On the Heights Part 131

Because it was a proof of his power, and he adorned my hat with the token of his victory. Ah, woe is me!

Why does this grief constantly return to me?

We women are never alone in nature. This is only another proof of the deep truth that lies in the old tradition. Man, created first, was alone; but woman, who came afterward, never existed alone. This repeats itself through the history of all nations, and a perplexing mystery is at last revealed to me.

In the world of fashion, just as in the park, the traces of footsteps are effaced by obsequious servants. There must be nothing to remind us of yesterday.

And yet their life is to form a part of history.

To cease evil, is not doing good.

I would like to accomplish some great deed. But where?

Within myself alone.

My little pitchman is quite a changed being when among scenes of nature. He does not love nature. To use his own words, it merely amuses him. He delights in the most trifling peculiarities of bird-life, and how well he knows all the birds!

(Many rainy days.)--I long for the sun, and am almost dying for the want of it. I feel as if I were fading, as if perishing with thirst--I cannot live without the sun. It is my debtor for the lovely May days of which I have been deprived. I must have them; they are my only comfort.

If I remain thus dependent upon the weather, permitting every cloud to darken my mind, and every shower to chill me with the feeling that I am forsaken, it were far better I were lying at the bottom of the lake, and that the boatman were telling those whom he was ferrying across: "Far below us, lies a young maid of honor."--I have once before bade farewell to the sun, and I mean to be independent of it.

There are beings who know nothing of rain and sunshine, and yet live.

But there are, also, others who are filled with dew-forming power--but they are the calm, self-contained, powerful natures, whose life is an inner, rather than an outer, one.

(June 12th.)--After many hot days, there was rain last night. The drops are still glittering on every leaf and flower. Oh, the delightful morning that has succeeded the nocturnal storm! To have fully enjoyed such a morning is worth the trouble of living.

Jochem has a lark in a cage--he must have something shut up with him.

The lark affords me great delight. There are but few of them up here, for we have nothing but meadow land. They love to hover over the fields of grain down in the valley.

After the midsummer solstice, the woods become silent. The sun now merely ripens, and has ceased to call forth blossoms and song. The finch alone keeps up his merry lay.

From my window, I can see the white foal grazing in the meadow. He knows me. When I look up, he stands still for a while and looks at me, and then dashes. .h.i.ther and thither at a furious rate. I have named him Wodan, and when I call him by that name, he comes to me.

I have sketched the foal, and am now carving it in birch. I think I shall succeed, but wood is obstinate, awkward stuff, after all. I lose my patience on slight provocation. I must try to overcome this.

Yesterday was a year since I lay at the foot of the rock. I could not write a word. My brain whirled with the thoughts of that day; but now it is over.

I don't think I shall write much more. I have now experienced all the seasons in my new world. The circle is complete. There is nothing new to come from without. I know all that exists about me, or that can happen. I am at home in my new world.

Unto Jesus the scribes and pharisees brought a woman who was to be stoned to death, and he said unto them: "Let him that is without sin among you, cast the first stone."

Thus it is written.

But I ask: How did she continue to live? She who was saved from being stoned to death; she who was pardoned, that is, condemned to live? How did she live on? Did she return to her home? How did she stand with the world? And how with her own heart?

No answer. None.

I must find the answer in my own experience.

"Let him that is without sin among you, cast the first stone." These are the n.o.blest, the greatest words ever uttered by human lips, or heard by human ear. They divide the history of the human race into two parts. They are the "let there be light" of the second creation. They divide and heal my little life, too, and create me anew.

Has one who is not wholly without sin, a right to offer precepts and reflections to others?

Look into your own heart. What are you?

Behold my hands. They are hardened by toil. I have done more than merely lift them in prayer.

Since I am alone, I have not seen a letter of print. I have no book and wish for none, and this is not in order to mortify myself, but because I wish to be perfectly alone.

She who renounces the world, and, in her loneliness, still cherishes the thought of eternity, has a.s.sumed a heavy burden.