1841
1841
Oct. 25.15 . . . You say, “what I have lost or rather what I have deprived myself of,” what I have lost, oh, how should you know or understand it. When it is mentioned the best thing you can do is to remain silent—and how should anyone know it better than I who have made the whole of my tremendously reflective soul into as agreeable a frame as possible for her pure depths—my dark thoughts—my melancholy dreams, my brilliant expectations—and above all my inconstancy, in short all that brilliance by the side of her depths—and when I reeled from looking down into her infinite devotion, for there is indeed nothing so infinite as love—or when her feelings did not sink into the depths—but danced above in the easy play of love—
What I have lost, the only thing I loved; what I have lost, in the eyes of men my word of honour; what I have lost, what I still and always shall, and without fearing that shock, stake my honour, my happiness, my pride in—being faithful. . . . Yet at the present moment as I write this, in a cabin shaken by the double movement of a steam-packet, my soul is as shaken as my body.
And in the one case in which I so much desired to act, it is melancholy to see myself assigned as my only activity what is usually left to women and children—to pray.
You say: she was beautiful. Oh what do you know about it; I know it, for her beauty cost me tears—I myself bought flowers with which to adorn her, I would have hung all the adornments of the world upon her, though only as they served to bring out all the hidden beauty within—and as she stood there in all her array—I had to go—as her joyful look, so full of life, met mine—1 had to go—and I went out and wept bitterly.
How great is womanly devotion.—But the curse which rests upon me is never to be allowed to let anyone deeply and inwardly join themselves to me. God in heaven knows how often I have suffered when with childish glee I thought out a plan which I thought would really please her, and then had to make it a principle never to carry out anything in the joy of the moment, but wait until understanding and shrewdness had forbidden it, for fear of drawing her nearer to me. My relation to her may, I truly believe, be called unhappy love—I love her—I own her—her only wish is to remain with me—her family implore me—it is my greatest wish—and I have to say no. In order to make it easier for her I will, if possible, make her believe that I simply deceived her, that I am a frivolous man, so as if possible to make her hate me; for I believe that it would always be more difficult for her if she suspected that the cause was melancholy—how like are melancholy and frivolity.
How my pride is humbled because I am not able to return to her. I had set all my pride on being faithful to her, and yet I dare not be so. I am not accustomed to besmirching my honour—it has always been a point of honour with me to remain faithful. And yet in her eyes I am a deceiver, and that is the only way of setting right again what I have done wrong. I have held my ground with a terrible consistency, in spite of all my own inner desires, for I do not heed the outward temptations of men who would interfere with me. And yet there is still a fear which tortures me. Supposing she really becomes convinced that I deceived her, supposing she falls in love with someone else, which I must naturally wish for in many ways—supposing she then suddenly discovers that I really loved her, that I had done so out of love for her, inwardly convinced that it must end badly or that with the greatest joy in the world, and thanks to God, I would share my happiness with her and not my sorrow—then the last would be worse than the first.
I saw a pretty girl to-day-but it does not interest me any more—I do not wish it—no husband can be more faithful to his wife than I am to her. At the same time it is good for me; those little romances distracted me a good deal.
Passion is the real thing, the real measure of man’s power. And the age in which we live is wretched, because it is without passion. If, as the good Jonas Olsen16 wrote in that memorable note, he really could hate as none has hated before, then I should consider myself fortunate in having been contemporary with him, fortunate in having become the object of that hate,—that is a real fight.
Here in Berlin a Demoiselle Hedevig Schulze, a Viennese singer, plays the part of Elvira. She is quite pretty, and acts her part vigorously,—in her movements, stature, dress (black silk dress, bare neck, white gloves), she bears a striking resemblance to a young lady I once knew.
. . . And when God wishes to bind a man to him he calls his most faithful servant, his most trustworthy messenger, and it is sorrow, and says to him : hasten after him, overtake him, do not leave his side (. . . and no woman can attach herself more closely to the man she loves than sorrow).