Being in very ill-health, Schleiermacher undertook, in August, 1817, a tour of recreation in Thuringia, during which he wrote the subjoined letters to his wife.
Schleiermacher to his Wife.
[CCCCI.] Dessau, Saturday Evening, August, 1817.
From Potsdam and Belitz I might have written the most charming letters: since then I have grown more and more lazy, and am now so thoroughly incrustated that I look upon my present act of writing as one of great heroism. I have now only a faint recollection of how sad and yet how happy and grateful I felt then under the beautiful vault of heaven, with the heavy rain-clouds near the horizon from which burst forth flashes of lightning from time to time, while over my head the stars shone out brightly. But I seemed quite ridiculous in my own eyes, indeed almost wicked, when I thought of how, without any real object in view, but merely following a blind instinct, I had torn myself away from you all and thrown myself into the carriage. What I remember best of all is a funny misadventure in consequence of which I might have been safely and soundly lodged with you again this morning. The driver from Berlin, being unacquainted with the post station at Belitz, drove in at the wrong end of the shed, so that the horses’ heads were turned towards Potsdam and Berlin. Fortunately, just as I was about to get into the carriage again, I remembered the story of the Jew from Lissa who was going to Leipzig, and I cried out to the postilion: “Take care and don’t drive me to Potsdam.” He stared, and answered: “Not to Potsdam! to what place then?” In short, the whole expedition had been made out for Potsdam, and all the entries had to be made over again.
This little land, Dessau, has made the usual delightful impression upon me; but at the present moment it appears to me like an orphan, because of the old duke’s death. I shall proceed farther at once, and hope to get some hours’ sleep in Halle. After that I shall be more brisk, but by that time the mail will have left, and I have therefore preferred to write these lines from this place. God preserve you, my only beloved, and the whole house. Continue to love your roving husband.
[CCCCII.] Gotha, 27th August, 1817.
Dearest wife, I found your two letters of 19th and 23rd instant awaiting me here. I could not refrain from tears on reading them; but they were unmixed tears of joy; for they did not begin to flow until, having finished perusing your letter, I began to read those from the young ones. Dear heart! how blessed are we in every way, and how full of joyful thankfulness we ought to be. Afterwards, I felt a little sad again in thinking of the special matters mentioned by you. Previously all my thoughts of you had been cheerful, because at a distance we only see things as a whole, and I felt assured that no evil would befall you and the little folks. The lower sphere of the servants never came into my mind… . .
When writing to you from Dessau, dear heart, I was really quite conscious of all my love for you; but you know how driving stupefies me. How much drier still must not my other letters have seemed to you! I only hope that they have not made you sad. If so, you have done me great injustice. Though not exactly exhausted, I arrived at each place in a state of great depression, and the want of rest and the absence of outward comfort in the inns, in addition to this, has no doubt caused me to be so unlike myself. I felt, indeed, that my letters were nothing more than bulletins of my health and notices of my places of rest, and I hoped that you would not expect more from them… . .
We have now accomplished the largest portion of our tour, and since last Wednesday at noon, until to-day at noon, i.e. exactly seven days, we have been constantly in motion, and have certainly travelled upwards of thirty miles. I reserve all details for verbal communication, and will now only tell you, that the journey has in every respect been profitable to me, and I rejoice more especially in the feeling of health that I have derived from it. For I have tried everything, fatigue, thorough wetting, evening air, and constant changes of diet, and I have borne it all well. Blanc, who is full of health and cheerfulness, has never had his patience tried by me, and I have not once felt my stomach, though I have put it to severe trials. Sometimes this has inspired me with the foolish thought that perhaps mental labours are no longer suited for my age and my bodily powers, and that it is time that I should think of a country parsonage, where I could live more amid nature and for myself.1 But then again, when I reflect upon all that I have still to do, and which I think it is my duty to do, I give up the thought, and hope that, even in spite of mental labours, I shall be able, with care, to preserve my health some time longer.
Embrace the children for me, and tell them that the long walks in the mountains make father so tired that he can only write to mother.