On the Heights Part 144

Courageously to forego the world--I think I have read the expression somewhere; but now I understand it. I feel it within myself and am carrying it out; not timidly, not sadly,--but courageously.

I am no longer sad. The calm satisfaction with which I resign the world emanc.i.p.ates me.

When I look at life, I ask myself: "Why all these struggles and all these barriers, until we come to the last barrier of all, unto death itself?" The great heroes of history and my little pitchman--not one of them had the odds of fortune in his favor. No destiny is completely and purely fulfilled.

Old Jochem said his prayers every day, and would often pa.s.s whole hours thus employed; yet he would curse mankind and his own fate. And I have known ladies of quality, who, after listening in rapt ecstasy to the music of Beethoven, would dispute and wrangle after the most vulgar fashion.

"Courageously to forego." The words are ever haunting me. Thanks for this precept, kind spirit, whoever thou mayst be! To live out the day and not allow it to be darkened by the knowledge that night must come, to forego with courage--that is the sum of all.

I never would have believed that I could live without joy, without pleasures; but now I see that I can. Joy and pleasure are not the conditions upon which my life is based.

We have it in our power to attune the mind to cheerfulness; that is, to calmness and clearness.

How many years was it that Hermione, of the "Winter's Tale," remained hidden? I have quite forgotten.

I am constantly reminded, while at work, of various pa.s.sages, of the solos, the great choruses, and even the instrumental accompaniments, in Mozart's "Magic Flute." They fill the silent air with their sounds, and bear me aloft.

Above all, the appeal, "Be steadfast!" with the three short notes, d, e, d, and the trumpet-blast that follows, is ever sounding in my ears like some spiritual watchword. The highest truths should be conveyed by music alone, and would thus become more forcible and enduring. Be steadfast--

I am again trying to solve the enigma of life.

Man may not do all that he can, or to which he feels impelled. Since he is human, he must recognize the limit of his rights before he reaches the limit of his powers.

At court they often discussed the saying: "Right before might." I have melted down the phrase in the alembic of thought. I have coined it anew.

How beautiful is the legend of paradise! The first human pair were placed there; as far as their powers went, everything, with a single exception, was permitted to them--and the fruit tempted them. But there is no paradise. The beast alone possesses what may be termed paradise.

It is free to do whatever it can. As long, however, as there is a prohibition which man, as a moral being, must know, there can be no paradise, for perfect freedom is at an end.

What I mean is this: self-consciousness is gained by overstepping the barrier. It is eating of the fruit of the tree of knowledge. From that moment, man's joys are no longer provided for him. He must create them, either from within himself or from his surroundings. Now he begins to wrestle with nature, and his life becomes one of deeds. Work, whether directed to self-perfection or intended to benefit the world, is a second creation.

My every thought seems as if it were an inarticulate, stammering attempt to express the words of knowledge.

The little world around me and the so-called great world that still lives in my memory, now seem to me as if illumined and rendered transparent by the golden sunlight.

To perceive the barriers, and thus recognize the necessity of law, is liberty. I am free at last.

I did well in going out into the world again. Or do I merely think so because I feel that I have done right? I am a freer being now. I have ceased to be the poor soul that longed to return to the world. My life is no longer a h.e.l.l. I could now return to the world without fear. Now that I can courageously forego it, I do not feel the privation. Oh, how presumptuous we are to imagine that others need us! I, too, no longer need any one.

The telegraph wires are being put up between here and my forest view.

The busy doings of the great world are now to pa.s.s by me. I can see men on the ladders, fastening the wires to the high poles.

Walpurga tells me that my voice is quite hoa.r.s.e, but I feel quite well.

Perhaps it is because I speak so little, sometimes pa.s.sing whole days without uttering a word.

The cool, pure breezes that I inhale every morning are like a refreshing draught, and the blue of the sky is far deeper up here.

Gunther once told me that I am of an unrhythmic temperament. He was in the right. If I were not, I would now express my deepest thoughts in melodious words. I feel so happy, so free, that my thoughts could find proper expression in poetry alone.

Although Hansei has now been in possession for a long while, he seems grateful for everything. It makes him happy to know that he is able to buy fine cows and pretty bells for them, and this grat.i.tude for his good fortune lends an inner tenderness to his rough exterior.

(August 28th.)--After long, sunless days of deathlike torpor, the sky is bright and clear again. The snowy peaks, the green hills and the valleys are bathed in sunshine. I feel as if I must fly away and soar through s.p.a.ce; but I remain here and work; for, as my work was faithful to me in dark days, so shall I remain faithful to it in bright ones. I shall only wander forth when evening comes and work is at an end. This is Goethe's birthday. I think Goethe would have been friendly toward me, if I had lived in his time and near him.

It is pleasant, after all, that we know the hour of his birth. It was at noon. I write these lines during the very hour, and my thoughts are of him.

What would he have counseled me to do with my lost life?

Is it a lost life?--It is not.

Franz has returned from the target-shooting and was the hero of the occasion. What shouts of joy and triumph! He gained the first prize, a fine rifle. The target, riddled with bullets, is displayed before our house.

A falling leaf in autumn--how many bright summer days and mild nights were required to perfect it? What was it while it hung on the tree?

What is it now, when it falls to the ground?

And what is the result of a whole human life, when summed up in a few sentences?

How many feet is our farm above the level of the sea? I do not know, and Hansei would smile to think of one's asking such a question. We perform our duty on the little spot of earth on which we dwell. Its effect flows out into the great sea of humanity and of history, without any interference of ours. The brook goes on in its course, driving the mill-wheels, irrigating the meadows, and is at last swallowed up in the ocean, whence come the clouds and storms that again feed the brook.

In spite of all that I grew up to, all that, in a course of years, I have practiced, acted, or thought, I cannot help regarding myself as a block of wood--even now, I know not what will become of me, or who will hew me into shape.

I have a beautiful task on hand--a piece of work that will remain and be a constant pleasure to me--work for our own house.