Husband and Wife (part 2)

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[CCCLXVIII.] Breslau, 25th September, 1811.

Here I am, dear Jette, in the city of my birth, since four o’clock this morning. Since I wrote last, I have altered the plan of my journey, because I missed some people in the neighbourhood of Schmiedeberg, with whom I must communicate. Sunday, at noon, I was still in Hirschberg and on the Cavalier mountain. On Monday morning, Count Gessler, who had arrived the day before, paid me a long visit. He must have been recently in Halle, for he told me a great deal about Steffens and Blanc. At ten o’clock in the evening I started for Gnadenfrei, where we caused Lotte a delightful surprise the next forenoon. This morning I arrived here, and have now taken up my abode with Gass, after having enjoyed a few hours’ sleep at the inn. As yet I know very little about the people here, and do not either count much upon them… . . This place makes a strange impression on me; the sight of the streets and the houses gradually recall to my mind the memories of my earliest childhood, and when I think of how God has guided me since then, a feeling of tranquil confidence comes over me, which I am sure you will share with me. For the rest, Breslau pleases me much more than I expected, though it is very little altered, except by the last siege.

Henriette Schleiermacher to her Husband.

[CCCLXIX.] Berlin, 23rd September.

Thanks for your short letter, dearest heart! It was all too short; but I am truly glad to know that you are in good health and have met with no mishaps. Here all is well and going on so entirely in the old way that I have, in fact, nothing to tell; nevertheless you must allow me to chat a little with you. Little Elizabeth seems to be thinking seriously of getting her teeth, but she is quite well. She has such a pretty fashion now of stretching her little head forward, and putting it on one side, and looking fixedly at you, until you are forced to look at her in return, when her wee face quite brightens up. She is a darling! God grant that I may have the joy to see the child grow up so gentle and loveable as she is now; that her sweet tenderness for me may ever remain the same; and that I may never have to stand opposed to her in any struggle. Ah, Ernst! I often feel very sorrowful at the thought, that in my life with the two other children, something sweet and beautiful, and which I fear can never be restored, has been lost. I could weep for ever over it. I am sure you must feel and understand what I mean. They do not seek refuge in their mother’s bosom; they do not rejoice in my affection; I cannot see my way to establish a rule of love over them; my constant, cold reprimands have killed sweet confidence; the icy crust around their mother’s heart has chilled the tender babes. Ernst, do not say that I am fancying something that does not exist; I implore you, believe me, that I may not lose my faith in your power of insight. It is entirely true, I am deeply penetrated by it, and I see distinctly to the very bottom of it, and can trace its source; I know with how many other things it is connected. and more especially with the cause of my being generally so little loved in this world, that, with the exception of yourself, there is not one among the many whom I know, to whom I could point as to one who feels true affection for me, of whom I could say, She is my friend.

… . I know that I have made a fearful accusation against myself, but I feel the necessity of giving vent to my sorrows to-day, and of showing you what is passing in me. But do not suppose that all this has come suddenly upon me. Give me your hand, husband, that I may press it to my eyes and to my heart, you most faithful one! Let me rest upon your bosom while I pray to God that, for the sake of our children, for the sake of the one still unborn, it may not be made to suffer for its mother’s sins. Oh, husband! how my soul is swayed to and fro between bitter suffering and inexpressible bliss! … .

Yes, beloved husband, were it not that from the hidden depths of my heart there ever uprises a sense of pain, which never quits me, but is now more keen, and now more dull, and follows me through every phase of my life, I should be the happiest woman on earth; but as it is, I oscillate between sublime moments, when my happiness is quite present to me, and I have the power to quaff it in full measure. And those periods of torpor, when my outward life seems to drag on slowly and sullenly, and my inward life seems sunk in profound sleep, and which again give way to hours of deep humiliation and contrition. Could I but lead a really pious life, I think I would be cured. It seems to me that I am pious, but that I do not live piously. I feel that the element of piety is deeply rooted in me, but it is so rarely active. How often have I not been on the point of asking you whether I could consider myself pious, when I can live so long without prayer and without the feeling of the presence of God, and I only turn to Him on extraordinary occasions, when human prudence and human consolation are insufficient; or in those hours of deeper self-consciousness, when I fly to Him for salvation. Dear, beloved husband, should even these outpourings be very foreign to your present thoughts and occupations, you will, I trust, nevertheless give them a willing ear, and I will therefore not allow shyness to tempt me to keep them back… . .

Schleiermacher to his Wife.

[CCCLXX.] Friday, 27th September.

Dearest wife, you complain so gently and so sadly of the shortness of my letter, that I was quite moved by it. Yet I shall hardly be able to write longer letters during this journey, as I can never find any peace or quiet. And it is not only that my letters are short, but I feel with regret that they must seem very dry to you. It is unfortunate with me that when I am tossed about in this way, nothing is to be got out of me, however distinct and clear all my impressions may be. But fancy that I am leaning my wearied head on your dear bosom, and that all will soon be well again.

In what you say about yourself and the children, dearest Jette, there may be some truth, but it is by no means so bad as you fancy it, nor is the cause such as you believe. The whole is but a transitory state, and as yet nothing has been lost. You and the children needed to pass through a severe school, in order to acquire stability and the habit of bringing regularity into your life, which in your former circumstances it was impossible for you to acquire. To a man it is natural to regard this point as of the utmost importance, and it is I who have been the first to introduce the severe tone. It is, also, quite natural that during these endeavours earnestness of manner has predominated and tenderness has been thrown into the background. But by this time I think the point has been gained, and the period at which the children will begin to enter into relations of obedience with other people, also, will gradually and of itself work a change without our doing anything decidedly towards it. Your maternal heart has never been estranged from the children, and your love for them has not grown cold. My darling Jette, anything so unnatural could never enter into our being and action. Even I have a strong conviction that the children love me sincerely and heartily, and nothing will disturb my faith in this; yet I strongly suspect that they do not miss me at present—as you say not a word about it—and that you are at great pains to keep the remembrance of me alive in them; nevertheless, I am sure affection for me is deeply rooted in their hearts, and will develop itself more and more. Try to have the same faith in regard to yourself—it will not deceive you; and do not allow outward cares and occupations and transitory moods to rob you of the precious moments in which you can fully seize it. And how can you say that you are not loved? Nay, dear heart, you have been taking far too gloomy a view of things. I am glad, however, that you wrote to me during that mood also.

The evening before last the Heindorffs took us by surprise while we were at tea, remained the whole evening, and were very cheerful. Yesterday morning I allowed myself to be persuaded to preach next Sunday in the Reformed church, situated in the neighbourhood of the house in which my first days were spent. I did not know how to refuse, though I can hardly hope that it will go off very well in the midst of the tumult in which I am living. In the afternoon I paid a very long visit to President Merkel. We remained in the garden until seven o’clock, it was so deliciously warm.

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