[CCCII.] 10th August, 1808.

Here I sit, darling Jette, in my former solitude, without being able as yet to feel quite at home in it. My work is not entirely to my taste, because so many other things are running in my head. A thousand times a day I bewail that I have not you and the children here. Just now, again, while we were at breakfast, I was whimpering to Nanni about what a pity it was that we did not take a right view of the matter, and come to a more bold decision. At a pinch, we might all very well have found room; and that we should want bread, such a silly weak fear never entered my mind, and surely not either yours. You would have come with entire confidence, had you seen that I was equally confident.

Am I not sinning against you, my sweet beloved, more especially as I know that you are courageous and strong, in leaving so long unfulfilled the duties towards you and our children, which I have, in fact, already taken upon myself? Believe me, dear heart, it is not passionate impatience, not morbid longing, but only a correct and profound appreciation of the character of our times, in which nothing, absolutely nothing, is secure beyond the present moment. Had I seen this as clearly while in your tranquil, lovely island as I do here, I believe we would have managed to take better measures to bring everything to a conclusion, and to unite us all sooner. Here, again, you are without blame, but am I so likewise? Do I not, in fact, deserve that the sweet hope which I did not know how to secure and to change into reality by the strength of my will, should vanish, and that fate should snatch me away before I can call you entirely my own? And should it turn out even better than we expect, shall I not, on the other hand, be a thousand times more happy than I deserve to be? It is true, if I were at this moment to resolve to conquer all obstacles, and to bring you home this autumn already, I should not know how to accomplish it; but, while I was with you yonder, had we pondered in common, I believe we should have hit upon some good and feasible plan. However, our life, during the coming winter, might have begun with much anxiety and suffering; and this is, in fact, the reason why I left you behind in safety under the protection of kind friends. But as I am sure that if you were my wife, you would not leave me in times of need and danger, so I think you would willingly have become mine at once, to share them with me. But why am I telling you all this, as it cannot otherwise than make you sad, and, perhaps, also perplex you? Because I want you to know exactly my state of mind; for these feelings are not merely the result of a transitory mood, but will dwell in me, and be more or less apparent, until at length the happy hour arrives. Also, because I do not wish you to think me better than I am, and that you may see the weakness of character that reveals itself herein. For does it not seem to you, also, as if I had not been brave enough, not manly enough, to set aside what was merely an empty phantom? And now, dearest Jette, I will endeavour to get the better of this repining and this longing, and throw myself into the arms of sleep, and to-morrow I will add a few words.

Ah! dearest, say, do you also long very much for me? Do you know and do you feel thoroughly what you are to me, and how much richer and more glorious my life would be if I had you here? Does it trouble you that, now that we are separated, my love seems less serene than during the delightful time we spent together? Never mind this; it is nevertheless always the same love, and, after all, serenity is its fundamental character. Therefore, also, I become ever more calm, more tranquilly joyful, the more vividly I bring you before my mind’s eye.

Quick! let me wish you and the children an affectionate good morning. Towards morning I dreamt a great deal about your being here, and, in consequence, I have already been very diligent, almost for the first time since my return, and I shall see how far I can get on to-day. In fact, according to my nature, I ought at present to feel a strong impulse to work well and diligently; for, under such circumstances, I live most heartily and most intimately with my friends, and with you above all others. If you would do me a great service, commission Nanni to greet me in your name, whenever she thinks I require it most, or it would be most wholesome.

Dear Jette, how joyful I am in my heart of hearts! I have found the precious treasure, and I feel inclined to give up everything else, and to invite the whole world to come and partake of our glorious life. I feel also less and less repugnant to take you away from your lovely Rügen; for, wherever we settle, we will create a little paradise of our own. Dear sweet, wherever you are there is love and healthy life! A thousand kisses for yourself and for the children. Take care that they do not forget me.

Schleiermacher to Charlotte von Kathen.

[CCCIII.] 11th August, 1808.

My most hearty greetings to you, beloved friend and dear sister, in remembrance of the happy time that we spent with each other in such pure and heartfelt affection and joy. Such rich fruit as it has borne to me, no others indeed can have reaped; but on all it must, nevertheless, have acted like a refreshing restorative, and your friendship will know how to appropriate a share even in that happiness, which has fallen more exclusively to my lot, as indeed everything must ever be and remain common among us. Were I not deeply impressed with this conviction, I should feel ashamed of being the one who from all sides received the most and the best. You saw me as you had seen me and known me before, only for a longer time, and perhaps under less constraint. But, although I had also known you previously, I had never before been an immediate witness of your home-life, and this is a great thing. Not until then did I acquire a clear and definite conception of your manner of living with your children, with Kathen, in your household, and now I can follow your life even from a distance, in all its details. Therefore, let me now reap all the fruits of this, by keeping me ever informed of the consecutive events of your life, dear Lotte; so that everything that touches you nearly may also touch me, and that I may know in what measure you are made to taste of the sweets and bitters of life. At present, I follow you in thought through the labours of the harvest, and wish that the joy which the gathering in of these blessed gifts always occasions may be reflected in your heart and sweeten the trouble. On our journey home we found that the harvest had already begun in Anklam, and that nearer home it was almost over; but the nearer we drew to the great city the more my interest in the harvest vanished, because it has so little to do with life here. Believe me that, from this point of view also, though you may probably not have felt it, the time I spent with you was most beneficent to me, in as far as I was once more brought into immediate contact with, and had an opportunity of rejoicing in, man’s labour in connection with nature, this groundwork of all other activity and of all well-being. Just as the simple, strengthening fragrance of the blooming corn-fields and meadows act upon my senses, so does the sight of these labours act upon my mind.

Above all things, keep me informed of the progress of your children; the longer I was with them the more, I may say, I lived myself into their life, and rejoiced in them. I mean the elder ones, for of the younger ones I saw, unfortunately, too little. For the latter you ought to have a sensible nurse, who should at the same time be a woman of some education. This would save you a great deal of trouble and many petty annoyances. Dearest Lotte, had I but already such a home-life to present to you, and to invite you to come and witness! In a certain measure you may form a picture of what it will be, from my life in Götemitz and my manner of being with Jettchen, with Nanni, and with the children; and you will, therefore, probably be less impatient than I am. Dearest Lotte, I am afraid my impatience will go on increasing; but I have determined to behave very well, and to be mindful of my health, to take everything easy, if possible, and, at all events, to encounter with fresh courage those matters which cannot be taken easily, so that I may get well through the winter, and find myself in full vigour on the arrival of the lovely spring which is to be the happiest in my life. I do not know whether any one can entirely realize the peculiar state of my present feelings. I believe that the combination is a very unusual one, and to give full utterance to it, I must be a poet. But, perhaps, every betrothed says the same. Be it so! Nevertheless, I believe I am right. The sorrow on which our love is based, and which will ever be an inherent element in it, my previous relation to Jettchen, and the mode in which the world claims my innermost being and my whole heart at this very moment, when I would fain retire completely within myself—such a state of things cannot be common. God bless you and strengthen you!

Schleiermacher to Henriette von Willich.

[CCCIV.] Halle, 18th August, 1808.

On Monday, just four weeks after we had pledged ourselves so joyfully to each other, I received your first letter, my sweet Jette. My God! how much hast Thou bestowed upon me in this short time! with what a completion has my agitated life been crowned! But I am no longer in that state that I feel inclined to question whether it be really true. I have already lived myself into it; I possess it and enjoy it every day and every hour. When I think of you and of the children, it is as when an absent husband and father thinks of his dear ones. I am sure you must feel the same; you must think of me as if I were absent on a journey, and were soon to return, and that we were then to move into a new dwelling. It cannot be otherwise. Longing for you, and the sweet, tranquil certainty that you are mine, are blended into one feeling. But, dearest Jette, what of this gratitude that you say you feel towards me? Do you know, that if I am to tell you everything that displeases me in you, I should like to begin with this. You mean, no doubt, something very beautiful, though I do not exactly know what; but look well at it, and do not give it this name; for gratitude refers to benefaction, and of such there cannot possibly be a question between you and me. Can a person bestow benefits on himself? Can the right hand do this to the left, the head to the heart, the nerves to the muscles? Can a father give charity to his child? It also seems to me that I could only feel gratitude towards a person who was otherwise indifferent to me, towards a patron of exalted rank, or some such; and yet, when we look closely at it, we see that it is nought. Your veneration for me makes me a little ashamed of myself; but we will leave that as it is. Each one of us has some advantage which has claim to the veneration of the other; and, on my side, I shall not fail in reverence towards you. But your childlike love! Yes, sweet heart, that I accept; for that sweet relation between us, and our common love for our dear Ehrenfried and for all that belongs to him, is the groundwork of the love we now feel for each other and of our great happiness. My dear heart, that you were pleased with the manner in which I approached you gratifies me, and I find it very natural; but, I beg you, do not attribute this to me as a merit, and do not suppose that it was in the very least precalculated, or that I concealed anything until the opportune moment. No, dear Jette, I gave utterance to everything that was clear to myself; all the rest was, no doubt, vaguely present, but just because it was vague, it could not develop itself, until that which was clear and definite had found utterance, and could only be unconsciously expressed in the first gentle whisperings, which are, in fact, not speech. And did not, in the same way, a vague feeling of what was coming and what was in my heart steal into yours before full consciousness came? The first that became quite clear to me was, that our lives belonged to each other; that I could never give up the children and yourself; and that you could never lean so confidently on any one as on me; and this I expressed to you, and then I felt that I had nothing further to look for in life, that everything that I could wish would be mine in full measure if we were to each other all that, with the full consent of our hearts, we might be; and thus, you see, that I truly imparted to you each feeling as it was in me, and that full and entire love was already in my heart and in yours, though it could only enter our consciousness by degrees. Therefore, also, it is clear to me that our feelings in regard to each other have come into existence in a truly divine manner, working themselves forward from the innermost depths of our being, attaching themselves by what is highest in them to our entire existence, springing from nothing partial, and consequently neither one-sided nor wavering. Why, therefore, should you not give yourself up freely to the joy which this new revelation of God in you causes you? Your mind is fresh and young, and why should you not enter life thus? Is it not this very youthful freshness in you that I love? Is not this exactly what I require? Is it not this which, during the whole course of our acquaintance, has had a determining influence on us both? Think of it as a sweet possession which we hold in common; think of it as mine as well as yours. Be ever willingly the youthful mother of your dear children—the youthful, youth-imparting, daughterly wife of your Ernst, your dear old father.

Dear, sweet Jette, I clasp you to my heart, and with the tenderest caresses invoke a blessing upon you, that you may ever retain this lovely freshness. Sorrow you no longer need; Ehrenfried will no longer fail you. In the same measure as we feel certain of our happiness, we must feel certain of his joy, and his joy must and ought to dispel your grief. But if we were ever to cease to live with him, and to let him live with us, then also we should cease to love each other with the same love as now. But this cannot be; and, therefore, the fluctuations which you so naturally experience will gradually cease, and the past and the present will blend into one.

What happiness it is to me, my dear, sweet life, that you have such confidence in me in regard to the children also! I have the same; but try to feel that all this is not mine only, but belongs to us in common. Formerly I had no liking for very young children, and did not in the least understand them. It is only through our children that I have come to this; and the talent thus developed is to me part of our love, its first sweet fruit, growing out of the peculiar happiness of becoming at one and the same time lover and father.

You must now look upon yourself as fully initiated into my entire life; there is nothing in it which does not belong to you, which you have not a right to share, and which it will not be a gratification to me to open up to you. As to your not understanding, there is no fear of that, in regard to anything that is essential to you. There is nothing in my life, or in what I am striving for, the spirit of which you will not be able fully to comprehend; otherwise, indeed, you would not be able to understand myself, and would not be fully mine. On the contrary, it is in the nature of things, that you will ever be the first to understand, because you will be the one to whom my whole life and my whole being will ever first and most immediately reveal itself, and the will to understand will not be wanting. I know you too well to fear that. It would, indeed, grieve me should there ever be anything that was important to me, which could not, in its essentials, have an interest for you. But as regards matters of detail, and worldly affairs, there others are in advance of you, and in relation to these you must be guided and controlled by the amount of leisure you can command, by your inclination, and by the natural bias of your talents.

In what is at present occupying me and agitating me, you must also take part; and should Henrietta Herz not have communicated to you what I wrote in my last—which she may not have done, because of her unwillingness to disturb your first joy by anxieties—then request her to do so. I depend upon your courage and upon your confidence in me. I have no foreboding of danger, therefore be you also without fear; I shall tread no other path than that of my vocation, and moderation and prudence neither fail me nor those who are to direct my special undertakings. The part that I have to play is worthy, beautiful, and blameless; and what can be more gratifying than to feel that I am actively helping to direct and prepare the state of things on which depends the happiness of our lives? Heaven grant that things may but take such a course as to render possible the execution of what has been planned, which ought not to be attempted except under conditions that render failure almost impossible!² Pray that God will guide me, bless me and protect me, as I pray that He will strengthen your courage and your energies. Do everything for yourself and the children for my sake, and be assured that for your sake I will take proper care of myself, and that, amid all occupations, cares, and labours, you will ever be in me and with me.

One thing more. It may be that I shall have to go to Königsberg. However, though I wish much that this may take place, it is as yet uncertain. Longer than three weeks I shall hardly be absent. Should I be obliged to start soon, Nanni shall immediately inform you.

Henriette von Willich to Schleiermacher.

[CCCV.] 22nd August.

My beloved Ernst, a thousand thanks for your dear letters—but I am so full of anxiety… . Try to conceive all that I would fain say to you—how dreadful I feel since I can no longer look with undoubting certainty towards the fulfilment of our sweet hope—how, in the midst of the most cheerful anticipations and the sweetest dreams, I am startled by that thought which opens such a wide field for the gloomiest forebodings, to which I do not, as you know, abandon myself, but which, nevertheless, make it impossible to go on picturing to myself with certainty our future life. My beloved Ernst, must you then do this? Alas, if you feel that you must, then I have nothing to say, then I dare not implore, dare not hold you back, and then also I know that it would be of no avail to attempt it. My dear, dear Ernst! Ah, were I but near you—I have never longed so much for this, as since I know that you may be exposed to danger. Ah, what would I not share with you! and yet I am to share nothing, shall not even have accounts of you. Oh, my Ernst, God grant that it may not come to this—may a merciful Providence soon send a change!

However delightful it would be to be with you already, I nevertheless find it quite natural, that it was not thus resolved at the time, and indeed I do not know that I should willingly have consented, as there was then no question of necessity, and it seemed probable that next spring we should be able to begin our life in peace and quiet. Without some predominant reason, such as I admit that of a long period of uncertainty is, but which you did not then foresee, I should hardly have been willing to leave my relatives here so suddenly. No, dear Ernst, I do not think that this very natural delay can be considered a weakness on your part. You wanted to prepare everything so nicely for our happy life, you dear love. Though you may feel pained at my not being near you now—as it also pains me—do not reproach yourself, you have no reason to do so. My Ernst, your letter has not perplexed me, for I also see but too clearly what you have not ventured openly to express, and what, in spite of any heroism that I may possess, is terrible for me to contemplate… . When I reperuse your letters, I rejoice at every word from your heart which assures me of your love. Yes, I am entirely yours. Oh, dearest, endeavour to feel, as I do, how blessed I am at this moment in the full certainty that you really love me, in the holy and unbounded trust with which I give myself up to you. I fancy myself seated beside you stroking your cheek and kissing your dear forehead and eyes. Ah, and I cannot believe that we are not really soon to be united. Yes, my Ernst, nothing on my side shall prevent my being yours as early as it may be possible. Write to me without delay, and if you can, say something reassuring, but only in case you really feel it yourself.

As punishment for my naughtiness, I will confess to you that I had filled some sheets of paper for you, principally with retrospective glimpses of my past life; but that I had not the courage to send them out into the wide world to seek for you, nor did I like to keep them, so I have burnt them. Forgive me, for I am already sufficiently punished by having failed to impart to you what I would so willingly share with you. How happy I have been since we met, I cannot prove to you better, than by telling you that with me it is always a proof of the presence of an unclouded, cheerful state of mind when I sing much, and that of late I have been constantly singing with all my heart, sacred melodies as well as others. Upon the whole I am very brisk and lively after my fashion, and have cut off some of my sleep, in the hope that I shall at last get accustomed to need very little. Oh, my beloved, if I may but make you truly happy! One hearty kiss, and then good night!

23rd.

This morning I am far more tranquil than last night. It seems so unnatural to me to think of you surrounded by danger; besides, on consideration, you write with so much calm confidence about our living together, as you could not possibly do, I think, were matters such as I imagined. My Ernst, were I but safely and tranquilly in your arms, or even if not safely and tranquilly, were I but with you! Were it not for the dear children, nothing should prevent me from joining you, just because of the suffering we might have to go through. As it is, however, I see that it is better that you should stand alone, than that you should have double cares upon you.

Farewell, my dearly beloved Ernst; God protect you in all that you undertake. Remember how my whole heart clings to you.

[CCCVI.] 24th August.

My beloved Ernst, does it give you a little pleasure to get a letter from me unexpectedly? The whole week through I am longing for the day that is to bring me a letter from you. I meant not to have written until next post-day, but I long so to chat with you, that in spite of all obstacles I am determined to do so. Do you know how I manage to live constantly with you in thought, and to become ever more familiar with your mind? I have been reading once more your Monologues, and with renewed love and renewed interest, now that the glorious soul that reveals itself therein is mine. Oh, Ernst, dare I really say mine? Is it really love that has made you mine? Yes, my feeling tells me that it is so, but my thought cannot comprehend it when I consider what I am, and I am ready to weep bitter tears at the emptiness of my mind and the poverty of my heart. I see clearly what a woman should be, to be worthy of being your wife; but, alas! not only do I feel myself far from this perfection, but many of the traits in the picture have been so utterly denied to me, that it would even be useless and wrong in me to struggle to obtain them.

When I have a quiet hour to myself, I read one of your sermons, and I cannot describe to you the pleasure which I experience, when I find that that which you explain so well and so beautifully, is entirely in accordance with the views on the subject which I entertained previously—when I see that I have found the truth for myself, and that through you it becomes thoroughly clear to me. I read yesterday the sermon: “The wholesome advice to possess as though we did not possess.” I did not know beforehand what it contained, and how far it might be applicable to my state. It has strengthened me very much, and has made me feel that my love to you is of the right kind, and that even if it were to cost my whole happiness and my life, I could not wish that you should do otherwise than your holy zeal impels you to do. I have thought with anxiety that my former letter might, perhaps, have seemed to you to convey a different feeling. But it was not so; I only meant to express to you a solicitude which is not incompatible with joy in you and in your noble undertaking.

Oh, my Ernst, how deeply do I feel that for no price would I miss the least particle of the beauty of your soul! How happy it makes me to think of what a glorious being you are! … . Should the felicity really be reserved for me, when all suffering and danger lie behind us, and our fatherland has been resuscitated, to live tranquilly at your side, beloved by you and yours—oh! my God, it will be something unutterably great! When the sweetness of such a life appears before me in its small details, I feel as if I could, indeed, make you happy, as if my love, the entire devotion of my being, which will never wish for more than to live for you and for the dear children, might bring joy into your life. My dear little father, I press your hand to my bosom and cover it with the tenderest kisses.

Do you know, dearest, what my relations accuse me of?—that I idealize my friends so much at first, that I must necessarily in the end lower my tone a little, and thus cause them pain. I do not believe it is so, dearest; do you? In reference to you, it is true no one ever said so. I confess that the beautiful always affects me at first somewhat passionately; but when that from which such an impression is received is in truth beautiful, there is, I think, no reason to fear that the love it inspires will be evanescent. There have been times, for instance, when the intimate interchange of thought between myself and Lotte Kathen and P——— has ceased; but I always come round again. Nay, at times I do, indeed, even grow cold towards my friends; but I am conscious all the while, that this is only a passing state, and in reality my previous enthusiasm soon returns in all its pristine freshness… . .

Schleiermacher to Henriette von Willich.

[CCCVII.] Königsberg, 29th August.

Since Thursday evening I have been staying with my excellent Wedike, who is the same in all his ways and manners, in spite of the great change from a country life to a town life, and his removal into a far wider sphere of activity. The joy that he and his wife evinced when I arrived, dropping down from the clouds as it were, you can hardly picture to yourself. At first I was really painfully affected by it, because it was so evident that they attributed my coming entirely to the wish to see them, while I was conscious of being brought hither by business which I should be obliged to conceal from them, and which I must now manage to transact as well as possible without awakening attention, though it will take up much of my time. But as it cannot be otherwise, I must leave matters as they are. Another family from Halle, who had been participators in all the misery there, was so rejoiced at seeing me again, that the wife, contrary to her usual reserve, fell upon my neck, and she and her daughter well nigh wept for joy. In addition to these friends, I have seen the royal children, and to my great delight have found them in good health and going on well. I have also learnt to know some of the leading men, on whom the hopes of my country rest, and I expect to have a good deal of intercourse with them. But I ever return with renewed pleasure to the home of my dear friends, and thoroughly enjoy every quiet hour that I spend with them, anticipating with delight, while witnessing their happy life, what ours will be in future. In this house rules a spirit of love, of cheerfulness, of calm contentment, of indifference to the world in general, and of hearty friendliness towards every one who draws nigh of himself—in short, it is a little heaven on earth. To me this home-life appears even more complete and more pleasing than formerly, now that Wedike has a sphere of activity more suited to his capacities, and exercises a greater influence on the world. But I think he is not sufficiently interested in his vocation, and the heaven he dreams of and longs for is still a kind of Arcadian life. However, this is only a tribute that he pays to his weakness and to his want of interest in the great affairs of the world; all that he has to do, he, nevertheless, does well and ably, and even with a relish, when the nature of his work will admit of it. I shall hardly have an opportunity of hearing him preach, which I much regret; it was not his turn yesterday, and next Sunday the people want me to preach for him, which will give me no pleasure, except in as far as regards the court and a few other persons… . .

Do you know, my own Jette, that it seems to me an eternity since I heard from you? It is true it is only a fortnight; but when such unwonted events take place, as this journey is to me, and one is removed out of one’s usual sphere, time always seems long. I still continue to count the Mondays, and to-day I have celebrated the sixth since I entered upon a new life. This life came into being at the moment that you placed your hand in mine; but I also recall to mind with heartfelt joy and gratitude the previous happy moments, during which I revelled in the presentiment of what was coming. The same composure, the same feeling of security and of inward happiness which dwelt in my heart, when I led you out of the summer-house and along the path that day, and which would probably have prevented any one from perceiving that something great and extraordinary had just happened to me, still pervades my heart; and so, likewise, the same yearnings, the same passionate exultation, and the same mournful remembrance of our dear departed, but also the same happy consciousness of his approval and his blessing.

Darling child, here I witness daily what a glorious thing wedded life is — a happiness with which no other can be compared. And you will prepare this life for me, you will bestow upon me the happiness I had long ceased to hope for. I see my way so clearly through all the storms which may perhaps beset us before the spring, that they do not cause me even the slightest anxiety; and you, my brave heart, I do not doubt feel as I do. Heaven will be with us, as it is in us and around us… . .

Henriette von Willich to Schleiermacher.

[CCCVIII.] No date.

… . What a joy to receive your dear, glorious letter! But, seriously, I feel slightly hurt at your making so little of my gratitude, though in doing this you would indeed be quite justified, had I meant it as you have understood it. I do not remember having said that I felt great gratitude towards you; but that this feeling had been absorbed in the one great sentiment of love, which has made all that is yours mine, and all that is mine yours… … My Ernst, I never believed either, that you concealed anything from me, or that there was anything pre-calculated in your conduct. At the moment that your manner spoke to me of real love, this love developed itself in me, and so it was at all times. My heart ever re-echoed what was passing in thine; and so it will ever be. Oh, my Ernst, I am indescribably happy! Yes, truly, Ehrenfried will ever live with us and in us. How often you remind me of him, even without calling up any distinct thought of him, for his image, dear never-to-be-forgotten man, lives deep in my heart. I am also quite reassured now as to the happiness I feel, and give myself up to it without restraint… . .

[CCCIX.] 4th September.

Dear Ernst, so you are now really in Königsberg? Believe me, I am quite alive to the grandeur of the thought that our fate is so intimately linked with that of our country—I feel myself great in you. My entire being is elevated through you. Oh, dearest, how proud I am of you! Jette is right when she says that even to perish in such an undertaking is sublime. I would, therefore, wait calmly for the issue without complaining, could I but say: “Where thou art, there will I be; and whithersoever thou goest, thither will I go.” But if that, which is too dreadful to think of, should befall you, I should be obliged to continue to drag on a miserable existence: for could I follow you and leave the children alone? But why dwell on a thought that my mind shrinks from? God be with you, my Ernst, as my prayers are with you. The consciousness that you are mine, that you love me, makes me so happy, that it will enable me to bear a great deal. My feelings are in a state of strange fermentation; the past is again drawing nearer to me, and all its memories are awakening with renewed strength. You know how significant to me is the 5th of September. I have again, as it were, drawn closer to Ehrenfried; I feel deeply that I could not exist without keeping his image alive within me, without keeping my remembrance of him ever fresh; yes, how necessary it is for my happiness that I should ever be sure of his love and his approval.

I must confess to you that his image has not at all times been thus interwoven with the feelings you have awakened in me; not unfrequently I have quite forgotten him, or a fleeting thought of him has merely glanced through my mind, when I have felt so indescribably happy in the present. But in moments of calm quietude I pray to him as to a patron saint, and thus it is I live with him. It is not always, however, that I enjoy such equanimity of feeling as at present, for I am just now calmly happy in all my relations — in my relation to Ehrenfried, to you, to my children, to my sisters and brothers, and to my friends… . .

[CCCX.] 13th September.

Dear Ernst, Ehrenfried’s sisters and brothers all rejoice sincerely in my happiness, and, indeed, how could they do otherwise? and, yet, though not a soul has ever uttered anything of the kind to me, I have often a vague fear that they and his nearest friends must feel hurt and surprised at my attaching myself to you so soon after his loss. Yea, sometimes even the doubt arises in me whether Ehrenfried himself, of whose approval I feel upon the whole so assured, and who, I believe, looks down upon us with a blessing, might not wish this to have been otherwise; and why is it that I cannot always feel free and happy, but am oppressed, as if I had not acted rightly? At this moment, however, I feel quite happy, and press you with indescribable love to my heart. Oh, Ernst, I often think that I love you even more than you love me; say, is it really so?

Dearest, forgive my begging you, if you should ever find anything in my letters which you think deserves reproof, to administer it as gently and in as kindly a tone as possible. I am very sensitive, therefore promise me this.

14th September.

Dear Ernst, look upon that which I wrote last night as nothing more than the product of a passing mood. To-day I feel so light, and everything in me and around me is bright; but, nevertheless, I do not wish to withhold those pages from you, for I want you to know everything in me, that which is not good as well as that which is good… . . The transition from the previous delightful relation between us to the still more intimate and tender one, was so imperceptible that I could not say how or when the change took place; and, in reality, it is now, as before, filial love that I feel for you, only infinitely increased. You may be right in saying that it is out of filial love that I devote my life to you; but do not call it a sacrifice, for this love is in itself my highest and my only happiness.

Although my joy in the happiness of the children by far outweighs my joy in my own, I believe, nevertheless, that no prudential considerations for their weal would have induced me to lay my hand in yours, had not my whole heart followed it.

Schleiermacher to Henriette von Willich.

[CCCXI.] Königsberg, 11th September, 1808.

Yes, my heart’s own Jette, your last letter caused me great and unexpected pleasure. You are indeed most kind to have stolen the time for writing it, and to have written so circumstantially about our little daughter. That I had not misconstrued your former letter, you will by this time have learnt from my last … . . That which first drew my heart towards you, four years ago, was the beautiful combination of sweetness and deep feeling with cheerful lightheartedness, strength, and courage. Could I but describe to you what passed within me when I saw you for the first time at Götemitz, and when we were strolling on the sea-shore at Stubbenkammer. I felt such delight in you, and in your love to Ehrenfried, that my whole being seemed absorbed in it; I attached myself to you in a peculiar manner, and with a feeling that you belonged to me also, though in a very different sense from that in which you belonged to Ehrenfried. The tenderness which I felt for you was that of a friend, a father, and yet no other love could have exceeded this feeling in intensity; and ever when I was most conscious of my affection for you, it was your moral strength and courage which stood most vividly before me, and in which I rejoiced the most. And it was these qualities in you that comforted me the most when I first heard of our dear Ehrenfried’s illness, and when I anticipated, and ultimately heard of, his death. You were ever my own strong daughter, strong in the Lord, and in the power of your noble life. In like manner you are now my strong and courageous betrothed; and in your expressions I have seen naught but the utterances of your love taken by surprise. I knew at once that your courage would not fail you, and that you would soon recognize that I could not act otherwise than I have done, and that you would not wish to see me animated by different sentiments, or adopt any other principle of action. This it is that makes you mine, entirely mine; and it is because I am what I am—because I take possession of a different side of your nature from that which Ehrenfried’s character and career rendered it possible for him to touch—that you can love me after him, as you do love me, sweet dear.

But now tell me, have you full confidence in my prudence and my discretion? do you feel that, from what you know of my actions in daily life, you can judge of how I will act on more important occasions, and relative to greater undertakings? For if so, you must feel assured that I will not foolishly or unnecessarily increase the dangers which I am exposed to. You will require to have this assurance, dear Jette; but it seems to me that, if you will but think of my love for you and for our little ones, you must feel certain that this love alone would suffice to inspire me with the requisite amount of prudence and circumspection. I have no misgivings; and the coincidence between these outward circumstances and our union gives me a feeling of exultant happiness which I cannot describe. Each acts upon the other, and establishes the proper relation between the two. Were I not able to carry through that in which I am now engaged, and which I am so confident that I can carry through, I should not feel so certain that I had a right to claim you as my own, to take possession of your entire existence and of your children. And, on the other hand, were you not mine, I should not have felt so conscious of how true is my patriotism and my courage. As it is, however, I know that I may place myself on a level with whomsoever it may be, that I am worthy of having a country I can call my own, and that I am worthy of being a husband and a father. Therefore, keep alive courage and hope, my sweet pet, as I do, and rely upon it, that that which does us inwardly so much good, will also outwardly succeed. Be ever assured that I am not withholding anything from you, and that I will not fail to inform you as soon as cause arises for well-founded alarm.

What I find more especially delicious in your letter is, that no sooner have you made some strange assertion about yourself, than by your own words you refute it: thus you tell me about the poverty of your heart and mind, and of the riches of mine, and yet, the next moment, you show me that all my views were yours, even before I expressed them, though they did not appear to you in so clear a light. Now, this is just my vocation—to represent more clearly that which dwells in all true human beings, and to bring it home to their consciousness. But between you and me there must be greater agreement than between me and others, because were not that wherein consists my real individuality familiar and perfectly comprehensible to you, you could not be mine as you are. Let it then be so, and place yourself on a level with me, as it beseems man and wife, and be perfectly assured that you make me surpassingly happy, and that your love satisfies all my wishes and all my yearnings. This need not prevent you from admiring in me that which belongs more especially to man—the independent light of knowledge, and the controlling and formative power; just as I admire in you all that is most peculiar to woman—the native and undimmed purity of feeling, the self-sacrificing, tender, nurturing skill, that brings forth and develops. And thus we shall ever be as one, and will not inquire if or why the one is superior or inferior to the other.

Schleiermacher to Charlotte von Kathen.

[CCCXII.] Königsberg, 15th September, 1808.

Dearest, best of friends, it is, in fact, not very long since I parted from you; yet it seems to me a little eternity, and I feel painfully the almost total silence that has been maintained between us during this interval. You know, indeed, how I am getting on, as, upon the whole, I also know how your life proceeds; but it was such a delight to me, when with you, to sit on the sofa, and have an hour’s cozy chat with you alone, that it has become quite a necessity to me to renew these conversations from time to time. If you can find leisure, do pour out your heart a little to me. As yet, you have not, perhaps, got through the bustle of the harvest. I do not know how it has turned out; but I hope that Kathen’s and your own joy at the new blessing promised to you, will make every burden and trouble light. However, I remember that you have told me that you are seldom in good spirits during these periods, and this makes me anxious. I envy our friend and L——— the sweet privilege of helping you to bear and endeavouring to cheer you, and most sincerely wish that I could share in it. And when I then think that the time will soon come when I may experience these joys and devote myself to these cares in my own home, in connection with my beloved Jette, dearest sister, I cannot tell you in what an atmosphere of rapture and hope I live, and I can feel naught but this, though I know that fearful storms may arise before I am able to run into port. At all times I see the sweet happiness before my eyes, and feel it in my heart, and it is to me as if I must pour out my inward joy and bliss on every one who knows of it, or who ought to know of it. Dearest Lotte, pray keep up your spirits, and, when you feel depressed, inspire some draughts of our atmosphere of hope, and place before your eyes the picture of my happiness and that of your beloved sister, and refresh yourself with the sight.

In as far as regards my impatience—for I plead guilty to a certain amount of this — the change caused by my journey hither has been a relief; but, on the other hand, I regret that the increase of power and energy, which I feel within myself, should not at once be brought to bear on some regular sphere of activity. I have some hope that my coming hither may prove of advantage to you also. A young man, who, during the period of his academical studies, was an inmate in the family of my friend Wedike, seems not disinclined to join you.

About my remembrance of the delightful time I spent in Rügen, and how I thank God for what He allowed me to find there, I shall say nothing. I become daily more familiar with the thought of my happiness, and everything and everybody that is connected with it becomes dearer to me, and all are welded together in my heart into one inseparable whole. In like measure as I long for Jette, I long for the sweet children and for the paternal life I shall lead with them. Not a shadow of fear or misgiving dims my joy, but, on the contrary, I look forward with the greatest confidence to next spring as the unfailing commencement of my true life. God be with you, dear Lotte! Let me soon have a few cheering lines from you.

Henriette von Willich to Schleiermacher.

[CCCXIII.] 18th September.

My heartiest thanks for your letter of the 5th. Ah, if you but knew what joy these letters are to me—how I dwell upon each word of endearment—how I feel your love—how it thrills through me even as if you were sitting by my side! My sweet Ernst, with what devotion I cling to you, and how my being is stirred when it comes home to me so forcibly how truly you love me! I never doubted it, and yet it is as if each day brought me greater certainty.

How is it that each time I write to you, I seem to love you better, and to want to address you in new terms of endearment, and yet I can find none? For my heart is already so entirely thine, that it has nothing more to give. But I know that when we meet again, I shall be able to interchange thought and feeling more freely with you than when you were here last. How delightful it is that love’s sweet action can continue so undisturbed, even from afar!

Dear Ernst, how gloriously all the ideals which I dreamt of in early youth have been realized, and even more than realized! How often I used to think, Is it, then, not possible that life might be as beautiful as I figured it to myself? Now I know that it can be so. Happy, most happy, my life was already with my dear Ehrenfried; but with you, it will be richer still in beauty. To you, I may say this; for you know how truly attached I was to the never-to-be-forgotten departed, and how I still cling to his memory.

Schleiermacher to Henriette von Willich.

[CCCXIV.] Königsberg, 18th September, 1808.

… . I was a changed being directly after the receipt of your unhoped-for letter. Fresh life and gladness streamed through me; for it is a glorious thing to get a letter from you, my darling Jette. If it were possible, I might say, that every word that you utter makes you dearer to me; but I knew beforehand that you would soon learn to regard our whole position with more composure, as, altogether, there is nothing that may occur in our future life, in respect to which I do not confidently anticipate that you will ever do, and be, what is right and good. But to see the reality face to face, in addition to this inward knowledge, this firm faith, what more can life bestow?

It is hardly possible, dear child, that a human being can at all times live consciously in that state of happy balance of mind that arises occasionally when his whole nature is powerfully stirred, and each relation of his life is felt and enjoyed; these are exceptional moments, during which heaven indwells in the heart, and time embraces eternity; but it has given me great satisfaction to find that you can confess, without any sign of dissatisfaction, that you are not always in this state of equipoise. I trust that your fits of discontent with yourself will become of ever rarer recurrence, and that you will ultimately cease to feel disheartened in reference to what you desire to be, and ought to be, in the happy future.

This reminds me of what might, in fact, cause me some discouragement. I mean what the others say about your tendency to idealize your friends; for if they do not accuse you of it in reference to me, this is only because in this case they are themselves labouring under the same malady. This is owing to the Monologues, in which I idealized myself, and now the kind creatures think that I am in reality what I therein represent myself to be. And, in fact, so I am; for what I express in that book, are my innermost sentiments, my true spirit. But the innermost being is never clearly manifested in phenomenal life, but always appears veiled in obscurity in this imperfect world; whereas this obscuration is not reproduced in the Monologues. Therefore, pray beg Henrietta Herz to tell you all the evil she can about me—she knows a good deal, and has suffered under it—and then reflect, that you will have to bear it all. I am telling you this so honestly, as it appears; and yet not only sincerity, but also the vanity, or rather the flattering hope of love is concealed behind it. The fact is, I imagine, that after all, you will not think it so bad; and that you will see that your love and our marriage will be the very best means for working out and bringing forth my true nature in an ever purer form. Should you, therefore, in reality find that I am not so bad as Henrietta Herz depicts me, when she is very eloquent on my odious qualities, then look upon the improvement as your work. For the rest, I must tell you that I never heard any complaint of your tendency to idealize, though I have heard something about your tendency, when your heart is full of one friend, to forget and abandon another. But I have always felt just as assured that this was only an appearance, only an evanescent mood, as you expressed yourself to be when you wrote to me about it recently. It is just the same as with the various occupations which we are called upon to attend to in life, and which we really do attend to, though at one time we take very energetically hold of one, and then pass on to another, without, therefore, having forgotten or abandoned the previous one.

[CCCXV.] Berlin, 1st October, 1808.

Here I am again since yesterday morning, dearest Jette, having already rested well after the fatiguing journey, having provisionally communicated with my friends, and having feasted on the letters which I found awaiting my return. Yes, verily, the life of love goes on fresh and undisturbed in spite of distance; it breathes its own ever new life into the dead letter, and imparts light and colour to it. How vividly you stand before me, while I am reading your letters; I see you playing with the dear children, and every word recalls to me your sweet voice, which thrilled through me in so peculiar a manner the very first time I heard it. Yes, verily, ours will be a glorious life; my greatest trouble is, that I must in full earnest begin to break myself of the laziness, which is one of my principal vices; how shall I otherwise find time to enjoy all that there will be to enjoy, and to do all that there will be to do! For if my dreams and my presentiments do not prove false, a very active, and I trust, with God’s help, a very useful life lies before me. And you will enter into it all, will share in it all, and whatever I effect will be your work. Yes, from this point of view, my beloved, it may be that your new life will be even richer than your former life. Do you feel distinctly, are you quite conscious of how entirely you enter into all my being and doing? In every relation in life I stand forward at present with greater freedom and with greater power.

Henriette von Willich to Schleiermacher.

[CCCXVI.] 3rd October.

Oh, dear Ernst, how much delight you have bestowed upon me! no less than two dear, sweet letters I have from you. I suppose Jette has before this written to you about the enclosure which was added to one of your letters; and probably she has also told you that all my letters have arrived cut open, but that none have come open by chance, and that no one, except Jette and myself, is acquainted with your secret. Dear Ernst, upon the whole I am tranquil, and always full of unbounded confidence in you in every respect. But you may conceive how very easily even an insignificant circumstance upsets this tranquillity. However, I thank you heartily for not concealing anything from me; for it is an inexpressible comfort to me to know everything concerning you …

I feel with you how much satisfaction you must derive from the extensive sphere of your activity, more especially as you are so confident of success. I am now so closely bound to you, that everything that moves you goes over into my being also. The intensified feeling of life, awakened in you by the consciousness of the greatness of the results which you will, in some measure, be instrumental in bringing about, reacts upon me, and I feel myself of greater significance. Oh, my Ernst! now that you love me, and that I am one with you, I am so proud, and feel myself of so much importance, in spite of the deep humility which still dwells in me, and which I never can or ought to renounce.

I had still a kind of vague feeling, as if it were not so much that you were thoroughly happy through me, as that you desired to make me and the children happy; but now your dear letters have given me the blissful assurance that you really love me with all your heart. This feeling is too delightful! See, during the whole of our acquaintance I have ever felt as if I ought not to attribute to myself the peculiar love which you bore to me, for that it was in reality the beautiful relations and circumstances amid which I lived, and which you longed to behold, that attracted you towards me. I never could believe that my simple self could be so dear and so interesting to you… . .

Yes, my Ernst, most willingly would I have been at your side during the period of tumult and danger, and I felt it a privation not to share all with you. But as this cannot be, let us wait patiently for the time when you will be able to make the necessary arrangements without exerting yourself overmuch, and be assured that the sweet hope in my heart restrains all impatience, and that, though parted from you, I shall feel quite content here, while I live through your life with you, and enjoy in advance all the delights of the future. Do not understand what I have said as arising out of anxiety lest you might be imprudent in this respect, but merely out of the desire that you should not exert yourself to hasten our union more than you would otherwise have done, because of the longing I expressed. I would not have written this, had I not promised my sympathizing sisters to advise you not to do anything precipitately. I, for my part, know how unnecessary this is, and there is not a thing regarding which I have not the most unbounded confidence in your prudence and your judgment.

[CCCXVII.] 7th October.

… . How Jette and I have laughed at your odious qualities, with which she was to make me acquainted! As yet I have not been able to get anything out of her, and if it be nothing more than what I have sometimes heard others complain of, namely, your quickness of temper and the short way in which you answer when any one says anything that you disapprove of, I look upon this as one of my little delights; for in real earnest you never can be angry with me, and in real earnest I can never be hurt by what you say, but I shall pretend to be so, and then will follow a reconciliation in the grandest style, and that will be delicious… . .

I often think of Eleanore with deep emotion. The thought that your whole heart was given to her moves me strangely, and you will readily believe that everything which at that time constituted your deepest life, and filled your whole soul, is very sacred to me. It sometimes occurs to me that you must feel that the happiness which you look forward to in union with me cannot be so great as that which you would have enjoyed had she become yours at that time; and though it would be a far greater delight to me had you not this feeling, nevertheless, should it in reality exist, it will not distress me. I do not know how it is, but I have a firm conviction, which makes me thoroughly happy, that at present no one is nearer and dearer to you than I am. I feel as if Eleanore would not have belonged more entirely to you than I do, but you loved her with the fire of youth, and with an ardent desire to save her.

[CCCXVIII.] 17th October.

… . I cannot express to you what pleasure you give me by what you say of your love for the children. Oh, I can quite conceive it, for I feel how I should love your child, had you one—and how I love our children, more especially because they are Ehrenfried’s, and because in them only he still lives to us! What a felicity that you are to be their father! but how can you speak of thankfulness towards me? what shall I, then, do with all the thanks with which my heart is overflowing, and which you refuse to accept? … . Oh, Ernst, what overwhelming maternal anxieties I should feel, were it not for you!

It is so delightful to hear you say that I already contribute my share to all that is beautiful and excellent that emanates from you, and I take it quietly, feeling that I can accept it in all humility and without contradiction, because it is not to me personally that it is owing, but to that which is really divine in our love. Yes, Ernst, I will take a deep interest in everything that occupies you as soon as I am able to comprehend it.

I received yesterday a few very hearty lines from Hermann Baier. He said that he could not return the greeting I had sent him through his mother, without a feeling of reverence for the providential manner in which my life had been guided, and that the serenity and composure which had borne me through all my trials must have been more than what the world calls faith and prayer. Dear Ernst, I do not exactly understand what he means by more than faith and prayer. Does it not seem as if he were speaking of an immediate working of God in the soul, of strength and tranquillity given, not in the manner in which they are given to every pious, yearning soul, but as if actually let down into the heart from on high? Perhaps what I am saying is somewhat confused, but I am determined not to be diffident any more in speaking to you. Do tell me if you think he can have meant that, and if you also believe in such workings of grace, not as a general benefit open to all, but as a special gift bestowed upon a few? … .

Schleiermacher to Charlotte von Kathen.

[CCCXIX.] Berlin, 20th October, 1808.

Dearest Lotte, just as you picture to yourself my life, happy and beautiful as it will be in future, without the distance in time impeding you, so also, I believe, I can take a correct view of yours, without being misled by the fluctuations which occur in it. I fully understand that these have in reality their immediate source in your nature and in your position, and I agree with the opinion that, although the evil may be mitigated, it cannot be cured. But for this very reason, dear Lotte (I am sure you will not misconstrue what I am about to say), although I sincerely sympathize in all your pains and troubles, I have never, in thinking of you, said to myself, “poor Lotte,” except in regard to those matters which might really be improved, and which, I believe, you have now improved, as you have given the care of your house-keeping into other hands. When we subtract these and other such cares, dear friend, you are to me with all your woes—of which, indeed, a sufficient number remain—a new proof of the fact, which I have often observed in general, and which is constantly being confirmed by special experiences, that the fate of each individual, when we take a comprehensive view of it, is in immediate harmonious relation with his inner, most individual being; and I should not, therefore, wish it to be otherwise in your case. To all those who are capable of understanding you, your entire nature develops itself most beautifully in the position in which you are placed, and I, for instance, can very well imagine you placed in different circumstances in which I should not have learnt to know you so thoroughly as I do now. But, above all things, do not lose patience, more particularly not with yourself, and begin as early as possible to carry out your prudent resolution to spare yourself.

About myself I have nothing to tell you, except that I am full of joy and happiness. I feel every day more and more what felicity is mine now, and will be mine in future; and in regard to all outward matters, I entertain the most perfect confidence and trust. I have never complained: as soon as I had recovered from the first heavy blow, I felt, thanks to all you dear ones, that my life was still very rich in blessings; but what were they compared to what I now possess! And how many times multiplied is not my present happiness, by the satisfaction with which it is regarded by all who love us. Yet when I think of all that I ought to do, all that may be expected of me, now that a happiness has been bestowed upon me, so far beyond my deserts, and so much greater than I had ever hoped for, then, indeed, I am a little alarmed. But not much: for, in reality, I feel more vigorous and energetic than ever, and it seems to me that everything I undertake must succeed. To think that it is already a quarter of a year since, and that another half year must still elapse! Since this new epoch in my lifetime seems to fly doubly as quick as before, and I can quite fancy that when Jette and I have grown old and gray, we will still feel as if only a few days had gone by. Dear, precious sister, you will derive much joy from witnessing our life, not only in case, as I look forward to with confiding faith, God showers blessings and grace upon us, but also, should life now and then turn its shadowy side towards us. Care and sorrow also belong to life. Indeed, did I not begin by giving Jette anxiety? Causeless anxiety, it is true, but it was delightful to see how she bore it; and now I know as well as if we had lived through all kinds of troubles together, what she will be to me in every trial and every emergency… … You have, by this time, provided well for all your elder children, dear friend; that is capital! and you may now give yourself up the more freely to the little ones. Regards to your whole house, from your SCHLEIER.

Schleiermacher to Henrietta Herz.

[CCCXX.] Berlin, 20th October, 1808.

… . . The little excursion proved very pleasant, though undertaken without the ladies. At first Reimer and I determined to go on foot; but as a Mr. Von Lützow, a friend of Fritz Dohna, and a delightful man, joined our party, and he had luggage with him, which we could not possibly carry with us when on foot, we took a carriage. Steffens and Blanc we met in Dessau already, and you may suppose that our joy was great. Steffens was more lively and in better health than he had been for a long while, and he had left his wife and child in equally good health. We were just the same to each other as ever, and rejoiced at the prospect of living near each other in future, and talked over all that we would do if necessary, to promote the plan. We spent a whole day very pleasantly in Wörlitz, though it rained: on the way thither I told Steffens about Jettchen. You know him, and can therefore picture to yourself his heartfelt satisfaction. He also thought that it was the happiest thing that could have befallen me, and that it had come about just in the right way. We traversed the garden in all directions, and in spite of the rain, we much regretted that we had not all those that we loved gathered together in that beautiful spot. Lützow, who had business to transact with the hereditary prince, and also other matters to attend to, could not be with us the whole time, but, to my great delight, he has fallen over head and ears in love with Steffens. We could get no private carriage to take us back again, and I did not venture to undertake the journey on foot in the bad weather, as I was to preach early on Sunday morning, and under the most favourable circumstances, we could not in that way reach home until late on Saturday evening. We were in consequence obliged to travel post in an open calèche, and during a very cold night. From Potsdam we continued the way on foot, in order to get ourselves warm again, and thus we arrived half a day earlier than we had expected. Poor Nanni had looked forward with great pleasure to this journey, yet she bore the disappointment beautifully. I am pleased to find that she has made so much progress in your affection; she is in truth developing herself more satisfactorily every day, and her inner being would certainly never have been brought out in this way in Pless. We get on admirably together, but more especially since our visit to Rügen, which has given a new impetus, as it were, to everything that is good and beautiful… . . But tell me, my most precious old lady, is it not also owing to Jettchen, and because since my engagement to her I have been taken more especially into your good graces, that you value my odious qualities so very lightly? Have you forgotten the black looks which you all used to accuse me of, and my levity in regard to economical matters, and many other defects? But now let me read you a lesson, dear Jette, in reference to what I find very strange, namely, that you should think that I was doing you injustice, when I said that you discerned my foibles more clearly than any one else. Must not the most intimate friendship lead to the most intimate knowledge, and is it not one of its great advantages, that a friend loves a friend with all his faults, whereas by others he may be loved merely because the faults have not been discovered? What a strange impression it makes upon me, dear Jette, to hear you call me great, I cannot describe. You know that I hate so-called modesty, and that I know pretty well what I am worth; but greatness I must confess I cannot discover in myself… . .

I wonder whether I shall show any talent for educating children—I, who know not in the least how to educate myself or to make anything out of myself! I trust exclusively in God and in love, which are but one. Yes, if God keeps His promise in regard to me also, and gives me understanding with the office, the children will be the joy of our lives—these children—and, perhaps, others. Shall I confess to you, dear Jette, that I cannot get rid of the strange presentiment that I shall never have other children than these? A thousand times I have repeated to myself that this presentiment originates in my old habit of looking upon my union with Eleanore as one that would be childless. A hundred times I have laughed at myself for entertaining it, and yet I cannot get rid of it. Can you picture to yourself a little Schleiermacher? Sometimes when I succeed in doing so, I am ready to go crazy with joy… . .

Schleiermacher to Henriette von Willich.

[CCCXXI.] Berlin, 22nd October, 1808.

It is rather late, yet I must chat away the midnight hour with you. Scold you I will not; indeed, I feel more inclined to tell you, that were it possible, your last two letters would have made you even dearer to me than before, because of the beautiful manner in which you have given expression to the essential nature of love, and have shown how the greatest and the smallest, the most solemn earnestness and the sweetest sportiveness, are therein blended; and how each mood—the devout, and the pious, and the self-devoted, in which one would willingly encounter death for the other, or both would willingly die together—bears at the same time in itself the full consciousness of all the sweet delights that have been enjoyed during the brightest and most light-hearted moments of life; just as, during the latter, we feel with unmixed earnestness all the energy, the fulness, and the depth of existence. Yet after all, my glorious Jette, there is no truth in this having made you dearer to me, for I always knew that these feelings dwelt in you. Nevertheless, each new revelation of your life is to me a new addition to my life, my joy and my happiness; and the same, I trust, you will feel as regards me, only in a different way. Do not, therefore, imagine that our blessed married life is to be all in all to you, but that it cannot be so to me, because science also has claims upon me. Herein you are quite mistaken. My life, in connection with science and with the Church, and, if God gives His blessing, as I trust He will, also in connection with the State, must not be separated from your life or be foreign to you; but you will and ought to take the greatest interest in it. Where this is not the case there is no true marriage. This will not, however, necessitate your understanding all the sciences and the terms belonging to them; but my endeavours and the results of them you will always be able not only to witness and to understand, but also to share in, so that it may be said that nothing has succeeded without you, nothing has been completed without you, that you have borne your part in all that I have accomplished; and thus you will be able to rejoice at my activity in the world as if it were your own. You will witness and feel, how at times I am more, and at others less, successful; how sometimes thoughts well forth in abundance; how, at other periods, indolence holds me spell-bound. You will quicken and refresh my slumbering soul, and I will let it flow into yours and fill you with its abundance. For this reason, I should be much pleased if I could manage to have my study and your sitting-room contiguous and communicating by a door, so that we could always be near to each other.

Shall I begin from the present to give you from time to time an account of what I am doing? At this moment matters are proceeding rather irregularly; on one side I get on pretty well; on another, very badly. I have just finished the translation of a dialogue in Plato, and am engaged in revising it, and in smoothing and polishing particular passages. This is a wretched business; for I seem to have worked with less attention than usual, chiefly because of the many interruptions that occurred, and which prevented me from keeping the preceding parts sufficiently clearly before me. And now the correction goes on very slowly, because I find it so tiresome, and I must take care not to sit at it too long at a time, lest I should do the work negligently. This arises from the fact that I have never known, and never shall know, how to exert myself as energetically as other people in my position do. In addition to this, I feel at present specially called upon to elucidate and complete for my own satisfaction my thoughts and views relative to the state and the social community in general. These thoughts are, therefore, for ever commingling with my other occupations, and give me a glorious consciousness of life and productiveness. I also feel a strong inward inducement to deliver lectures upon this subject; this is always my first resource; for in so doing, the entire matter presents itself most distinctly before me, and gradually works itself out; and I will, therefore, make arrangements to commence the lectures in three or four weeks. Then I shall be again in such full activity in the cathedra as I delight in, and you will see how well I shall get on. As yet I have only preached here once, but in future I believe I shall do so more frequently… . . I have a strong presentiment that I shall remain in this place; and under such conditions as I expect soon to see established, I should much prefer it. I picture everything to myself in very rosy colours, though I will not deny that I can imagine something more delightful still; but, perhaps, that also will come by-and-by… .

I dare say Hermann Baier meant no more by what he wrote to you, than that it was something higher than what the world calls faith and prayer; for can there be anything higher than true faith and prayer? It is true the divine dwells in man in very various ways; in some individuals it manifests itself more spontaneously and energetically than in others; and even in its highest and most glorious manifestations it appears very differently under different circumstances, sometimes rather as induced, at other times more as immediately given; but even that which is immediately given must always be based upon what the individual has spontaneously created in himself; it is the blessing that attends faith and prayer. Everything divine is the common good of all mankind; but to some it comes through others, and to all it comes at one time differently from another. Any other distinction I do not know. But we will speak a good deal about these matters on future occasions, my sweet daughter, and your father will explain to you as much as he himself knows and feels.

Have you given Hermann Baier a very friendly message from me? I cannot tell you how much I like him. He pleases me very much, and I have taken him completely into my heart. I do not know whether he feels the same towards me; but.never mind, a little fond of me, I dare say he is, and I look forward with great pleasure to a letter from him, if he will be true to his word. In regard to dear old Mrs. B——, I have no doubt you will know how to take my place, for you are aware of how much I love and honour her. The bond that exists between us is a peculiar one, and has been knit without our having interchanged many words; I might almost say there is something inexplicable and mysterious in it… . .

I am at present full of hope, feeling as if it would be given to me to effect a great deal, and as if my outward life also would be full of pleasantness and sweetness. This is, because I believe that with you I shall obtain every blessing that Heaven can bestow upon me, and because I cannot picture to myself your sweet nature and my life with you, as in any way troubled. Sweet heart, how I shall dote upon you, how I shall carry you on my hands, and yet, how full of earnestness our life shall be! Do you not also think, dear Jette—I am proud to think so—that never have children been given into the hands of a second father with greater confidence and more sincere joy? Oh, how happy I am through you! how beautifully the whole of our new life is based upon love and friendship! And Ehrenfried’s love and friendship are its first and firmest foundation.

A short while ago I passed a hearse; and all at once I thought of my own funeral. In imagination I saw you once more as a widow; but I was not distressed; I felt more vividly than ever the hearty sympathy of my many excellent friends. I knew that you would have the consciousness of having made me thoroughly happy, and that I had fallen asleep satiated with all the good that earth can bestow, and I knew that this feeling would comfort you. It seemed to me that though sad, you must feel inwardly rich and content, while possessing the memory and the many mementos of the happy life we had led together. Have you not also thought of death, since our engagement, and in the same way? … .

[CCCXXII.] Berlin, 29th October, 1808.

Dearest Jette, I have just been reperusing some of your letters. Tea was over, I had read a couple of songs of the Iliad to Nanni; and in what more delightful manner could I conclude the week? Strange to say, on this reperusal several of the passages seemed to me quite new: how can this be, as I have certainly never been guilty of overlooking anything in your letters? It is true, that the same happens to me in regard to the books I like the best; each time I read them over again the chief impression which I receive is determined by some special passage or other, and the rest remains as it were in the background. I had thus quite forgotten that at one time, poor child, you were troubled by bad dreams about me… . . Dreaming is a pleasure which I hardly know; it is as if I had barely vivacity and fancy enough for my waking life, and must not therefore draw upon the store when asleep. I ever fall asleep with your sweet image in my mind, but in dreams it does not appear to me; however, as soon as I awake I find it there again. I was also struck by what you wrote about your different states of mind, during the periods when you bore your children under your heart. No doubt the ruling state of mind of the mother, and the peculiar disposition which is being formed in the child, must in a great measure be identical, and herein, partly, lies the truth of the idea of hereditary sin, which for this very reason is made to descend originally from the mother and not from the father: but of criminality and blame there can hardly be a question in any case, and at all events in yours most certainly not. For consider, it is as yet by no means determined whether it is not as much the nature that is being formed in the child which is the cause of the mood of the mother, as the latter, that is the cause of the former. These moods seem sometimes quite foreign to the mother’s nature, or at least mental conditions which have appeared very rarely and very vaguely, assume suddenly a predominant character—or a state of mind which had not been experienced for years and had been quite forgotten, suddenly reappears. A woman in this condition is placed, in a very immediate manner, under the sway and the care of infinitely plastic nature. Nature cannot indeed oppose her freedom, can force nothing upon her which is in reality foreign to her; but, during this period, it rules with wonderful power over the combinations and relations between the various energies and tendencies, and probably little more is left to the mother than to introduce, as it were, a genial temperature into the state that has been assigned to her, and to keep pure the note that has been struck, and carry it through harmoniously by the aid of reason. Thus from the very beginning self-culture and education are identical, and in regard to neither is it ever permitted to use force; thus from the very commencement, energetic reciprocal action is established, in which each part has but to observe itself exclusively, and for the rest to let holy nature rule.

Shall I tell you in what light your special case appears to me? If you were in reality so violent and self-willed a child as you describe, you must be resigned if it has pleased nature to develop this germ anew in your child. But do not reproach yourself for this. Who would not shrink back in fear from the thought of becoming father or mother, if nature could be supposed to single out some one particular quality in the parent’s character and isolate it in the child; and, alas! my dearest Jette, I, in whom dwells every corruption without exception, would, above all others, have reason to fear to be a father; and the more you loved me and the more thoroughly you adopted my being into yours, the more reason I should have to fear. This would, indeed, be the most fearful way in which God could visit the sins of the fathers on the children; but it would not be just, except in those cases in which nature can derive nothing but sin from the essential being of the parents. Therefore you cannot impute any guilt to yourself; for you cannot but see that there are also in your child some of those elements in virtue of which you are the sweetest, loveliest, most charming of beings… . .

The above are some points in my deepest conceptions of love and marriage; but I have never seen the matter as clearly as now, that I look upon your children as my own, and that I live in the sweetest, most blissful hopes.

Henriette von Willich to Schleiermacher.

[CCCXXIII.] 1st November.

… . It is quite curious how free I feel in regard to you; I could speak to you about anything and everything. You are not to me as a man, but like a delicate maiden, so innocent, so like a child, and this is to me a delicious feeling.

How delightful it is that you are living in the midst of such activity, and that you feel sufficient energy to undertake still more; and what a dear you are to wish me to take part in it all! Could I but express to you how I feel all the good that is flowing in upon me through you. What new life dawns upon me each time I receive a letter from you! These last days I have been again rather depressed and dissatisfied with myself; but no sooner had I read your letter than the mist vanished, and all became clear and serene in my heart.

Sometimes I feel overwhelmed when I think of all the greatness and all the delights that await me in my new life. Although it gives me infinite satisfaction to see that you are neither proud nor vain of what you are, I am, nevertheless, not a little so; and I anticipate with no little pleasure being the wife of a celebrated man. If only it were not damped by my fear of the figure I shall cut under the circumstances… . . Yes, my darling Ernst, if my room could be next to yours, that would be charming. I shall always come in very softly, and look over your shoulder at what you are writing, without disturbing you, and kiss the hand with which you are not writing, so as not to interrupt you. Is it quite decided now that the university is to be in Berlin? I must confess that the beautiful royal residence has great attractions for me; and when I think of the glorious concerts and operas and other such things! Music has an extraordinary effect upon me, and is most soothing to my nature. My Ernst, how much that is delightful you bestow upon me, in addition to the best of all, yourself! … . Do not either forget the historical book. I have been reading Anacharsis’s Travels in Greece. What an indescribable enjoyment it is to catch such glimpses of the ancient world! I grasp quite greedily at everything calculated to enlighten me on the subject.

Schleiermacher to Henriette von Willich.

[CCCXXIV.] Berlin, 4th November, 1808.

A full fortnight you have not, after all, allowed me to pine, darling; for to-day, after dinner, just as I was indulging in a lounge on the sofa, your little letter arrived. It has amused me very much, though it might as well have given rise to very serious reflections; for only conceive, it has suddenly disclosed to me a very important difference existing between us. I also, it is true, hope that the time between this and April will pass swiftly; but, nevertheless, it seems to me tremendously long, and I feel so impatient that I would fain spur it on with vigorous deeds and sweet, loving words, to make it speed more swiftly still—and to you April seems so near! Nanni—who was just standing behind me, and to whom I said that I would write and tell you, as I do by the present, that I supposed it was because the time seemed so short to you, that your letter also was so short—made a very serious face and said, “If her letters become short there will be reason to fear that her love also will gradually vanish, and then the best of the whole will be lost, even before you ever come together.” But then, again, she said that she was sure it was because she had preached so much to you about all that must be got ready first.

Oh, you darling women, how happy you are with your spinning and weaving, and linen chests, and with your thoughts of all the tables and chairs, &c. that have to be rubbed down, which makes time seem so short to you, that you fear the joiner will never get through all the polish and that your pretty little fingers will never get through all the stitching until the bells are ringing for the wedding! However, do not despair; I dare say you will get ready! But, on the other hand, think of me. I know that before I shall be able to call you mine, I shall have time to deliver two long courses of lectures, to make myself master of a new science, and to translate the whole of a thick volume of Plato, besides to preach numerous sermons, and, perhaps, if the spirit comes over me, to write some other book. And with all this you expect that the time is not to seem long to me? I entreat you, my own Jette, consider what an amount of life and mental activity is consumed in all these occupations, and share in my feeling! or if this be not enough for you, consider that if we should live together for a period only twenty times as long as the time between this and our marriage, you will have a husband more than half a century old. Now, my child, I am sure this must make an impression! You may suppose what effect was produced upon me when I read your entreaties not to hurry on matters, if it should cause me great exertion or anxiety; and how I rejoiced at your patience—rejoiced in real earnest, not in joke nor in mockery; for what a delicious combination will it not be—your patience and my impatience!

My sweet Jette, you do not as yet know the extent of my indolence, you do not know that I never over-exert myself. Never, by any chance, do I work more or less than exactly suits me at the time, than the spirit moves me or the work spurs me on; and anxiety I know not. But life is short, and time is noble, and we ought to lose as little as possible. All this stirred in my heart, while I was lounging on the sofa… . .

For the rest, when I tell you that I feel more secure, and that I see more clearly the more freely you open your mind to me, I do not mean thereby to say that I had previously found anything wanting, or felt that there was anything obscure in you; it is nothing but the ever-increasing fulness of the life of love, another phase of the ever-renewed feeling of happiness! … .

Have you also read aloud to Lotte passages from those letters in which there is no poetic sentiment? I hope you do not wish me to write poetry to you… . . Upon the whole, place before me the letters of ten loving couples, and without looking at them I will venture to wager that nine of the ten are nothing to be compared to ours. On these latter I place a very high value, and am fond of revelling in my half of the riches; and when a woman, like our excellent P——, tells me, that she has listened to you with emotion, I believe her, and rejoice at it, and yet I am sure there is no sentimental piping in it, but nothing but what is simple, fresh, straightforward, devotional, tender, in a word, everything like love itself, and expressed without reserve, just as the pen runs, and as the tongue would run. I have, as yet, seen no one here to whom I could have the heart to read any parts of your letters. I am somewhat avaricious of them, and would rather lose, I know not what, than risk throwing away one of your dear words on an auditor, through whose heart they would fail to flash like joy and happiness, because he was thinking of God knows what, while I was reading.

And now, good night! You see that my hour for writing to you is always a late one, in accordance with the old proverb, “After labour rest is sweet;” for to me it is the most delicious rest to lean against you, though only in spirit, and to breathe thy fragrance, sweet blossom of my heart.

Schleiermacher to Henrietta Herz.

[CCCXXV.] Berlin, 5th November, 1808.

Happy beyond measure I am, that is quite true, I feel it; but whether a great talent would have been lost, had this happiness not befallen me, that is not yet quite decided, dear Jette. As regards my relations to my wife, I believe it; for I see clearly that there will be a vigour, a purity, and a completeness in our married life which it will be well worth witnessing, and to which, I trust, I shall be able to boast of having contributed my part. But whether I shall show any talent in regard to the children, I know not as yet; in great matters, perhaps, yes; but, as far as concerns the petty details of life, I feel still very deficient in skill and very timid, although it seems to me that I am daily acquiring new light in reference to the subject.

Schleiermacher to Henriette Von Willich.

[CCCXXVI.] 9th November, 1808.

… . It is very extraordinary, and at the same time very delightful, that our thoughts so often meet at the same moment on the same subject. When you wrote to me to beg me write to W——, my letter to him had just been sent off; and now you write to me about your taking the communion, and I mentioned the same subject in my last to you. However, I may boast of having managed the matter better than you, for I have informed you beforehand. This time, I suppose in vain, for probably you will not like to commune so soon again as the 27th, though I do not see why you should shrink from so doing. Should you object, we must fix some other day later; for we ought, during this period of sweet expectation, to perform on the same day this most touching and sublime religious act, that our thoughts may dwell with each other the while. Upon the whole, I trust our married life will be as pious as it will be serene; and during breakfast, or at any other time when we can manage it, we will often read together in the Holy Scriptures, or on them. What you tell me in connection herewith regarding our friend Herz is a matter of great interest to me; but we can do nothing but let her follow her own bent. I am convinced she feels herself the want of this beautiful community.³ I have often seen her painfully moved when the subject has been touched upon. I do not know why; but I have long had a presentiment that it will be in Rügen that she will take the final resolution. So much is to be said in favour of the presentiment, that here many outward circumstances would render the step more difficult. However, let us wait patiently for the issue.

In regard to our little Henriette, it will certainly be of the utmost importance that we should early develop the germ of piety in her, which will be the best way of producing inward equanimity, and, in consequence, outward gentleness. Yes, dearest Jette, if God’s blessing be not withdrawn—and why should it?—we will lead a life that will be edifying and strengthening to many, and a joy to all who shall witness it… . .

I preached to-day in the cathedral with great fire, and entirely to my own satisfaction, which is by no means always the case. Do you know, darling, when we are married, you must not always go to my church, but also sometimes to hear others. As a general rule, I shall be able to tell you pretty correctly beforehand whether or not you will lose anything by not hearing me. But when you are present, you must be prepared to give me your impression of the sermon, to tell me whether it has pleased you or not, and to point out whatever may have struck you especially. It is a great gratification to me to hear such remarks; for if nothing is said about my sermon, I am apt to think that I have preached badly. However, when you are here, I trust I shall never do that; for you will always inspire me in some way, and the increased happiness of my life will not fail to make my sermons more animated… . .