chief object, and ever to hold in view the ideal of our relation to the world, so that we may live and act accordingly. No doubt this is your feeling also; and if it be so, all that is great and beautiful in your vocation will ever appear to you in grander proportions and in a clearer light. Let us frequently, as it beseems friends, interchange our observations and experiences in reference to this. My heartiest wishes accompany you; and I rejoice in the happy auspices under which you commence your new career.

Schleiermacher to Henrietta Herz.

[CXCV.] Stolpe, 25th May, 1803.

… . Why am I to arrange it so that Reimer shall bring his wife to see you? Why cannot you prefer the request quite simply on the first occasion that presents itself? I dare say, indeed, that this will have taken place even before I write to Reimer. The wife will please you when you have become more intimately acquainted with her. Hers is a very childlike nature, but not that shallow, empty innocence of which I have not a very high opinion, as you are aware; for in her there is much depth. Do me the favour to make this acquaintance without my mediation; it would really give me great pleasure… . Only fancy that, having an opportunity the other day, when Spalding inquired of me whether I had really written a book that has been erroneously attributed to me, I confessed to him that I was the author of the letters on the Lucinda. I wonder what he will say to them. I read them again on this occasion, and cannot tell you how I felt. I have advanced so far in intimacy with him that I should like to get farther still, and my faith in his faith in me makes me bold. B——, in Königsberg, has now entered into a regular correspondence with me; and thus I have, to a certain degree, acquired an addition to my staff! Alas! it is all of no use! I believe, were even Jacobi at this moment to become suddenly my friend, I should hardly feel any joy at it. Nothing gives me pleasure! I seek for it but in vain. But I have laid a plan, dear Jette, which must, I think, give you pleasure: I feel that it will be necessary for me to make a little excursion this summer, in order to regain my elasticity; but to Berlin I cannot go; as long as matters remain as they are now, I could not bear to be there… … …

[CXCVI.] 10th June, 1803.

… . I was in wretched spirits yesterday, and was already pondering upon how I should arrange my sick room. To-day I am quite well, and cannot, in the least, understand my mood of yesterday. My work progresses tolerably, yet not with sufficient rapidity. The beautiful things in the second volume of Novalis (which I have only just received), I do not even venture to look at, though at times I stand greatly in need of something that will raise the pitch of my mind higher than it is raised by the dry Critical Inquiry into Ethics. Alas, it is a miserable thing to write a book, but more especially such a book; never in my life will I do it again! I really believe, that during the whole time that I have been engaged upon it, I have not had one clever thought, nought but critical shavings. The only fun about it is when I think of how vexed Fichte will be; how much more deeply still I shall sink in his esteem; and how A. W. Schlegel will turn up his nose at its being so very little, and because he cannot discover even the least bit of Schellingianismus in it; and how the old gentlemen will wonder at my having turned out such a sober and profound critic, and will wait to see whether I shall survive the change. Nevertheless, they will soon find out that I am still the same mystic as ever.

Long letters to Friedrich and Dorothea I have commenced; God knows when they will be finished. To E—— and W—— I should also like to write, but I do not see how I shall find the time. The waters are closing above my head, as King David would say. Do you know the sensation of being under water and unable to breathe? Well, it is exactly like that.

To-morrow and the day after I shall, in addition to all the rest, be obliged to go into company. Since Tuesday I have remained quietly at home, more solitary than you; alas, much more solitary! Be kind, and strong, and calm, and write to me as often as you can.

Later.

It is accomplished, dear Jette—she has given me up; she has acted as you thought; but as I, after all her later expressions, could not believe that she would. It is well that I have written the enclosed letter, which you will transmit to her, in the first mild season of my emotion. Now I could no longer write thus. Yesterday evening, when going to bed, I stood undressed, with my hands resting on the table, for two entire hours; then it came over me in all its bitterness. But, unhappy woman, how she will be upbraided for this! She feels already that it is gnawing at her life, and that she will soon die. I could indeed wish that she might die before me; for, were she to hear of my death, she would be seized by remorse in a new form. But she must make haste, for grief and toil will soon turn to poison for me also. As yet I have thought but little of myself, but when I do so, a cold shudder comes over me. What is to become of me? … . Here the ground seems to burn under my feet, and I shudder at the thought of the loveless, useless life of a bachelor, equally offensive to God and to man. I must attach myself to some domestic circle; I must help to form a family, and to educate children. Here there are none to whom I could thus attach myself. I long to go back to Berlin: there I could also follow out more perfectly the poor vocation of a scholar; yea, poor indeed it seems to me, when the spice of love is wanting—when the beloved of the heart is not seen moving among the books and the papers.

If she should not avoid you, dear Jette—if she should seek you—as you love me, be kind and gentle towards her; open your arms to her, let her breathe out her deep sorrows in your bosom, and revenge not upon her the indescribable misery she has inflicted upon your friend. Yes, dear Jette, when we shall stand together upon the rock overlooking the sea, you will have at your side an unhappy creature to whom, were it not for you and a few more human hearts, the whole earth would be as barren and as empty as the main below… . . I can write no more, dear friend, I am dissolved in tears and sighs. Woe is me, and it is but morning! Continue to be my consolation and my support; hold fast by me as long as you can, and however high the storm may swell. Could you but be something to her also,—to her who will be a thousand times more unhappy than I am!

[CXCVII.] Stolpe, 21st June, 1803.

At last, dear Jette, I am so fortunate as to have two long letters from you before me. If I but knew what to begin with, for there is so much to say in answer. But I cannot do better than begin with yourself, for that is the most important. If I am to say, first of all, in reference to yourself, that which is the farthest removed from all good sense, I must say that it actually strikes me as harmonious that you also should have derived internal suffering from the dreadful blow which has fallen upon us all. There is such a sweet unison with my feelings in the spirit of the words, “When I turn my thoughts inwardly, I am ever inclined to weep,” and “it is to me as if I could never again be what I was,” that I have actually felt a gratification in reading them; and, indeed, is there not great similarity in the source of our feelings? But, dear Jette, how can you pretend to think that I know nothing of what it is to lose the beloved object by death? Is my loss, then, not greater than if caused by death? I can assure you that my feelings would be much calmer had I lost Eleanore by death. It is true I should even then feel that my life had become superfluous, and I should wish for death the same as now; but, nevertheless, it would be different. My life would, at least, have a character until death ensued, which it cannot have now. True widowerhood gives a character of sweet sadness to life, which may be full of expression. At present, on the contrary, my life is utterly meaningless, unsettled, and worthless. But, see, instead of speaking of you, I am speaking of myself. But here I am, back with you again. For it is exactly this that I wanted to say to you, and you must not understand it as something coming entirely from the head, for the whole soul is interested in it. You must endeavour as speedily as possible to give a character to your life, and not only a speculative character, such as is derived from your Greek and other scientific studies, but a thoroughly practical character. You must propose definite objects to yourself, and trace out a sphere of activity for yourself. As far as this I really got while I was at Berlin. I knew exactly what I desired to be to the various persons with whom I lived, and in a great measure I attained my object. Only you must take care not to bring into play any despotic means—towards the use of which you have some tendency—but that which you wish to be to others must be in accordance with their own wishes, that is to say, in accordance with their best and highest wishes in respect to themselves.

Regarding your tendency to despotism, I found to-day in my memorandum book the following reflections: “The desire to guide and govern men is a very deep and strong-rooted defect. Latterly I have again observed it in Jette, and she could not even see that it was wrong. From this fault I am sure I am quite free.” I do not now recollect on what occasion this was written, but no doubt I have spoken to you about it, if not at the time, at all events later. To-day and yesterday I have, upon the whole, lived a great deal among my papers, and have made some distichs, which I send you herewith. If you think them worth the trouble, give them to Brinkmann when an opportunity offers, and beg him to correct them. You will see from these that I am still able to pronounce mirthful words, and if you have heard none from me, it is only accidental. But, dear Jette, why should that give you such particular pleasure? All mirth is as superficial as A——‘s smile when he is sleepy or tired, and which you imitate so admirably. As for my having grown fat, don’t believe a word of it. I can assure you my health is most wretched: pains in the chest, spasms in the stomach, headaches and backache, are my constant companions, and render the little life that remains in me quite worthless, so that frequently, out of sheer despair at my inability to think or to work, I go to the club and play away a great deal of my money. I spare neither the quinine, nor the stimulating drinks, nor any other precautionary or auxiliary measures against the probable rheumatic origin of these evils, brought on by the high sea winds which we are enduring; but all are equally in vain. The Critical Inquiry suffers not a little under this; during a whole fortnight I have been drudging at the first section of the third book, and cannot get through it. I have often admired Reimer’s patience and self-control.

For ever, I suppose, I shall not remain in Stolpe, dear Jette, but probably as long as I live. Had I had the least foreboding of the dreadful misfortune that has befallen me, I would have endeavoured to get that place at Erlangen, and perhaps I might thus have satisfied my longing for the banks of the Rhine. Now I shall probably remain here, and I already know the vault in which my corpse will be deposited; and here, dear Jette, you will never pay me a visit, except that last promised one. My horrid housekeeping grows every day more intolerable, and if I could but afford it I would ask my eldest stepsister to come and live with me, but I have not the means. In my good hours I sketch for distant times the plans of dialogues, of tales (not yet of a novel), and of a comedy upon the subject of Fichte, but which I fear will never be finished or published. Good night, dear Jette, it is midnight. More to-morrow morning… … The Bride of Messina I know partially from the Freimüthige,⁵ and from what I know I suspect that there must be many defects. The choruses are written in the same monstrous northern metre as is used in Schiller’s ballads, and that is intolerable. They ought either to be canzones or quite antique. Are they not going to bring Goethe’s Eugenia on the stage? Why have you not said a word about the Spanish drama? The two comic dramas have afforded me great enjoyment; they are real pendants to Shakspeare, so brilliant and full of life, and yet so different; but the Worship of the Cross I have not been able to enjoy— this side of Catholicism is evidently too gross for poetry. Do try soon to read in Greek Plato’s Banquet; I read it again a few days ago, and again it made a mighty impression on me, although that heretical Friedrich will not allow that it is authentic. The proof against your capacity for writing, which you have borrowed from your journal, makes me laugh. If it be correct, the journal will be an excellent help. For do not you see, dear Jette, that what I wish is, that by writing new powers shall be developed in you, and if you wrote perfectly I could not entertain this wish. Only have faith in me and follow my advice. What you write must, however, be as subjective as possible; a representation of your views and sentiments. At least this ought to be your chief aim, though for the sake of exercise you may begin with the objective.

Every letter that Spalding writes makes him dearer to me. He hopes to meet you in Charlottenburg this summer. Do your best that this may be realized.

[CXCVIII.] Stolpe, 9th July, 1803.

… . . Your journal I will read while you are in Dresden… … During your first visit there the gallery was too new to you; this time you will be able to receive more definite impressions, and among other things I wish that you would compare the essay in the Athenæum entitled “The Paintings,” and the sonnets belonging to it, with the paintings themselves, and let me know whether you think there is any similarity in the character and in the impression produced. This kind of translation is of essential importance to me in regard to my theory, and I am anxious to know how it has succeeded. Study also with much attention Friedrich’s “Thoughts on Painting,” in the Europa, and more particularly the observations on Raphael and Correggio. When you have done this, I will try to bring my thoughts on the subject into some kind of order, and communicate them to you. I have at last got hold of Delphine, and have read the first three volumes. As regards women I have learnt nothing new from it, and I cannot conceive how you can think that it contains many of the mysteries of your sex. Do explain to me what you mean. Or is it that I know you so well, that there are no more mysteries to me? The only male character that is well depicted is Serbellane; Mondoville is repugnant to me; there is no consistency in him. I am endeavouring to brush up my French in reading Delphine; but there are several things in the book that seem to me not to be correct. The expression mauvaise tête appears to be a new French idea; and I cannot say that I quite understand the meaning. For Bonaparte’s prohibition of the book I cannot find the shadow of a pretext in these three volumes. There are some very fine scenes, but what I like the best are a few stray thoughts for which I should never have given a Frenchwoman credit.

As for my visit to Stolpemünde and the sea-baths, I do not as yet know whether it will take place. During two months at least I have been suffering from constant pains in my chest, so that I have at length been obliged to consult a doctor. For the present he has ordered”a blister, and if that does not help he speaks of carbonic acid, from which I conclude that he suspects, as I do, that there is a tendency to disease of the lungs. Would that it were so! But I cannot, as yet, flatter myself that it is so, for I have not the slightest cough, and that makes me think that the seat of the evil may be elsewhere. Are you angry with me because I joyfully welcome a consumption? Be not so! Verily, it is not from want of love, but it is the conviction that with my nature I must sink into a mere nothing in my present place of abode, and I am sure that it would give you and all my friends more pain to see a wreck of me survive my higher life, than to see me die. If I could live near you, or anywhere else where I could get nourishment for my soul, I would willingly bear life. But only see how, for sheer want of inward capacity, I go on working ever at this Critical Inquiry without getting through it, and it seems to me that every sheet that I write is worse than the foregoing; is not this intolerable? If I had but something less scientific to do, something that would require more inner life, I would rejoice in it. The Bride of Messina, for instance, I should like to review, if it were published; it would give me an opportunity of pouring out many of my thoughts… . .

[CXCIX.] Stolpe, 30th July, 1803.

… . . I now hope to conclude the Critical Inquiry next week. A. W. Schlegel, from whom I have had a friendly letter, thinks that the remarks on Fichte and Kant, in the Critical Inquiry, are somewhat too light in tone, and that I ought to have given them a more esoteric character. Frivolous or light I do not think they are; and, as regards their not being sufficiently esoteric, the writers are not sacred enough in my eyes to induce me to treat them in that style. It is only when blaming Spinoza and Plato that I have been very esoteric; and those who have not good eyes will see no blame at all. Otherwise, Wilhelm says many flattering things about it. From Friedrich, I presume, he does not hear, as he asks me for accounts of him. I have now finished Delphine. I have seen nothing new about women in it, and, upon the whole, I think that any man who has loved truly, and who is not deprived of the use of his two eyes, knows everything about them, or, at all events, must find it very easy to draw conclusions from the known to the unknown. The men are not well drawn. M. de Lebensai bears some resemblance to me; I should be equally clever and prudent in political relations, in which alone these qualities are called for. Mondoville is thoroughly inconsistent, not on account of his perverse principles of honour, but on account of his vehemence, which ought either to be more equably diffused through his whole character and all his actions, or, if meant merely to be erotic, ought to have been brought out differently. The tragic parts are as good as any to be found in any French tragedy, which is, indeed, not saying much. The same may be said of the moral principles, which, in Frenchmen, are very noble, but in us would be very ignoble. Upon the whole, it is a rule that holds good of all French books, with the exception of one very limited class, which is thoroughly national, that a German cannot help regarding them with contempt.

From Mrs. Eichmann I have not yet had a line; but each interchange of letters with Spalding gives me new pleasure. I do not, indeed, discover anything new in him, and the limits of our concord remain the same as always; but he learns to understand me better and better, and more especially the best in me, my character. And his refinement and purity of feeling, his candour, his willingness to withhold judgment in regard to what appears strange to him, are rare and uncommonly beautiful phenomena… . .

Be persuaded, dear Jette, that my spirit at least is most decidedly in a consumption; I dwindle away visibly, from day to day. Having this conviction, why do I not die? Cowardice it is not, but something not much better, a faint glimmer of childish hope, which often flashes upon me from afar. To live with and for Eleanore, be the time ever so far distant, I would bear this wretched life much longer.

[CC.] Stolpe, 2nd August, 1803.

To-day I will finish the conclusion of the Critical Inquiry, but a great misfortune has happened to me in regard to it, which I cannot account for. The conclusion which I had drawn up in my mind has entirely escaped my memory, and for three whole days I have been torturing myself in vain to recall it; I shall thus for ever remain in the reader’s debt, and the end will not be worthy of the whole. Can you tell me how it is possible thus completely to lose a thought, and one that holds no isolated position, but is in close and necessary connection with all the rest? Is not this a kind of insanity? For the rest, in reading it over again it pleases me better than I expected, and better than, as a general rule, my writings please me, immediately after they are finished. The first book only, taken as a whole, is somewhat obscure, and I almost feel inclined to recast it; in many other parts also there are separate passages which are difficult to understand, and in regard to which the reader is called upon to supplement more than any one has a right to expect from him. However, with the method, with the composition, and, upon the whole, with the style also, I am pleased. But I will not rest long with my hand on the plough, looking back, but begin at once upon Plato; indeed, I have already commenced reading various matters which will be required for the general introduction. I am not surprised that Friedrich should not have got through Plato and Parmenides in three years, though I believe, if my mind were quite collected, I could accomplish the task in three months, but on a smaller scale. I am willing to work to the utmost of my powers; this is all that is left to me. The announcement of the publication of Plato, which, owing to circumstances, was somewhat difficult to draw up, you will probably not see until you come upon it in print in some newspaper or other.

Schleiermacher to E. von Willich.

[CCI.] Stolpe, 10th August, 1803.

Here, dear friend, are the Monologues for your lady friend; it is the only copy that remains in my hands, and more elegant ones are not to be had. Why did she not tell me at once that she felt sympathy not only with my inner being, but also with my fate? Perhaps she did not know whether I would approve of your having communicated so much to her. In ordinary life we cannot indeed be too careful in speaking of the affairs of other people; and, consequently, also in treating as unheard every communication received. But in friendship it ought to be exactly the reverse. Friendship imparts to every one the proper tact, and the rare but sweet moments during which unlimited confidence, even as regards a third person, is allowed, and during which a new link may be added to the chain of friends, ought to be troubled by no prudential calculations. Man is so little, and effects so little in the world, that in the right places he ought to give himself up entirely and unconditionally, if he can produce anything, be it only a fleeting but pleasant emotion in a noble heart.

If it were only the empty and senseless difference between Reformed and Lutheran that hindered me from living in your neighbourhood, and in the delightful circle that would exercise such a beneficent influence on me, it would, indeed, be provoking. But, my dear friend, even if this were not, my removal to Rügen would, nevertheless, be impracticable. However, should I live, which my present state of health renders very doubtful, something must be done to free me from this place. Some one whom I love I must have near me, or I shall pine away; it is too repugnant to my nature to be alone; and I must also have some one with whom I can philosophize and study. I ought to be able to master my fate so far as to bring this about. As soon as I have formed a decided opinion in regard to my health, I will take the matter seriously in hand, although it will be quite a new undertaking to me.

Have you read Madame de Stael’s Delphine? Madame de Stael, though hardly a real Frenchwoman, and possessing considerable knowledge of foreign peoples, is perhaps the highest standard of measure of the susceptibility of the French nation for what belongs to man’s inner being. Altogether, there is much more in her book than I had expected; but, it is evident, that she is not conscious of it herself, but speaks it out in the simplicity of her heart.

Schleiermacher to Charlotte von Kathen.

[CCII.] Stolpe, 10th August, 1803.

You have gratified me exceedingly by your most kind advances, and by your friendly endeavours to afford me some compensation for the frustrated hope of my journey to Rügen. I did fondly hope that the life with our friend, and the delightful circle into which he meant to introduce me, would have done much to animate my drooping spirits. That you form a prominent member of that circle, kind Charlotte, you know, and it has given me great pleasure to hear from yourself how right I was in reckoning upon you also. But, perhaps, it is as well that I should have been prevented from going at present. Undoubtedly, I should have found much affection, and have responded to it; but I should also have caused pain to all those who wish me well; and, though I am willing to believe that friends would fain suffer with me, I think that this is not in general the best way of commencing a more intimate connection.

Accept also my thanks for the circuitous route you have made to obtain the Monologues from me. Like every good work, this one bore its reward within itself. You have caused me once more, after a long interval, to look at myself in this mirror, and I am shocked to behold myself so enfeebled and altered by sorrow, in the short space of time during which I have been forced, in violation of the essential laws of my nature, to live without the presence of a single friend. I have taken courage to stop myself in the path of destruction; your voice also has had an invigorating effect upon me, and the joyful remembrance of my having called forth much that is beautiful in others, has made me feel anew the duty not to neglect that which I may still effect in the course of a life, that will probably not be of long duration. It is with a joyful feeling that I have glanced over the pages of the copy of the Monologues, which I send you herewith. It must have been my good genius that impelled me to depict myself, or rather my aspirations, the innermost law of my life, in this manner. How much do I not owe to this little book! how many an amiable heart it has drawn towards and attached to me! and, perhaps, I have facilitated for many an individual the task of looking into himself and others. You likewise authorise me to rejoice in this consciousness when I think of you; and a joy it is, though it may be no merit. For every human being only finds himself through himself; everything that comes from without is merely impulsion, and at the propitious moment any other might have served as well, But we have a right to rejoice in that which we thus effect by the unpremeditated action of our being on the free development of others, and derive from it consolation for the fact that the most of what we designedly endeavour to effect by the exertion of our powers, proves a failure. Do you not feel this in regard to the education of your children?

Continue to keep me in loving remembrance, and let me from time to time hear a friendly word from your noble heart. The year that must go its round, before I can look towards Rügen, is a long and uncertain one; but should the delightful period really come about, we shall by that time have become more intimate friends.

Schleiermacher to Eleanore G——.

[CCIII.] 20th August, 1803.

Jette has returned from Dresden and will remain this year with her sister in Prenzlow. This has recalled vividly to my mind the remembrance of my stay at that place and the first delightful days of Willich’s and my friendship. A lady friend of Willich’s whom I had learnt to know through his letters, and who was looking forward with pleasure to seeing me this summer, wrote to ask me for the Monologues, which she desired to receive from myself… . To-morrow I reckon upon writing the last two or three pages of the Critical Inquiry into the existing Systems of Ethics, and then this debt also will be paid. This book is my gravestone, but no one knows it—a remnant of the happy past, but which bears no trace of what it belonged to. I have again taken a new obligation upon myself, viz., to continue alone the translation of Plato, Schlegel having left me in the lurch. Thus with every prospect of a speedy death before me, I begin a work which will at least require ten years of life. But it seems to me that this is right. Just as man ought to do nothing because of death, so also he ought to leave nothing undone, because of death… . .

Schleiermacher to Henrietta Herz.

[CCIV.] Stolpe, 31st August, 1803.

Allow me, dear Jette, to bid you welcome to Berlin, or rather to Charlottenburg, in a short note, and also to thank you for your long and interesting letter. I am delighted to see the confidence you feel in your own appreciation of art. You will and ought to visit Dresden repeatedly, in order to develop it more and more. I wish fate would allow me some time in my life to try how matters stand with me in this respect; for as yet I cannot venture to decide whether I really have any disposition for art, or whether what I feel in regard to it is but a part of my theory, like so many other things in me. Everything else that I have first acquired in this way, or that has come into my consciousness in this way, has subsequently attained greater vividness; but I doubt whether this would be the case with art… . .

[CCV.] Stolpe, 27th September, 1803.

… . . Some of the miseries of my journey I must narrate to you. As I knew that I should not be able to work, and I did not know whether I should meet the amiable and excellent wife of the colonel in Marienfeld, I had taken nothing with me but a thick book for reading—that is to say, I intended to take it—but very wisely forgot to do so. In Rummelsburg, where I stopped for the night, I found a very polite major with his wife, who had given me a general invitation to their house; but I was too lazy to dress, and preferred remaining at the inn, where I read through the first three volumes of a very old and dirty copy of Rinaldo Rinaldini.⁶ Now, I ought to have taken the three remaining volumes with me to Marienfeld in case of need, but I had not sense enough to do that; and as I found no one there but the bailiff, with whom it is impossible to talk, I spent two days and a half in exercising the art of traversing every square of the chess-board with the knight, and noting down upon paper the various manners of doing so. On my way back I was rejoicing at the thought of the three remaining volumes of Rinaldo Rinaldini; but meeting an acquaintance from Stolpe at the inn, I was obliged to go with him to the above-named major’s. Now the half of Rinaldo is wanting in my head, and I am almost inconsolable. However, the last afternoon in Marienfeld a few thoughts really did come to me, and I wrote some distichs of an elegy. I also sketched the plan of four more elegies, which would certainly be very good and produce a great sensation if I could but write them as I have planned them. But, in my case, it is with poetry as with music. Inwardly, I can not only sing divine things that I have heard, but also compose such; but when I open my mouth, those who hear me, as you know, are tempted to run away. To make verses I may learn, but never to write poetry… .

Schleiermacher to E. von Willich.

[CCVI.] Stolpe, 19th October, 1803.

It is very long since I wrote to you, dear friend, though I know not how it has happened. I have, it is true, made a little business journey, since I received your last, and latterly I have been so miserable, and have had such dreadful headaches, that I was obliged to be quite idle during a whole week, and had a hard struggle not to take to my bed, which at other times I dislike so much. Heaven knows how I shall get through the winter in this abominable climate and in my damp house. At present all my strength, which is indeed not great, is spent upon Plato, a far more delightful work than the Critical Inquiry. But the preliminary studies require great efforts, and unfortunately all auxiliary means for bringing the matter into such a state as I desire fail me. This is also a serious trial. Not long ago I felt so well disposed, that I sat down to sketch the plan of a jocose dialogue on the dispute in the Literary Gazette; but immediately afterwards I was seized with such a paroxysm of grief, that mirth and earnestness were alike impossible.

The Mr. Müller whom you mention, wrote, a few years ago, a paper against Fichte’s Commercial State, which gave me no favourable opinion of him, because it bore evidence of a tremendous amount of arrogance, which was based upon nothing; and such empty impertinence, in a young fellow, towards a man like Fichte is most disagreeable to me. Arguments need not quail before authority; but the authority ought to make one suspicious of one’s arguments, at least in so far as to render it evident, from the tone in which they are delivered, that he who puts them forward is aware that a great deal may be said against them. How anybody can agree with me and Novalis, and yet disagree with Schlegel, I cannot either conceive! For what Novalis has in common with me, we both have in common with Schlegel. But we shall see what the young man will do further, and how he will work himself out of this.

Schleiermacher to Henrietta Herz.

[CCVII.] Stolpe, 21st November, 1803.

Yes, dear Jette, your little note did arrive in time to greet me on this my birthday, and that in the early morning. This, together with a still shorter one from B——, was the first event of the day. My answer, however, is but the last evening salutation before the close of the day, because I was obliged to tear myself away from the feeling of my misery. The most unhappy year of my life has been brought to a close; but what can all those that follow be, but the continuation of this? only made more bearable by that beneficent puerility in human nature, which allows time to blunt and wear out every impression, and which would, with me more particularly, be the case, were I to follow your advice, to bear but not to struggle. Take back this advice, dear Jette. It is not your knowledge of me, but only your wishes for me, that have prompted it. For me there is no other way of bearing than by struggling; every other would be nothing more than moody despair. I cannot bear my present misfortune without hope, and mere hope without action is the hope of a fool. I must struggle to be able to hope, and I must hope to be able to bear.

Schleiermacher to E. von Willich.

[CCVIII.] Stolpe, 26th November, 1803.

It has not been possible for me, dear friend, to thank you sooner for your explicit and affectionate letter; even now you must not expect an answer, for I am up to my ears in work, and must to-day send an instalment of Platonic manuscript to Reimer. Your letter gives me such a vivid impression of what my life will be among you and yours, that I would willingly overleap all the intervening time between this and then, were there only not so much work to be done in the interval. But for the present, at least, I will overlook this, and enjoy in prospect the cheerful and joyous days you depict. A very long stay you must not reckon upon, for I shall hardly be able to afford to travel post, and shall therefore be pretty long on the road; nevertheless, if we manage well, and make the best use of our time, it will be a great enjoyment. For you are right, dear friend; it is a very essential matter in friendship to have participated in each other’s daily life: without this we can form no living and perfect image of a person. I trust I shall not fall ill while among you; for that would indeed be unfortunate, as my illness is generally serious; but nevertheless I shall require your care, as you will see that even in health there is that in me which wants nursing. If it be possible, I should like also to see you exercising the duties of your office, and in the pulpit.

About the Critical Inquiry I have as yet heard very little, only that it is generally said that I have treated Kant and Fichte very ill, and that some people fear it will cause great scandal. Do tell me your opinion on this point. I flattered myself that I had done all possible honour to Fichte; but, as I did not wish to propound my own system, I was of course obliged to point out all in which, according to my my opinion, he fails. But that some persons should find that I have made him ridiculous, puzzles me, for I cannot conceive how such a result can have been attained without the slightest intention of producing it.

You express a wish that I may soon be able to complete the translation of Plato in peace; dear friend, there can be no question of this within five or six years at least, even should everything go well. Farewell. I hope soon to be able to write more and better.

Schleiermacher to Charlotte von Kathen.

[CCIX.] Stolpe, 26th November, 1803.

Our Willich writes me, dear friend, that you are suffering in health; this grieves me the more, as the present time of the year is most unfavourable for bodily ailments. I also have suffered much since the beginning of the autumn, and I believe that those who picture to themselves my solitary state, devoid of all the aids of friendship, cannot but feel pity for me. However, I can endure a great deal of physical pain, and have often wished that I could take it from suffering friends, and, happily, I was able to struggle through without being obliged to take to my bed, or to neglect my professional duties. When the evil is of a kind that will permit of mental exertion to keep it under, this exertion is in itself often a better remedy than any medicine. It seems to me no more than just that persons like myself should have to bear more than their proportionate share of physical suffering. For nothing that surrounds them suffers by it, and death, appearing in the background, may be a pleasant sight to them, and fill them with yearning towards itself. To a housewife and a mother, however, death cannot appear thus, and, therefore, she ought to be healthy. This reminds me of a painfully happy meeting which I enjoyed last spring. I was in the house of the sister of an intimate friend, whom I may also, in a certain sense, call a friend, but whom I had not seen nor had much direct intercourse with for ten years. I had known her only as a girl, and saw her again as a mother. A few months previously she had lost a daughter; one lovely, healthy, and lively child still remained to her, and she expected another, yet she was full of longing for death. I cannot describe to you how melancholy that made me feel. Yet melancholy is not the right word, for there was something disagreeable in the impression which I received. Was I right to feel thus? Blessed are they who have children! They need crave for no other immortality than that which they enjoy.

No woman, dear Charlotte, has ever given such pure expression to my ideas of education as you have. You may imagine that this has rendered you still dearer to me. In truth, in as far as regards the inner life of children—and this is true of all children, do not therefore with maternal partiality think that it is so of yours alone—there is nothing to be done but to look on and to prevent them from being disturbed; and then again to allow them to witness the effects of love and the rule of reason in the life that surrounds them. Those who do not turn out well in this way cannot, I think, be educated into goodness, or driven out of badness in any other way. The better feelings which we derive from living in this manner with young minds, is surely fully worth the empty fancies that look upon everything good in man as the work of education—fancies which, according to the principle that underlies them, in fact destroy all higher consciousness.

My unhappy fate, with which you sympathize so heartily, weighs particularly heavy upon me during this season. This is a time in which the saddest memories force themselves upon me. My life here is not empty, though I am very solitary. I follow a vocation which I may say I love almost enthusiastically, I have occupations which give me the consciousness that it is not my fault if I am not useful, and many kind and noble hearts are attached to me. But the aim of my life has been displaced, and all these treasures torture me, because I feel of how little avail they are to me; and then when I think of her who has not one of these consolations, and who has not only lost me, but who has destroyed herself as well, I feel as if I could die from grief. Farewell, dear friend.

Schleiermacher to Henrietta Herz.

[CCX.] Stolpe, 7th December, 1803.

I have received by the post to-day the melancholy intelligence of the dangerous illness of the good Heindorff. It is a strange feeling that comes over us, dear Jette, when we contemplate the approaching death of one who has been in any degree dear to us. On reflection, however, I find that the feelings thus awakened bear no general character, but are different in the different cases. It is, therefore, not the death itself, nor the contemplation of our loss, which is the principal exciting cause of these feelings, but the relation in which the dying person at his death stands to the fulfilment of his destination. Thinking as I do, it is this that will ever affect me the most. Can you not conceive that this has confirmed me very much in the idea which has taken strong possession of me, that I shall die as soon as Plato is completed? For this is a debt which I have taken upon myself, and which I must first pay. Not that I am so sadly presumptuous as to think that I myself shall then be complete; on the contrary, it is the still sadder conviction that, in the condition in which I now am, I shall never attain greater perfection. If, therefore, all of you who love me will look at death from my point of view—and my death you should at least view thus—it ought not to make a very gloomy impression upon you, but ought to appear to you as something quite right and just. For there is nothing that calls for deeper pity than to see a human being existing in vain, and he who does not progress, but is petrified and forced to remain what he was, verily he exists in vain, not only as regards himself, but also as regards others.

[CCXI.] Stolpe, 17th December, 1803.

… . Again, we disagree in our theory of life, or we do not understand each other. I, for my part, do not place great value on the useful. If we consider life to be nothing more than what man effects in and upon the great mass, then indeed it is not worth our while to live. In this sense, however, there would be little difference between your life and mine; they are both insignificant. But I understand human nature to be a necessary stage of spiritual life, and viewed from this side no human being is insignificant who has in him something peculiar, which represents human nature from a new side. Such individuals are we both, you as well as I. You will not surely be so modest as to maintain that you are only part of the mass, and not a substantive being, and I shall not stand upon ceremony as regards myself. But every life is a constant coming forth; there must be no stagnation; it must advance in uninterrupted development. Now to the fulfilment of this your essential destiny, no obstacle has been raised; you have the same means towards its attainment as you ever had, and perhaps some impediments have even been taken out of your path. I have played the desperate game of placing everything on one card, to win or to lose, and I have lost; what remains to me? You tell me that I may yet be useful, but that is nothing, nothing to me. If you can convince me that I may yet progress, then certainly I shall not wish to die. But even my being able to be useful, is very questionable. You cannot help seeing that people are on their guard against, or repel, everything that I do. This, as you know, does not make me swerve from my path, nor does it embitter my life; but under such circumstances I cannot possibly attach great weight to my usefulness.

Göthe’s Lieder Almanach is as yet as unknown to me as his Eugenia. The songs of the Minnesingers you must not read with the idea that they are supposed to be better than our present poetry, but you must look upon them from a historical point of view, to the choice of which Tieck has furnished a very good guide. I think that when you do this, and endeavour to realize the times, they will awaken a stronger feeling of interest in you, though they may not exactly amuse you.

Schleiermacher to E. von Willich.

[CCXII.] Stolpe, 28th January, 1804.

I hardly know, dear friend, if I ought to write to you during the present unsettled state of my affairs; yet were I to postpone until everything is settled, you might be too long without accounts of me. As your correspondence with Mrs. Herz does not seem to be very lively, I do not know whether you are aware of what is going on, viz., that I have most unexpectedly received through P—— the offer of an appointment as professor of practical theology at the University of Würzburg. Everything concurs to induce me to accept it. From Berlin, they write me that I have nothing to expect from that quarter, although there is no reason to doubt the good-will of the ministry towards me. But certain persons have succeeded in prejudicing the Privy Councillor Beyme very much against me; and without him, nothing can be done. As regards the appointment in Königsberg, everything is still doubtful; and the prospect of remaining here or of receiving in time a more lucrative living, but not a more favourable sphere of activity, is too bad. Würzburg, on the contrary, has many attractions in my eyes, and my isolation there will be more apparent than real, as from thence I shall have greater facilities for making little excursions.

They are anxious that I should enter upon the professorship as early as Easter; but this I have very strenuously resisted, and I hope that they will yield to my reasons. If so, I trust nothing will prevent my visit to Rügen, which I look forward to with an intensity of desire which you can hardly realize. You may conceive in what a state of mind I shall be until this matter is settled.

I have lately received, through a third person, a very excellent opinion upon my Critical Inquiry, by Scheffer, of Königsberg, an intimate friend of the late Hippel, and a very clever man. As yet, he is only the second person that I feel sure has read the work with close attention, and the judgments of both are very gratifying to me. Scheffer is also an old friend of Kant; nevertheless, he says that although no one has everyet been so hard upon Kant, no one, on the other hand, has treated him with so much consideration. Fichte has distinctly declared that he will never read the book. This is quite in accordance with his system; for he always believes he knows in advance what others say, and does not think much of it. In a scientific garb, my own system will probably not appear so soon, but I may possibly be obliged to put it forward in the form of Christian ethics, already in the first half-year of my professorial career at Würzburg. It seems so strange to me that I am to deliver lectures; and sometimes I am surprised that I do not look upon it as quite impossible, as it is so entirely new to me, and I am, in reality, wanting in so many of the necessary qualifications. My knowledge of literature, more particularly, is not sufficiently extensive.

At Plato, I am at present working very industriously; yet I shall be obliged to stipulate for a couple of working hours daily in Stralsund as well as in Rügen—in asking for which, I further reckon upon the fact that I require much less sleep than other people. You seem to have formed a very inadequate conception of this undertaking, which is, in reality, an immense one; for it will comprise no less than nine or ten volumes. That which I had completed while working with Schlegel, was only my part of the first volume, constituting about the half of it; however, even this I have in a great measure recast; but I hope to complete the volume next month.

[CCXIII.] Stolpe, 25th February, 1804.

My best blessing upon you, dear friend, and your Henriette. You know how long I have wished for you this, the best part of life; and I always thought that it would be a fresh, youthful character that would attract you towards itself for ever. Therefore I trust entirely in your confident belief that the one you have found is the right one for you; and although you have hitherto told me so little about Henriette, I do not for a moment entertain any fear that you may have been misled by something merely external and unessential—that you may have mistaken that which is merely evanescent for that which is eternal and most exalted. This is a great deal for me; for, in general, I am very anxious and suspicious, when I have not myself witnessed the growth of my friend’s love. Therefore, as Charlotte has called me in to witness your sweet alliance, I confirm it, and rejoice most heartily that she has at once turned your loving thoughts towards me. You and I have understood love in the same way; therefore, your life in love must be such as I would ever willingly be a witness of; and what can be a greater consolation to me, dear friend, in the midst of the desolate uncertainty of my own fate, than to see those who are dearest to me enjoying a life of love and happiness? It would have been very gratifying to me had you sent me the letter of your Henriette, in which she gives you her yes; and being so near herself, you might have parted with it, in order to give me something direct from her, and to allow me to enjoy, with you, in thought, the delicious moment.

[CCXIV.] Stolpe, 28th March, 1804.

I will no longer retain the sweet pledges, dear friend, which you have entrusted to me. Most heartily do I rejoice in everything that you tell me about your Henriette, and in all that I have read from her hand. This first unconscious loving of a pure, fresh, womanly soul, is to me a most precious phenomenon, which I have not for a long time beheld. The few months that separate me from the living contemplation of this will soon pass, and I shall enjoy a sweet, though fleeting, happiness amongst you all. This time being so near at hand, I shall ask you no further questions about Henriette, but refer myself to the approaching meeting. My trust in the choice of your heart is as firm as anything can be. The heartiness with which Henriette enters into your life, and into all your relations of friendship, is in my eyes very decisive, and with you I say, “the lovely bud will develop itself more lovely still.” As soon as I learn when my successor will be here, I will let you know something more determinate about my departure.

Towards the close of last year I published a little pamphlet, the subject of which had long occupied my mind, but which I have never mentioned to you. It was, at first, my intention to maintain the strictest incognito in reference to it, but I find that it will not do, as several persons in Berlin have already guessed my authorship. It is entitled, Two Impartial Judgments on Protestant Ecclesiastical Affairs. I will remind Reimer to send you a copy when an opportunity occurs, that you may have everything that I have written.

Farewell, dear friend, my time is very limited, but I entreat you soon to give me further news of your happy life.

[CCXV.] Stolpe, 25th April, 1804.

To-morrow, dear friend, I start upon a business journey to West Prussia; I will, at the same time, pay a visit to Alexander Dohna, and shall be absent about a fortnight; I therefore write you a few lines, though in a great hurry.

I almost rejoice now at your having deferred your marriage so long; for it is delightful to sip deliberately, as you are now doing, the first draught of happiness! I listen with my whole heart to all that you tell me; and while I am thus sharing your felicity, the sweet and holy joy which I feel is not even disturbed by the thought that for me there is no other happiness but that of my friends. Verily, he who has such friends, and can participate in such happiness, is not poor. Greet Henriette most heartily in my name; I only hope she will continue to like me as well when she sees me. I cannot tell you how I rejoice at the thought of my visit to Rügen! Amid all the strange perturbations in me and around me, it is the only stable point towards which I have for some time been looking, and always with equal pleasure. It is the only speck of life that I see before me, like a little island in the midst of the waste of waters, and I gaze at it with the same calm and quiet melancholy as I would gaze at the island upon the waters.

In your position the first half of my little pamphlet can hardly interest you; about the latter half I hope to hear more from you. But of what use is it to write? nothing is accomplished by it, and it seems to me very pitiable that I cannot desist from it.

… . I am now involved in new complications, out of which I do not, as yet, see my way. Instead of granting me my discharge at once, as he might have done, the minister has reported my case to the king, and the king has, in an order to the ministry, expressed a wish that I should decline the offered appointment, and has promised an addition to my salary for the present, and a future appointment in Berlin. I have, however, been obliged to answer that I had given my word, from which I could not be absolved, unless the government decidedly refused to grant me my discharge. What will be resolved in consequence I cannot say, but before my answer had been received, a proposal was already made to give me an appointment in Halle similar to that which has been offered in Würzburg. In reply to this, I have already declared that I could not entertain it, except on condition that the difference between the two confessions be obviated, as my hands, as a member of the Reformed Church, would otherwise be too much bound. The final result of these declarations and counter-declarations, I suppose I shall not learn until after my return. As soon as I am back again, I will write to you, and hope then to be able to fix the date of my arrival among you.

Schleiermacher to Henrietta Herz.

[CCXVI.] April, 1804.

The government have now distinctly refused to grant my discharge, and the idea of sending me to Halle as professor and preacher to the university seems to be entertained in full earnest; but whether they will be able to carry it out is another question. Alexander did not believe it possible that they would decidedly refuse to grant my discharge, and thought that I should be obliged to go to Würzburg. The whole turn of the affair is very gratifying to me, more especially because it proves to me so unexpectedly how much I am appreciated, and because it also is a pleasant proof that something may at times be done for a man entirely without what is called connection. Further, it is of some importance to me to remain in my fatherland, amid an ancient and well-established order of things, under the same circumstances and laws as the greatest number of those whom I love, and, moreover, under laws to which I have already assimilated myself, which, upon the whole, I love and honour, and of which I know that they can, and will, lead to good results. I think that when you reflect upon the matter you cannot either help feeling pleased at this, that is to say, if you can place yourself in the position of a man who is in a certain measure an active member of the civil community.

Schleiermacher to E. von Willich.

[CCXVII.] Stolpe, 21st May, 1804.

My fate has been decided in this way, that they have formally refused to grant me my discharge, for the purpose of going to Würzburg; and, on the other hand, have appointed me as preacher to the university, and extraordinary professor of theology in Halle. When I am to proceed thither I know not as yet, but the people in Berlin say at Michaelmas. This appointment, in some measure, carries out the idea expressed in the first division of my pamphlet; perhaps, indeed, the pamphlet has given rise to the appointment, as I know that Privy Councillor Beyme, at least, who is mostly concerned in the latter, has read it. This renders the appointment highly gratifying to me; otherwise, I must look forward to many drawbacks in Halle also, though of a different nature to what I had to expect in Würzburg, so that the distant prospect of an ultimate appointment in Berlin still remains the most attractive.

[CCXVIII.] No date.

Verily, my dear friend, the time we have spent together was one of those delightful periods of which the life of man affords but few, and so entirely did it fulfil all that we could wish under the given circumstances, that every thought of the possibility that many things might have been better still, is discarded as false as soon as it arises. It was quite right that the special was often absorbed in the general, and, more particularly as regards yourself, nothing was wanting in this respect. I have seen you in your love and in your professional vocation, and these were the two conceptions of you which I wished to form. United as we now are, actual personal presence will no longer be necessary for whatever other particular matters we may have to communicate, and we will gradually make up for what we have neglected, until at length a less excited time shall come when we may spend some quiet days together in Stralsund. But how, O rare friend! come you now to the thought of excusing yourself for the extravagance of your happiness, as if we had upbraided you with it? Nay, we rejoiced to see how the higher life that has dawned upon you, spread itself over your whole being and spoke in every act; in like manner as we delighted in witnessing every expression of your love and every direct effect it produced upon yourself; and I more especially rejoiced in the latter, because it is only blithe, light-hearted, unclouded happiness that can produce such effects. I think that you will find it but natural that I should have the feeling, that even should Eleanore become mine, there will never be any of this joyous overflowing in the happiness of my love. For not in the strength of youthful effervescence will our cup be quaffed. Our happiness will be like the wine which the Rhinelanders flavour with spicy and bitter herbs, and which is strong and beneficent, but free from all effervescence. Nevertheless, believe me, Ehrenfried, I can feel the purest and most unalloyed joy at that which I cannot possess myself. I say this because it often struck me that you might both possibly interpret the emotion which your happiness caused me, and which you so often witnessed, as not springing from pure joy, but from a remembrance of my own unhappy fate. But your happiness was never to me a disturbing reminder, but, on the contrary, a strengthening solace. The conviction that you two will realize such a life as I dreamt of, and that I should be cognizant of it and bear my share in it, this was what each of my glances, each pressure of my hand, each embrace, was meant to express with a blessing upon you.

I have been terribly busy since my return; and although I am far more industrious than I ever was before, I cannot see my way through all my work, more especially when I think of the possibility of such interruptions as have occurred during the last fortnight. But even in my work, I feel the new energies inspired by the happy time that lies behind me, and I have just concluded a very difficult piece of work, the introduction to Parmenides, with the greatest ease and confidence. You are right in thinking that in science I am following a path of my own, which leads me ever farther and deeper; and that there is a certain distance between us, I also believe; but this does not imply that I am in advance, and that you ought to follow. But I think, as you do, that your intellectual life ought to assume greater activity; and this it will do almost as a matter of course now that, as far as the principal object is concerned, you have got beyond the vague and uneasy aspirations of youth, and that through love you have gained a clearer consciousness of your mental powers. However, the adoption of some one particular branch of science seems to me by no means to be an arbitrary act, but to presuppose a decided tendency of the mind in one direction or another, which forces the man into the path he is to follow. I have not perceived any such tendency in you, and I think, therefore, that you will satisfy your intellectual cravings in some other way. I see you already, in thought, as a happy father of a family, such as Wedike, who instructs his own children, and who, teaching and reflecting, enters into all the sciences, but only so far as to be able to impart a true and vivid conception of them to his pupils; a father who, having zealously studied human nature, as exemplified in the life of all nations at all periods, has placed himself in relation with the whole universe, and is hereby enabled to aid in educating his children to be citizens of the world in the noblest sense of the word. Believe me, dear friend, such free, pleasurable, and most sweetly practical mode of cultivating knowledge has peculiar and most enviable charms, and may be more intimately blended with our daily life than any separate and particular study.

But I must conclude, dear friend, in order to be able to send some enclosures.

Henriette von Mühlenfels to Schleiermacher.

[CCXIX.] Sunday, 8th July, 1804.

I may then write to you myself, may tell you from time to time how dear you are to me, how I revere you, how the remembrance of you ever follows me; and it is your wish that I should do so: how consolatory and how gladdening to my heart is this assurance! Yes, it was a delight to see you here—it is a glorious thought that my joy at the event will never cease. If you but knew, my dear friend, how it has affected me, and how it has elevated my nature. I feel deeply how much I have to thank you for, and my debt will ever go on increasing. I will faithfully treasure up all that I have beheld in you, and I shall learn to understand you better and better, and shall be conscious of this with holy joy, the more I grow akin to you in soul.

What two glorious epochs in my life! first love, and then yours and Jette’s friendship, and how much have I not yet before me—how much that is good and great! But I will also be very grateful; I will become truly gentle and good. I give you my promise, my fatherly friend. You will, I am sure, ever judge me with the same indulgence as at present, and how easy will not everything become to me, living a life of love with my Ehrenfried. May I but make him truly happy! My fatherly friend, do you also sometimes think of your little daughter? Oh, yes, certainly, I felt that you would, when you were parting from us, and therefore I experienced no grief. Now, I am once more with my beloved Lotte, and have already habituated myself again to our quiet, monotonous life. What a gratification it is to us both to be able to speak about you to our hearts’ content! I have also many little outward tokens which remind me of you—a nosegay which you presented to me at Stubbenkammer, a sugar-plum, which was the last thing you gave me, and which I will keep until I receive another from you.

Dear friend, am I not inexpressibly rich? What glorious people has not my Ehrenfried brought me into connection with—people that I can love with my whole soul, and who adopt me with friendliness and respond heartily to my feelings. And these treasures I know will not diminish, but rather increase. With what joy I shall receive a few lines from you. It is so good of you to think of writing to me, for the only pleasure that this can afford you must be that of giving me pleasure. But I will write to you as often as you will like to read my letters—it is such a delight to me.—Farewell; may God hear my wishes for you!

Your HENRIETTE.

Schleiermacher to Henriette von Mühlenfels.

[CCXX.] No date.

Had you been sorrowful when we parted, dear Henriette, I should not have been pleased; nor have you any reason to boast of your merit in not having been so; for not even I was sorrowful, although I was parting from so much happiness, and returning to a life so solitary and desolate. It always appears to me to be a kind of ingratitude when we desecrate the joy we feel at what is stable and eternal, by pitiably repining at the fact that that which is perishable perishes according to its nature; and such repining is only seemly in those who can do no more than luxuriate in present enjoyment, and who know not how to value the possession of which it is but a prefiguration. But we will rejoice again and again at having spent that happy time together, which will ever remain one of the brightest spots in my existence. Could I but describe to you, dear daughter, how incredulous I am, how very incredulous, as to that one point of the highest happiness, and how I always tremble, even in the case of such persons as ourselves, lest some mistake should have taken place! But with what untroubled glances I followed you two! With what a light heart I could claim from you all that I demand of the most happy, and how gratifying it was to me that Mrs. Herz, who, in general, fully participates in my incredulity, in your case participated as fully in my joy and in my confidence!

Yes, you are rich indeed, my dear daughter, and I confess to you, with fatherly pride and joy, that never before have I beheld so rich a marriage, and never did I witness so perfect an application of the old rule, that riches beget riches; but never fear, dear Henriette, you shall not be left to enjoy them alone, for as we all form part of your possessions, so will we also all draw upon them. One thing only I do not understand, and that is, why you lay so much stress upon making Ehrenfried truly happy. Is that happiness then something foreign and separate, that you must lay yourself out to bring it about? I think that if love, the chain of life, be only what it ought to be, then we have but simply to live and act, and the pattern of our happiness will form itself spontaneously, and I have never heard a particular wish expressed on the subject. If you will follow my advice, do not give this a thought, lest you should become artificial. But I dare say I am wasting my words, and that you feel just as I do… .

Schleiermacher to Charlotte von P———.⁷

[CCXXI.] Stolpe, 28th July, 1804.

Your beginning is very little consolatory, my dear friend. Have I, then, really nothing better to hope for, than to be told this once that I am a little dear to you? But of what use is it, in fact, to me to be aware that you know me, when you will have nothing more to do with me? I find it difficult to understand this in you, who are so fond of writing letters. I had laid quite a different plan, and I venture to hope that you will discard your comfortless one and adopt mine. It never entered my mind that all the delightful intercourse that I had enjoyed, and all the good-will that I had gained, in Rügen, was to be entirely terminated and relinquished after those few short, though most pleasant, weeks; but I hoped that on all points I should find that I had formed lasting and continuous relations. Can you not allow this to be so? is there anything particular that prevents you?

Even before I saw you, I had something on my mind against you; but I could never find an opportunity for a verbal explanation. Permit me now to broach the subject. First of all, I must begin with the confession that I commenced in Stralsund to read your letters to Willich. He must bear the responsibility, but I cannot conceal the truth from you. In those letters you say that if I be such as I represent myself in the Monologues, I must be an extraordinarily perfect man. Now, I believe, that if you know me, you will have faith in my truthfulness; and, in truth, I cannot bear that you should believe me to be an extraordinarily perfect man, simply because I am not perfect; and I must, therefore, formally protest against the correctness of your conclusions. In the Monologues I have put forward my ideas, which do not, indeed, mean dead thoughts that have been worked out in the brain, and which calculation tells you must come pretty near to the truth, but ideas which really live in me, and in which I live. However, these ideas were not bestowed on me at my birth as a fairy gift, but, like all that is best in man, they dawned upon me gradually after many errors and many mistakes; and in my life, therefore, they are exhibited in progression only, and in constant conflict with the influences and remnants of what preceded them. If, notwithstanding this, no traces of a conflict with myself are apparent in the Monologues, it is because in these I have resigned myself to the fact that man only forms himself progressively, and I had not, therefore, any interest in describing the exact point at which I then stood. Of perfection, therefore, there can be no question, yet it was, no doubt, because of this apparent absence of conflict that you attributed it to me. The ideas themselves give me no kind of superiority over my friends, who have all recognized them as their own, and have not merely adopted them because they were mine, as, indeed, ideas cannot be adopted. Therefore, dear Lotte, abjure your errors (among which I reckon your veneration), but remain attached to the imperfect man. You will perceive that this is a point on which I cannot feel quite easy, and I lay it upon your conscience to restore to me my tranquillity.

Schleiermacher to Charlotte von Kathen.

[CCXXII.] Stolpe, 4th August, 1804.

I know well, beloved friend, that I live in your heart, and, therefore, a wish in reference to this could as little arise in me as a doubt. But to be mixed up largely with your daily thoughts also, and with your outward life, as I should be were I present, that I wish because, more than any one else, perhaps, I know, from my own experience, what disproportion there may be between this living of dear and kindred souls in our hearts, and their living in our thoughts. Therefore, also, I rejoice in my tree in your wood,⁸ and in every new outward remembrance of me. However, therein, also, women are more fortunate than we; their occupations demand a part of their thoughts only, and the yearnings of the heart, the sweet inner life of phantasy, always occupies the greater proportion. On the contrary, when I sit down to my work, I am obliged to take leave of my dear ones, like the father of a family whose business calls him away from home; and if, during my occupation, a conscious thought of them flashes through my soul, I can only, as it were, give it a friendly nod in passing, just as the father nods to his children who are playing around him, though he cannot at the moment occupy himself with them. Indeed, from whatever side I look at it, the nature of woman seems to me nobler than that of man, and their life more happy. Therefore, if I ever find myself sportively indulging in an impossible wish, it is, that I were a woman.

You have allowed me to share in the enjoyment of a delightful day of your life, dear friend. In how significant a manner have you not been initiated anew into active life; strengthened as you have been by the feeling of the power and happiness of friendship. What a happy thing is it not for the poor disinherited children of this world, like myself, that even wives and mothers, who might well rest content with their great vocation, the joys of which might also suffice to brace them for their duties, are yet willing to acknowledge the blessings of friendship! Whither should we otherwise go with our love? and how could we otherwise have any direct share in the greatest and noblest business of man? I have now seen your children also; my eye has dwelt upon them with deep tenderness; and on the day that you devoted yourself anew to your usual activity, you so kindly remembered me. Now, do me further the favour to speak to me very often about the little ones, and allow me to be a constant witness of their progress, and a participator in your maternal cares and your maternal joys.

You wish to know a great deal about Eleanore. This gives me true pleasure, and I have often regretted that I did not take any of her letters with me to Rügen. You may conceive that it is a sweet occupation for me to make you acquainted with the best beloved of all my belongings. You dear, good souls, on the beautiful island, how you have expanded and filled my heart! What a beautiful whole does not that circle form to which I also now belong! But little is wanting, and it would comprise every noble and lovely feature which we cherish in humanity. I know that I form a part of it that no one else could form; and it gives me new strength to feel that what I do, I no longer do alone, but in all your names. And how sweetly do we not all cleave with the same pious feeling to the loving and informing Christ! Never since I left the Herrnhut congregation have I so rejoiced in my Christian feelings and in my Christian faith, nor have I beheld its living power so spread around me.

Henriette von Mühlenfels to Schleiermacher.

[CCXXIII.] Götemitz, 3rd September, 1804.

Once more, before I enter upon my new life, I feel an irresistible longing to say a few words to you, my father! It is so long since you heard from me—all your own ones in Rügen, except myself, have written to you, yet I feel certain that you knew all the while how often and how affectionately I was thinking of you, and that only outward interruptions prevented me from communicating with you; indeed, how could I have forgotten you? and at this time, at this most solemn period of my life, you are nearer to me than ever. When I partook of the holy communion yesterday, I felt the lovingkindness of God; I felt that I might enter into the communion of saints. You stood vividly before me, as did also all the other noble souls of our circle; my whole life, transfigured in the tender light of love, appeared to me like a quiet, peaceful, sunny day, tempered by a balmy breeze from heaven. All this penetrated me with deep emotion—the thought of my Ehrenfried, who was at the same time performing the holy act, the impending separation from my dear Lotte, the approaching festive days—oh, I am so rich, that my heart is hardly wide enough to hold it all, to feel it all! To-morrow I shall see my Ehrenfried; and the day after to-morrow is the day on which I shall place my whole life in his keeping, and with what complete trust and tranquillity!

Schleiermacher to E. von Willich and H. von Mühlenfels.

[CCXXIV.] 5th September, 1804.

You have invited me, dear friends, and here I am—come to live and to love amid you all. Is not the spirit of man there where it is active? If so, then certainly I am among you, and our friend in Berlin has also left her solitary cell and joined you. I do not know who will pronounce the blessing on your union; perhaps, quite a stranger. But if he does not speak according to your hearts, then listen not to him, but to me. You know where to find the essential ideas of my wedding sermon in the Monologues. You know also the sweetest mystery of Christ and the Church, how this is built up through his love, how it glorifies and exalts Him; and how, through it, the whole world is born anew and sanctified. You know the beautiful prayer of Christ, that the Church might be with Him, and in Him; and, therefore, you must know what I would say to you.

Dear daughter, I hold to-day the place of your father, and give you to the man who is my friend and brother. You know the eyes overflowing with tears of tenderness that have often been fixed on your dear countenance. At present, they are moist with tears of fatherly delight and solemn emotion, and pronounce a blessing upon your every joy and every sorrow, which will, however, be alike to you, and consecrate you to the performance of that which men call duties, but which will flow from your noble heart like spontaneous acts of love, and to the great vocation which you are entering upon, which is the holiest that man can attain.

And you, my beloved brother, when receiving the sweet maiden from the hands of our dear Charlotte, receive her also from mine. She has given herself to me as my child, and I trust that my love for her is a bridal gift which you will not reject. You will be all in all to her—father, brother, son, friend, lover; and yet each one of us may in our special way be something to you both. The young roots of your wedlock are planted in a noble soil, and, surrounded by excellent friends, looking ever forward to a more perfect life, the plant will thrive gloriously under the manifold blessings poured upon it. I will rest in its shade, and enjoy its fragrance, and taste of its sweet fruits, when I find that I am unable to bring to maturity my own sickly plant. But should mine also thrive, then we will form together a common hospitable shelter, under which all our lonely friends shall find peace and activity, and to which all those who love the good and the beautiful shall make pilgrimages. Our union, dear friend, likewise receives to-day its highest crown. You and she are to-day placed beyond every danger that I might fear for your happiness; and through your love, as through your marriage, I now call you with full confidence mine. On the day of its birth I cradle your marriage in fatherly arms, and gaze at it with fatherly eyes. Let me hereafter often behold it in coaxing childhood, in joyous mirthfulness, and in solemn earnestness! Let all your friends join with me in wishing for your union, early wisdom, and eternal youth! Life, secluded from the world, but rich and vigorous in the feeling of immortality! I feel myself strong in you, and in your happiness, and I embrace you with all the love of which my heart is capable.

Henrietta von Mühlenfels to Schleiermacher.

[CCXXV.] Thursday, 7th September, 1804.

With deeply moved heart I come to you to-day, my father. Your blessing, your love, is a precious bridal gift which we will carry with us through life, and God’s peace will dwell with us, and his glory will ever be revealed to us more clearly. Our life shall be carried on in the name of Christ, and He will be with us. The confidence with which you regard us is indescribably gratifying to me, and I fear not. I know that I shall keep my eyes steadfastly fixed on the great goal of humanity, which is also mine, and which dwells in infinitude. In the sweet vocation that has been allotted to me in the world of love in which I live, all the powers that dwell in me will freely develop themselves, but otherwise I am poor and weak. Trust ever in my good-will, but not too much in my inward strength.

How entirely present you were with us the day before yesterday! At the very moment that the blessing was pronounced upon us, and we fell into each other’s arms, full of joy and emotion, we whispered to each other, “Schleiermacher and Jette;” and then our brother presented to us your letter, and we felt deeply how much you love us, and how entirely we belong to you.

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Footnotes

1. Henceforward he addresses her thus; but, for obvious reasons, the second pronoun is not adopted in the translation. It may be interesting to the English reader to know that this familiar mode of address is never used in his letters to Eleanore G——.—TRANS. ↩

2. Professor Spalding, son of the Dean, and brother-in-law of Bishop Sack. ↩

3. Hippel, whose works are ranked among the best humorous productions in German literature, was the son of the master of a grammar-school in East Prussia; but his ambition having, by circumstances, been turned early towards the attainment of worldly distinction, and having been further stimulated by his love for a lady superior to himself in rank and riches, he devoted his remarkable capacities with such energy towards the attainment of wealth and honours, that he succeeded, within a surprisingly short time, in placing himself on a level with the object of his devotion, whom he then renounced, having become so enamoured of the game of ambition that he feared to debar himself from further success by trammelling himself with the chains of matrimony. Having gained great reputation as a barrister, and with this a very handsome income, he eventually entered the service of the State, and ended his days as burgomaster and director of the police in Königsberg, posts of considerable dignity, to which were added the title of Councillor of War and President of the City, and the little word von before his name, the Emperor having elevated him into the class of nobles; and he left a fortune of 140,000 dollars. His character is described as an extraordinary mixture of the most heterogeneous and contradictory qualities; and we are inclined to place faith in his inconsistency when we see that the principal works of this man, who sacrificed love to ambition, and remained a bachelor to the end of his days, are entitled, On Matrimony, On the Amelioration of the Social Condition of Women, and On Female Culture.—TRANS. ↩

4. The title of one of Hippel’s works. ↩

5. A periodical of the time. ↩

6. A famous robber story. ↩

7. A friend of Charlotte von Kathen and E. von Willich. ↩

8. A tree, in the little wood belonging to her estate, had in playfulness been made over to Schleiermacher. ↩