[CCCLXXIII.] 15th May.

… . Your dear face is before me in all its moods; and when sadness is the predominant expression, I do so wish I could stroke your hair and forehead, and kiss away the suppressed tears and sighs! May God take you and the dear children under His holy protection!

Yesterday evening I spent with the Schedes in their garden. But already on the way thither, I was seized with a pretty severe attack of my cramps, which tormented me for a couple of hours. I have now written to Wolfart to make arrangements for being mesmerized, as often as I can find leisure. But according to the accounts received, we may expect to-day or to-morrow an engagement between Bulow and the French, who have crossed the Elbe; and this will, probably, decide the immediate fate of Berlin. Do not, however, be anxious about me, dear heart. The means of defence will hardly have been sufficiently expedited by that time to allow of any resistance on this point, and probably the Landsturm will only be called out to evacuate the town. I shall then do so likewise, and will follow you slowly.

I feel, at this moment, that it is very foolish in me to be writing you this, as my letter cannot leave until the day after to-morrow, and by that time I shall be able to tell you how it has all passed off; but I hug my folly in this instance, because it makes me feel as if you were reading while I am writing, and thus annihilates the time and space that separate us. I had just sat down once again to compose a sermon in a regular manner, when Twesten brought me the news, which threw me anew into a state of excitement. In the city I heard afterwards, that the entire Landsturm is to march out to the Templo—berg to-morrow morning at half-past five. Only fancy my consternation, as it is Sunday, and I had no ammunition. Our section had not, however, received any orders. I hurried, in consequence, to the committee, and found that there was no truth in the report. But I shall not fail to get some ammunition to-morrow, that I may not be put publicly to shame. Yesterday evening I found two more letters from Countess Voss awaiting me; one was to you, asking for letters of introduction for Stralsund, whither she intends to proceed should matters turn out badly… . .

In addition to the fright which I got about the ammunition this morning, on hearing of the sudden marching orders, I was also greatly alarmed at the thought that I might not find time to send you one word of farewell. Indeed, how easily may this not happen! Let me therefore do so at once. But what more can I do than press you to my heart with the tenderest love, and pray for blessings on your head for all that is good and lovely in my life, which I owe to you, then endeavour to impress deep upon your heart my image, with all its imperfections, but also with the feeling of how much you have contributed to renew, and to embellish, and to purify it! And I would fain also give you the most lively assurance that I take you with me, in like manner as I remain with you. Yes, I feel that I shall also dwell in you as a good spirit. Oh, my matchless, tenderly beloved wife, may you be sweetly reposing at this moment, and could I breathe into you a heavenly dream!

[CCCLXXIV.] 17th, Evening.

To-day I have put my house in order, have paid up the servants, who, however, still remain, have purchased a powder-flask and a canteen, have mended and packed Röder’s green mantlesack, and have changed my paper-money into gold. My most important papers, your letters and Henrietta Herz’s parcel, I have given into the keeping of Pischon; the linen and your books are put into the cellar.

These preparations, dearest, have been caused by the bad news which was spread this morning. It was said that Bulow was sorely pressed by a very superior force, and was retreating with the utmost speed. This evening, on the contrary, tranquillizing accounts have been received from him; he believes that Berlin has nothing to fear; and intends, as soon as he has received reinforcements, to move forwards again, and to assume the offensive; and now the excitable population has again exaggerated these accounts into news of a victory. For the present I will do no more than rejoice that I shall have an opportunity to-morrow of making some further preparations.

[CCCLXXV.] 18th, Noon.

I have been running about so much, and am so tired, dear Jette, that I can hardly write; and, in addition to this, I have again an attack of the cramps—the first since last Saturday. As long as matters remain quiet I shall continue to be mesmerized daily by Wolfart, at his house, and hope soon to be better in consequence. To-day is the anniversary of our wedding-day. In my heart it is the day of our betrothal, when you gave me your sweet “Yes” on the bench, that is the chief day of rejoicing; but this day also reminds me specially of a new life begun with you, and of all that we have both become through it—but also of how much more I could and ought to have been to you, and of how many a suffering of various kinds I might have spared you. May God grant us an opportunity of leading in future also a life of-ever increasing purity, beauty, and fulness, and may we be allowed to celebrate this day together next year, feeling that the struggles of the times lay entirely, or at least, in great measure, behind us. Embrace the children most tenderly for me. God bless and preserve you, my darling. My prayers accompany you all, but you above all others.

[CCCLXXVI.] 18th, Evening.

Dearest wife, what an unexpected delight was the receipt of your little note! Thanks be to God for having guided you safely so far… …

Here we have heard nothing about the defection of Austria (Saxony only is said to have declared decidedly in favour of France); on the contrary, it is confidently asserted that the alliance is quite settled, but nothing relating to it has been made public; and, until this takes place, I shall not believe it. The cause of the delay is, no doubt, to be sought in selfish negotiations which are still being carried on. As regards our position here in Berlin, I have not the courage to repeat the rumours that vary with every hour. I only rejoice when evening arrives, and I can come quietly out here, where the nightingales never fail to greet me, and where I feel at home, and where my spirit can dwell undisturbed with you, for the house in town is hateful to me under the present circumstances. In the daytime, however, I am always in town, because there is always something to be done in the defence committee, and also because I am not yet quite equipped for the march. I have offered Savigny and Eichhorn to help them in the committee; and shall perhaps begin my labours to-morrow already; for, as for regular study, that is not to be thought of until the immediate crisis is over. I am continuing my lectures; but I believe I am the only professor who does so. One thing only you may be assured of, dearest wife, in the midst of these fluctuations, and that is, that the sooner we are attacked here by the French the less reason you will have to fear for my life; for, in case of their speedy arrival, no attempt will be made to defend the city; the longer they defer coming, the better prepared we shall be. In the first case, the only cause for anxiety would be that we might possibly not be able to make good our retreat towards Silesia, but be obliged to move towards Pomerania. This would be very hard upon us, as, under those circumstances, we might be separated for an indefinite period.

Dear heart, I feel pretty sure that, under all circumstances, or at least as long as the prevailing confusion be not too overwhelming, I shall act with judgment and presence of mind. Nevertheless, continue to pray for me, more especially in regard to this point. I rejoice at the courage with which you proceed. God hold his hand over you and the little tribe, in future also.

[CCCLXXVII.] 20th, Evening.

I would willingly have chatted a little longer with you yesterday, but on my arrival here, somewhat later than usual, I found H—— waiting for me. After he had thoroughly discussed himself, he took hold of me, spoke a great deal about what was enigmatic in me, and of his intense desire to learn to know me thoroughly, and of how necessary this was for the completion of his culture and his views. You know how I detest everything of this kind, and I really could not help telling him in a very friendly way, but at the same time very curtly, that I was surprised at his difficulty, for that any one might learn to know me through and through in three days, because everything in me sprang from very simple motives, and that besides it did not seem to me to be worth any one’s while to seek to construe every individual trait in each individual mind. While giving you such a full account of H——‘s visit, the feeling of the dreadful solitude in which I live, quite overwhelms me. Nevertheless, every interruption of this solitude in the evening is a real loss to me; for it is then that I give myself up to the sweet remembrance of our former life here, and to thoughts of the many enjoyments which you have procured for us, by establishing us out here. I have also been calculating, that if the danger, which at the present moment seems entirely to have withdrawn from Berlin, should not approach again, and a fortunate battle should remove the war into Saxony, and I should win the great prize in the lottery on the 1st of June, I would buy an excellent travelling carriage and set off to fetch you back. Such is in fact the reward I ought to have for the privations I am undergoing. You may well laugh at me, dear heart, but you must learn to know my follies also… …

Süvern has resigned his command on account of some unpleasantness during drill. This is a very disagreeable affair, and I am doing my best to set matters right again. In short, I am behaving so well, that I am sure you would be delighted with me, could you witness it… . .

[CCCLXXVIII.] 21st, Evening.

What will be the end of it, dear heart, if I go on in this way writing to you for ever? I should like to know how the distance between us affects you—it increases my longing for you every day; but now that I have brought my occupations into better order, and that we are not so tormented with rumours, I am again able to work. However, I am obliged to take hold of such a variety of things, that I cannot continue any one subject long enough to feel that I am getting thoroughly into it. The interruption of the sweet habit of sharing everything with you, which was enjoying in such full measure just before you left, I now feel most keenly. The intense love I have conceived for the garden, arises out of nothing but this. I hardly ever walk in it, I only sit and look at it from the window, and I am nowhere so happy as here. I look upon the place as a sweet gift from you, which I must ever have by me to gaze at. At present I have no dark forebodings whatsoever. I am only thinking of our speedy reunion, and of how I shall celebrate it and enjoy it. But even this hope is founded rather in my wishes than in any particular conjuncture of events; for until a battle has been won in Lusatia, or some other event has transplanted the war entirely to the other side of the Elbe, there can be no security for us… …

… . . To-day I have received my increased salary for the ensuing month, so that all likelihood of immediate starvation is again postponed; and after all, I dare say, we shall not run any very great danger in this respect, or be very hard bestead. Well, if it is not to be, I suppose we must bear it; and our separation is, alas! quite enough to have to endure. Good night; try and keep the children as regularly to work as you can: but it is easy enough for me to talk; perhaps you will find it much more difficult to execute.

[CCCLXXIX.] 22nd.

… . The only rumour prevalent here at present is, that Ney’s corps is still retiring, and Bulow’s pursuing him. The most people are therefore quite easy. Nevertheless, everything depends upon the next battle. The Austrian alliance is, it is said, placed beyond all doubt, but officially we hear nothing on the subject.

Only think, that at court and in the aristocratic circles, it is asserted that I have gone off. I suppose it is P——, who got your passport for you, that is mostly to blame in the matter. For it has also been reported to the place-major. Mrs. Von Hazfeld, more especially, has done her best to spread the rumour, and in consequence my first feeling was a desire to take a little revenge on her. Indeed, I had no peace until I had indited a very sharp note to her. You know my ways, but I thought it not worth my while to send it off—for the fable will very soon disprove itself.

In the morning, one meets troops of people with spades and shovels, going to work at the entrenchments, and in the evening one sees companies of the Landsturm, exercising in all the great squares. The two redoubts near our Schafgraben are very neat, and when they are manned and armed, I am sure the enemy will not get in until they have been battered down and the cannon have been dismounted. When we consider that there are about thirty to forty thousand men belonging to the Landsturm here (though the latter number is probably exaggerated), and that these will be supported by about fifteen thousand regular troops, there is every reason to suppose that, if matters are conducted with proper skill, Berlin will be able to hold out even against a very superior force, provided the latter be not aided by very heavy artillery.

Embrace the children most heartily for me, and tell them to behave so that you may have good accounts to write to me of them. The sermon which I had commenced before you left, is still incomplete, but in addition to this I have been studying the New Testament, and taking notes, and have also been delivering my lectures very regularly. I always feel that I must give you an account of what I am doing, for that helps to spur me on. To-morrow I am to preach for the first time without you, only your empty seat opposite to me—it will be very hard. May God soon unite us again, my beloved, my precious wife! I embrace you in spirit and press you close to my heart. God be with you all!

[CCCLXXX.] 22nd, Evening.

My joy at the receipt of your letter was so great, so overwhelming, that it made me neglect the parade, and now I have qualms of conscience in consequence… … I have further to think of my sermon, which is by no means ready; but I fear that I shall neither be in the proper mood for thinking of it to-day, nor for delivering it to-morrow. To-day at noon arrived a courier with the news of the successful engagement on the 19th. However, as he left the field of battle during the engagement, though our troops had then the advantage on every point, everybody is now very anxious to learn what the ultimate result has been. The people ought to be spared this sort of suspense, they have not strength to bear it; even we find it difficult. You, poor dear, have no doubt a good deal more to bear than you have allowed me to know, and I dare say it is only your bravery that makes you feel so pleased with the journey. I can only love you and praise you the more for it, and beg you be assured that I feel how much reliance can be placed in you, my heroic, energetic wife.

Since I wrote the above, I have got my sermon into proper order, and I will now say good night. I ought, perhaps, to be in a state of great excitement regarding the decision of the battle; but I am not so. I have a firm conviction that the affair will not terminate in one day; for a total rout of our army is not to be feared, as it had already gained great advantages, and the spirit of the troops was excellent, and the command conducted with great prudence. Neither do I think it likely that Bonaparte will be thoroughly defeated; he is far too strong and skilful for that. Even the decision as to whether or not we are soon to meet again, seems to me to depend upon other events. It is what will take place in Austria, or on the Lower Elbe, that can alone induce him to fall back so far as to allow us to feel secure again.

[CCCLXXXI.] 24th, Forenoon, in the city.

I was not able to write to you yesterday; I could only remain a moment at the garden-house in the evening, for I was good for nothing, thoroughly knocked up by the cramps, and obliged to have recourse to magic, during which I read your letter once more. Afterwards, though still suffering a good deal, I went to Reimer’s—he was here for the day, but started again for Potsdam in the night—where I met Eichhorn and Bardeleben, and Schele (who has of course been obliged to give up all attempts at administration on the other side of the Elbe, and is about to join Bulow), and Arndt, who is here again, and Bothmer, who has arrived from Hamburg, and who means to join Wallmoden. I have commissioned the latter to inquire about Marwitz, and to induce him to write. I was anything but animated, for I was not only suffering much from the cramps, but I had been reflecting the whole day with much grief upon the defective manner in which public affairs are conducted, and the conversation at Reimer’s only served to increase this. I returned home towards midnight, quite knocked up, and was obliged to go to bed immediately.

My sermon would perhaps have seemed to you rather forced in the beginning, as on a former occasion; it was a characterization of the Apostle Peter, applied to the present times, and the conclusion was spirited, and I hope effective, and contained a recommendation to watch over the weak, and to inspire them with faith and courage. I discovered a great many gaps among my auditors, and the sight of your empty pew (Pischon alone was in it) brought the tears to my eyes. I am so glad, dear heart, that in this respect you are better off than I am, for you have the children to fill out your life, and are in the midst of new, pleasing, and diverting circumstances. Your longing for me can hardly assume the character which mine for you often has.

Savigny tells me that people are beginning to fly from Hirschberg, but do not allow this to disturb you: remain quietly where you are, until you hear that the Landsturm has been called out; should this take place, then proceed as speedily as possible to the nearest town in Bohemia. I shall give you no directions for other cases that may occur, but shall depend entirely upon you and Carl.² The German legion is said to have arrived on the Oder at last, and Stülpnagel is expected here on Friday already, so I suppose I shall soon hear something about Fritz and Helvetius Dohna. The wish that the legion might require my services, has repeatedly passed through my mind; I would most gladly join it… . .

[CCCLXXXII.] Evening.

I cannot conclude my evening out here without a little further chat with you… … . . As for the removal of the state officials, I cannot say how it stands; no one has as yet seen the royal order. In every case at first it only had reference to the chiefs of departments, and each of these did as he liked; one took his councillors with him, another left them behind, and those councillors who have received no distinct orders have also acted according to their own discretion. In our department,³ no one has as yet left, except Nicolovius, who has been sent by Von Schuckmann to the other province, and Ancillon, who has probably gone to join the crown prince. It is to be hoped that the downright cowards, whether among the royal servants, or among the citizens—for a great many private persons, and more particularly a great many rich Jews, are said to have fled—will get their deserts… . . And now good night, dear heart. Ah! it is a melancholy going to bed up yonder in the coffin, without you and the children.

[CCCLXXXIII.] 27th, Evening.

It is with a heavy heart that I address you to-day, dearest. As I was absent the whole day yesterday, and was occupied the whole forenoon to-day in the church, the news of the great, and, as it seems, rather precipitate retreat of the army, has taken me quite by surprise. I may say, that to-day I have for the first time really repented having sent you away, as you will now be quite near the theatre of war, while we shall be perfectly quiet here; and I think, in addition to this, of your being surrounded by so many bewildered and helpless people, and to feel that by the time this letter reaches Schmiedeberg, you may no longer be there, or that, perhaps, by the day after to-morrow, the postal communication with that place may already have ceased. How I shall be able to bear our separation under these aggravated circumstances, without being consumed by my longing for you and the children, I do not know! Since noon, I have been tormenting myself with thoughts of what a state of indecision you must be in, and of how likely it is that we may be still further cut off from each other, if the present retreat continues… … Only think, in a little note which I have received from L——, she actually upbraids me for having sent you away, and says that husband and wife ought to share good and evil with each other, even unto death—as if you were not sharing it with me. On that point I am quite easy, and shall be able to set her right also; for she has not the least idea what our Landsturm edict means. But that you should now be deprived of the immediate protection of my arm, that is very, very hard; and I reproach myself bitterly for the feeling of helplessness which made me fear that I should not be able to take the necessary measures for your safety at the last moment. Tell me honestly, dear heart, has the thought that I was rather precipitate in sending you away, also occurred to you?—that is to say, judging, not by the present state of things, but according to the circumstances at the time?—do, pray, tell me quite candidly… . . My sermon to-day was certainly less popular than usual, but there were good things in it. Ah, dearest, I miss you in everything, even in regard to my sermons and my preaching, as, indeed, upon the whole, you influence me for more than you are aware of. I, on the contrary, have always known it, and could well dispense with the proof derived from my present privation. May God protect you; I lay me down to-night with a heavy heart.

[CCCLXXXIV.] 28th, Evening.

I have had a pretty quiet day to-day—I mean I have had less to do in connection with the Landsturm, but I shall have to pay, for this to-morrow. I have, therefore, done more literary work than usual, having written a good bit of a sermon, and laboured through several prize essays submitted to the Academy, besides other reading, and I was able to come out here as early as four o’clock. In the evening, as I was seated quietly at my tea, Twesten came in, so loaves and cakes had to be hunted out of all corners, and we had hardly had time to chat a little together, before in came Savigny, and Eichhorn, and Schele, and Arndt. After the foraging had been successfully got through (luckily there was a sausage in the house), and I had informed them that they must all use the same tea-spoon, we were very merry, and a glass of wine made amends for all that was wanting. Savigny alone seemed depressed, and I strongly suspect that he held in petto either some bad account or some evil foreboding, which he would not divulge… . .

Only a few hurried words to-night, dear heart, before I go to bed. I was placed in a singular position to-day. Eichhorn and Savigny proposed to me to accept a mission from the committee to head-quarters, to arrange various matters of great importance. Only think what a temptation! I might, in that case, so easily have seen you all, and have brought you back with me, or, at all events, have united my fate with yours again. For one moment, I indulged in the most lovely and romantic visions, but, happily, I withstood all the allurements, as I did not consider the undertaking advisable. But do not attribute too much virtue to me; for the fact is, I have not altogether thrown the proposal overboard, but have made conditions which would give the matter a different appearance, and which may very likely not be agreed to. This and the Landsturm business gave me work for the whole day, but in the intervals, I thought much and devoutly of the great public cause, which has, indeed, occupied my mind during all these latter days.

[CCCLXXXV.] 30th May.

I could write no more to you yesterday than the little note which I took at once to the post. I dined in the Sunday Society, where I met Klewitz, who returned from Breslau a few days ago. I had a good deal of conversation with him, and was much pleased with the excellent sentiments he expressed. He also said that the battle of Bauzen would most certainly have been gained, had the reserves been brought into action; but that the king himself had given contrary orders, because he feared that Bonaparte would then, according to his usual custom, throw large masses forward, to whom we should have no troops to oppose. But Bonaparte had no such large masses at command. This may be called being over-cautious; and if this principle is to be carried out, we ought never to fight except when we know ourselves to be superior in number. Indeed, it does seem to be the principle followed at present, all action being postponed until we shall have the Austrians behind us; for Klewitz also says that at head-quarters they are quite sure that the Austrians are coming. He speaks very highly of the confidence of the king in ultimate success, and also of the courage of the army. Twesten came in the evening, and only learnt from me that the shamefully treacherous Danes had let the French into Hamburg. I hope that in return the English will set fire to Copenhagen. After Twesten had left me, I could not sit down to write to you, because I was obliged to think of my sermon, which did not, however, turn out very well, partly because I was somewhat inattentive then, and partly because of a very strange paroxysm, which came over me in the vestry, previous to my going into the pulpit, and which I must relate to you. All of a sudden, I do not know by what concatenation of thought, such a dread took hold of me that I should be overcome by fear on the approach of death, that it actually brought on a kind of physical depression, which must have had a perceptible influence on my sermon. You know I have repeatedly mentioned to you that I did not feel quite sure that I should not fear death when it came, but the thought never before overwhelmed me in that manner. But all this is owing to the solitude in which I live; were you here, the thought would never have entered my head. I had a faint hope that I should have a letter from you in the afternoon, but I was disappointed. However, I will not, therefore, allow myself to believe that the French are in Schmiedeberg, and you in one of the frontier villages. I walked out, and found that it was raining; and, however fertilizing and welcome the rain might be, on me it had a saddening effect. I next forced myself to work, and succeeded; for I wrote good part of a sermon, almost as much as would make half a sheet in print, and, what is more, I was satisfied with it; but whenever I made a pause and went to the window, the feeling of sadness again assailed me. Ultimately, I was rescued from it in a most agreeable manner by the arrival of Mina Reimer, who came with the two girls and Arndt. Afterwards Dreist joined us, and we were all very merry.

And now, good night. It strikes me that I gossip too much about the petty events of the day, and I will avoid this in future.

[CCCLXXXVI.] 31st May.

To-day I have given myself a treat which I have never before enjoyed; I took a walk through the garden at half-past five o’clock in the morning. It had rained in the night, the air was delicious, and the roses were very much refreshed; they give promise of a second bloom. At what o’clock do you rise, dearest? Do you enjoy the glories of the early morn, and do you on first awaking think of me and long for me, as I do for you most tenderly and truly, the first thing in the morning and the last thing at night? I look at the beautiful flowers in the garden with a feeling of regret, because, supposing matters to proceed ever so favourably, they will have faded before you can be back. This morning, Pischon baptized his child, and I was godfather. I was much impressed by the beautiful sense in which he understands Christianity, and also his own vocation, which came out so distinctly in his discourse. The whole ceremony was very touching and pleasing to me; it reminded me of some of the most delightful moments of our life and of the sweet paternal joys which I owe to you; and a sincere thanksgiving poured forth from my heart, which yearned more than ever for you. The calm, secure happiness of the young couple also moved me deeply, and from a full heart I prayed for such blessings on the child as are most essential to a girl.

Now, dearest wife, everything considered, I do not know why I should postpone any longer giving you orders to return home. For the present there is not the slightest danger to be feared here, whereas where you are you may be exposed to such in a week, should both armies have recruited their strength sufficiently to deliver battle. Therefore, let us venture it in God’s name, and let me beg you to set off as soon after the receipt of this letter as you shall deem the road safe, that is to say, as soon as you hear that our armies are on the other side of the roads.

Dear heart, I am penetrated with joy at the thought of our meeting again. Oh, how sincerely I shall thank God when I hold you again in my arms, when I press the dear little people again to my heart! God grant that there may be no difficulty on your side; here everything will no doubt remain quiet. It is even said that the Princess Wilhelm, who had gone no further than Francfort, is about to return… . .

With what an oppressed heart I sit down to write to you, dearest wife, whom I have perhaps now lost for a long, long time! Will you ever receive these lines? and when and how will the time come when we shall meet again? Good God! yesterday I wrote to you so full of glad hope to beg you come back; we had not then heard of the retreat of the army into Silesia; and to-day we have received news of the brilliant action near Hagenau! It has struck me like a thunderbolt! In what state of mind may you be, and where may you be? Have you sought refuge in some corner of Bohemia, or are you still in Schmiedeberg, full of fear that you may have to fly at any moment? And I, who ought to be your counsellor and your support, I am here! I reproach myself most bitterly for having been so foolish as to send you away! O God! it is a heavy, heavy trial, and I do not know how I shall bear it. Sweet heart, have I not sinned grievously against thee and the children? Have I not wantonly precipitated that hardest of fates, which ought only to have been brought about by the most important events? Are you not already as lonely and forlorn as if you were a widow? Everything around me looks indescribably gloomy, and I begin even to despair of the public cause. These repeated retreats will necessarily damp the courage of the people and bring everything into confusion. From Austria we hear nothing. The crown prince of Sweden is also holding back, it is said because the conditions are not fulfilled which Russia and Prussia promised. And the people? Good God, can we reckon on it? How many are they who are really animated by patriotism? It is possible that Hamburgh may fall in a few days. O God! my beloved, what can individuals hope for, under such circumstances, but a noble death! Sweet wife, you whose destiny I have bound up with mine, had I but your hand in mine, could I but gaze into your eyes, could we but seek new strength and courage heart pressed to heart! My tender love for you and the children is the only happy feeling I have left—or rather my love for you, for I confess it at this moment the children are very secondary in my eyes, because as yet they have not the consciousness of what is going on around them; but at the bottom of my heart there is an immeasurable love for them also, which might at any moment be converted into a lion’s love. But I must cease, I must tear myself away, I am too excited.

[CCCLXXXVII.] 2nd June, Afternoon.

About an hour ago, dear heart, I received your letter of the 25th. I am sincerely rejoiced that you have so happily got over the first fright and difficulties, and that I can fully approve of all that you have done and planned.

Alas! that I can do nothing, either for the great cause of our country or for you, except wish and pray, and devote to both a passive love! Oh, to be separated under such circumstances is too dreadful! What you say so kindly, dear love, about feeling consoled at the thought of my being in quiet and safety, has cut me to the heart; and when you write, “the happy ones, who remained,”—ah, my darling wife, it drives me to despair to think that I sent you away!

In one respect, you are far better off than I. You suffer, but at the same time you are called upon to act. But I can only look on, while my heart is being torn to pieces; and then to feel that, as far as you are concerned, I have brought this upon myself! Ah! I shall never be at peace until I hold you again in my arms, and then I shall hardly feel myself worthy of folding you to my bosom… . . But I will force myself to go to work, that I may not fall into a morbid state.

[CCCLXXXVIII.] 8th June, Noon.

Everybody here feels as if fallen from the clouds at the news of the armistice; as yet we know too little about the details to allow me to pass any judgment upon it, and I will not join those who are precipitate in abusing it. Things look dangerous indeed, yet I will not yield to the fear that this may lead to an unfavourable peace. With God’s help, at all events, it shall lead to our reunion, and I am out of myself with joy when I think of it… . . Never again, dearest Jette, will we thus separate, should even, as I hope, the Landsturm edict remain a permanent law—never again, until the most urgent necessity is at the door, will I send you away from me.

[CCCLXXXIX.] 10th, Evening.

… . It is four weeks to-day since you left, and I hope that only one week more will elapse before you are back again, for I can hold it out no longer. At moments I feel as if I were transported back into my old days of bachelorhood, and as if it were only a dream that I had ever changed my condition, and a shudder of horror comes over me. Then again, when I bring you and the children vividly before my imagination, and the old presentiment returns that you will not keep me long, an indescribable sadness steals over me, at the thought of all that is precious and all that is vain in life, of all that is good and noble which, by the grace of God, has been developed in me, and of so much that is unworthy and contemptible that is mixed up with this,—I feel as if I would fain fold you to my heart, impress upon you once more how tenderly I love you, bless you, and then die. Come, dearest, hasten to join me, to fill out my life again, and to save me, by your sweet presence, from this dreamy state, which solitary work at the writing-desk does not suffice to conquer… . .

[CCCXC.] Tuesday morning.

I took a delightful stroll in the garden, as early as a quarter before five. I was thinking whether it would be possible to induce you sometimes to slip out of bed so early, and to come and enjoy with me the freshness and fragrance of the morning. At rare intervals it must be, however, because to rise early is, in fact, contrary to your nature. What I occupied myself with?—with you. The anniversaries of the most important epochs of our lives are drawing near—the day on which I saw you for the first time, when you gave me a touching impression of a pious, gentle girl, under the influence of a first and holy love, such as I had never before witnessed. How tenderly attached to you I was! I looked upon it as the highest happiness left to me, to be near you and to witness and to bless your wedded life. Then again, the time when I felt such an irresistible desire to see you again as a sorrowing widow, and when gradually a deeper love still was developed. Yes, Jette, it was Divine guidance that led me to you; and I feel it now as deeply as ever, I could never have loved any other woman as I love you. I press your dear head to my bosom, imprint a kiss on your forehead, and once more promise to guide and support you through this chequered life, with all the strength of my love and my whole being, and to pour upon you all the good that wells up in my own heart, as also all that I can gather in the world around me.

[CCCXCI.] 21st, Evening.

With foolish, youthful thoughtlessness, I had almost given up writing; and now the nearer the post-day approaches the more anxiously my heart beats, lest it may bring a bitter disappointment.

To-day I have begun to write an essay, which I am to read to the Academy on Thursday next, on the various methods of translation.⁴ It may prove interesting, if I be allowed proper leisure.

[CCCXCII.] 24th, Evening.

I was unable to write to you yesterday, because I was so very busy with the essay, which I have read to the Academy to-day. It is, in fact, trivial enough, but for that very reason people thought it very clever and interesting, and have requested me to read it at the next public sitting. I did not like to refuse, because as yet I have never read a paper in public, and they might have thought that it was affectation. The essay treats of translation, and contains some home-thrusts at Wolf’s system; but I do not know if any one noticed them. Who do you think sat opposite to me, listening with great attention?—Kotzebue; he is the very man we saw in the box at the theatre.

Dear love, how very little, in fact, I have done since you have been away! Four sermons only, and this essay, besides a few insignificant researches, and the current business, and yet I am not at all intent on improvement, but, on the contrary, am speculating upon how I shall manage to save time to devote to you. My chief hope is based upon the probability that the mesmerizing will soon become unnecessary, and that I shall then not be obliged to go to town in the afternoon. God knows, however, whether I shall really be able to manage this, as I have determined to undertake the editorship of the Correspondent. I could not do otherwise, for, in the contrary case, the paper must have ceased to appear, and it is a matter of too great importance to Reimer. It will entail a good deal of worry on me, I know; work to which I am not accustomed, and which I shall not at first know how to set about, and quarrels with the Government and the silly censorship. And who knows as yet what Niebuhr will say to it? However, I console myself with the thought that I am doing it from the most disinterested motives, and at a great sacrifice… . .

Schleiermacher to Georg Reimer.

[CCCXCIII.] Berlin, 24th July, 1813.

In regard to the Correspondent, dear friend, matters go on only so so. I receive very little assistance except from R——, who is pretty industrious; but as long as he remains in Wolgast, I am afraid his contributions will always come too late, as has hitherto been the case with his most important articles. However, he writes that he is about to proceed to Stralsund, and then, I dare say, he will be of greater use to us. A few days ago, Niebuhr sent for the first time a contribution, which was but of slight importance; but he promises something better shortly. We shall see if he keeps his word. The persons acquainted with the court and others also are negligent, and the Government seems to be displeased, and does not even forward official notices. It is to be hoped, however, that now that the Chancellor has left, this will be corrected; for Sack, I think, is well inclined. I have no doubt that this displeasure is connected with the persecution to which I have been subjected, in consequence of the well-known article in No. 60; and this, again, with the dissolution of the Landsturm, and with Bärensprung’s transportation to Pillau. All these matters hang on one string, and this is what is called a decisive victory over Stein’s party. Such are the first-fruits of Scharnhorst’s death; but, never mind, the good cause will, nevertheless, be triumphant. My mishap has only served to amuse me; it is too absurd to cause me any real annoyance. Schuckmann, who had received a cabinet order to give me a severe reprimand, and to threaten me with dismissal, should I repeat the offence, began in the most angry and savage tone, and even accused me of high treason; but concluded with repeated assurances that he considered me a most upright man and sincere well-wisher to my country, and with a very quiet conversation about how far liberty of the press should go in regard to newspapers. My imperturbable self-possession, and the explanation of a misunderstanding in connection with an old affair in which he believed I had personally insulted him, produced a very evident effect on him. I reserved to myself the right of delivering in a written defence; I dare say he will consign it to the record office, but I will take care that it shall become known to the public.

It is very desirable, in respect to the Correspondent, that you should come yourself, and put everything in order. The Landsturm being now dissolved, Göschen might, indeed, find time to attend to it; but, for the first, I should not like to retire immediately after this affair; and for the second, I fear that Göschen would draw back within the former limits, which would not at all be good for the paper. Therefore, if no better person can be found, I will continue the editorship as well as I can during the next quarter, after the lapse of which, I hope some other plan may be devised. For should I be obliged in winter to carry on the lecturing business more seriously than at present, it would be impossible for me to continue.

As regards public matters, I trust you will not lose courage. The rumours of peace are gradually dying away; but, on the other hand, it is to be supposed that, if Austria joins the alliance, the Russians will play a more secondary part, and will, perhaps, only have to carry on the siege. Mendelssohn, who has been here long enough to be able to tell you everything, will probably do so; and I will, therefore, not spend time in pondering upon what might be most interesting to you to know. Farewell, may God preserve your health and courage! Eichhorn is said to be seeking an appointment in the army. I hope it is not true; but if he could get a high appointment in the commissarium, I should be very glad. However, I suppose that is not to be thought of.

Schleiermacher to Charlotte von Kathen.

[CCCXCIV.] 4th April, 1814.

It is very long since I have written to you, dear Charlotte; but Jette, I know, has from time to time kept you informed of my health and of our entire life. Lured by the fine weather, we are again happily established in the garden-house; and my first enterprise in the morning is a walk, I may truly say, amid the verdure, for everything is budding and bursting into leaf, and in a few days, the alders will be in blossom. My work, on the contrary, does not progress so well; but for this, the world-events are more to blame than nature. Good God! how much blood is again being shed, all because of misapplied magnanimity, and how long may it not be before we can hope for peace! Yet God’s finger is too evident, throughout our present history, to allow of our doubting that, though it may be through severe trials, it will, ultimately, lead to that consummation which we have hitherto hoped for in vain. Half of what ought to have been accomplished during the former war, in regard to external as well as internal matters, has still to be done; and even should the measures be carried out at present, we may believe that it would not have taken place under any other circumstances; in like manner, as many persons would never have been able to see through the baseness of the French, had it not been for what has now occurred. Our domestic life, however, will, I think, not be exposed to the same interruptions as during the last years; and I shall hardly be induced to separate myself again from wife and children, although we may be placing a secret enemy in our rear, by allowing the King of Saxony to be reinstated at Dresden. But fearful things will and must still take place on other points… …

I hope you will see our Arndt often, and that you will derive much pleasure from his society. You will, I am sure, find his mind and heart as fresh as ever. Among you, I dare say, he is even more thoroughly in his element than here. I only wish that he could obtain a settled position in life—although I do not see how it is to be accomplished—and then, what is more, a domestic circle of his own. After all, dearest Lotte, this is and ever will be the most important thing in life, and I thank God daily for my Jette and the children. However, the thought that they will most likely not have me long with them, sometimes makes me very sad.

Give my heartiest regards to all your people.

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Footnotes

1. As long as he inhabited the official residence in the Cannoneer Street, Schleiermacher used to live in summer in a small house near the Schafgraben, outside the Potsdam Gate, the large garden attached to which bordered on the Thiergarten; but the greater part of his business he transacted in town. ↩

2. Schleiermacher’s brother Carl was then established as an apothecary in Schmiedeberg, where he was much respected as an able pharmaceutist and chemist. ↩

3. Schleiermacher was at that time member of the department for Public Instruction, under the Ministry of the Interior, which was presided over by the minister Von Shuckmann. ↩

4. It may be found in Schleiermacher’s Works, sect. 3, vol. ii., p. 207. ↩