More out of sorts than ever, because my ailment had made itself felt quite violently after my last meal, I accompanied the doctor on his rounds. The carefree way in which our venerable teacher led us from bed to bed; his precise comment on important symptoms; altogether, his ideas on the course of an illness, the beautiful Hippocratic method with which he expounded the science, without theorizing, just from his own experience, and the final remarks with which he usually brought his lecture to a magnificent conclusion—all this drew me to him and made a strange subject, at which I was merely peering as through a slit, more attractive to me. My revulsion to sick people lessened constantly the more I learned to transform a condition of illness into a conception through which healing and the restoration of the human body was made possible. The doctor probably looked upon me as a peculiar young man and forgave me the anomaly that attracted me to his classes. On this particular day, he did not end his lecture as usual with a theory that concerned the illness under observation, but said blithely, “Gentlemen, we have a few days of vacation ahead of us. Use them to refresh yourselves. Your studies should be treated not only with earnestness and diligence—they require gaiety and freedom of spirit as well. Give your bodies some exercise, too. Wander through the beautiful countryside on foot or on horseback. If you are a native, you will enjoy the accustomed beauties, and whoever is a stranger will gain new impressions and have happy memories.”
There really were only two of us at whom this advice could have been aimed; all I can hope is that the prescription was as clear to the others! I thought I was listening to a voice direct from heaven and went off as fast as I could to order a horse and spruce myself up. I sent for Weyland, but he was nowhere to be found. This didn’t deter me, but unfortunately I was held up by final arrangements and didn’t get away as early as I had hoped. I rode my horse hard; still, night had fallen before I reached my destination. However, the way was clear and the moon lighted up my passionate exploit for me. The night was windy and eerie, and I spurred my horse on so that I would not have to wait until morning to see her.
It was late when I stabled my horse in Sesenheim. The innkeeper, in reply to my question as to whether there was still light in the parsonage, assured me that the girls had only just gone home. He thought he had heard them say that they were expecting someone. This didn’t suit me at all; I had hoped to be the only one. I hurried over so as at least to be the first to arrive, however late. I found the two sisters sitting outside. They didn’t seem at all surprised to see me, but I was when I heard Friederike whisper to Olivia, but loud enough for me to hear, “What did I tell you? There he is!” They led me indoors and I found some refreshment waiting for me. Their mother greeted me like an old friend, but the older girl burst out laughing when she saw me in the light—she had very little control over herself.
After this first, rather amazing, reception, the conversation was at once free and gay, and whatever remained hidden that evening was disclosed to me next day. Friederike had predicted that I would come, and who does not feel satisfaction when his prophecy is fulfilled, even when it is a sad one? All presentiments, when confirmed by events, give a man a higher conception of himself. They make him feel that either he is so perceptive he can sense things that are still far off or so discerning that he is aware of a logical yet still-obscured chain of events.
Friederike called me to go for a walk very early in the morning. Mother and sister were busy preparing for a number of guests. I enjoyed a glorious Sunday morning in the country at the side of my dear girl, just as Hebel, that priceless poet, has immortalized for us. She described the company they were expecting and begged me to stand by and help her see to it that all festivities were enjoyed communally and with a certain sense for order. Usually, she explained, people tended to scatter, and fun and games were enjoyed only superficially, so that in the end some people found nothing better to do than play cards, and others sought a wilder outlet in dancing.
We therefore concocted a plan for what should take place before and after lunch, and initiated each other into all sorts of new party games. We got along famously, and were of good cheer when the church bells called us to service. At her side I didn’t find the vicar’s dry sermon at all long.
The nearness of a beloved serves always to shorten time, yet this hour passed quickly for me also because of my own specific reflections. I went over all the girl’s fine qualities in my mind as they unfolded before my eyes—her sunny nature, her quite conscious naïveté, which was gaiety combined with circumspection. They were qualities that didn’t seem to go together, yet in her they did, and they also made her physically beautiful. But then I had to apply the same serious reflections to myself, and this tended to mar any carefree gaiety on my part.
Since the passionate girl had cursed and blessed my lips,6 I had been careful not to kiss another girl out of superstition, because I feared I might harm her in some incomprehensible and uncanny fashion. I therefore fought down every desire that impels a young man to wrest this mixed blessing from some charming girl or other. But apparently even in this very respectable company, such burdensome temptation awaited me. Even those so-called harmless games that serve to assemble and unite a lively group of young people are for the most part based on forfeits, and a kiss is considered one of the most important media of exchange. I had made up my mind once and for all not to kiss, and since any lack or handicap can incite us to activities for which we would otherwise feel no inclination, I now summoned every talent I had and all my wit to get by without kissing, yet at the same time gain rather than lose in the eyes of the company. When the forfeit was to be redeemed by a verse, I was usually called upon. On such occasions I was always prepared and could come up with something in praise of the hostess or one of the girls who had been nice to me. If I happened to be saddled with a kiss, I tried to wriggle out of it with a witty remark that usually satisfied everyone just as well. Since I had time to think about it beforehand, I was not short of a variety of compliments, although they really come off best when they are spontaneous.
When we reached home, the guests, who had arrived from various directions, were already milling around merrily. Friederike assembled them, suggested a walk to her beautiful spot, and led the way. Here they found refreshments and were happy to play games until it was time for lunch. With Friederike’s consent—although she knew nothing of my secret—I was able to set up and lead off in games that did not include forfeits.
My ingeniousness was all the more necessary since this group of people, all of whom were strangers to me, might very soon have suspected a more intimate relationship between me and the dear girl, and tried playfully to force upon me just what I was secretly trying to avoid. For if any incipient inclination between young people is noticed by a group like this, they will always try to embarrass them or bring the two closer, just as efforts are usually bent toward separating people who have disclosed a passion for each other. In any case, it is a matter of complete indifference to the sociable man whether he is being helpful or harmful, as long as he is being entertained.
On this particular morning, I paid a great deal of attention to Friederike and gained an insight into the essence of her nature that was never to change. The especially friendly greetings of the peasants revealed the fact that they liked her and that she made them feel at ease. In the house, Olivia was helping her mother. Nothing that required physical strength was demanded of Friederike. She was treated with consideration, I was told, because she had a weak chest.
There are women who are at their best in a room, others who shine outdoors. Friederike was one of the latter. Her personality and appearance were never more attractive than when she moved across an elevated footpath. The charm of her behavior seemed to vie with the fruitful earth, the indestructible gaiety of her expression with the blue sky. She brought the refreshing air home with her, and I soon discovered that she could also allay confusion and erase any poor impression made by petty little incidents.
The lover??
?s purest joy is to see his beloved charm others. Friederike’s behavior at the party pleased everyone. On our walks she seemed to tread on air like an enlivening spirit, back and forth, knowing just how to fill in gaps every now and then. I have already mentioned how liltingly she walked, but she was most graceful when she ran. Just as the deer seems to be fulfilling its destiny completely when it flies lightly across the sprouting seed, she seemed to demonstrate her nature most clearly when she ran lightly over hill and dale to fetch something forgotten, to search for something lost, to call back a couple who had strayed away or order something that was necessary, in the course of which she was never out of breath and never got excited. I therefore felt that her parents’ anxiety about her chest may have been a little exaggerated.
Her father, who occasionally accompanied us across the meadows and fields, didn’t always find the right company. I therefore joined him and of course we got involved in his favorite topic, the proposed rebuilding of the parsonage. He was especially annoyed about the fact that he couldn’t get the carefully drawn plans back. He wanted to give them some more thought and come up with this or that improvement. I replied that it would be easy to replace them and offered to draw a ground plan myself, which would after all have to be the starting point for everything else. This seemed to please him. The schoolmaster was to help with the measurements, and the vicar hurried off then and there to suggest this to him, so that he would have his yardstick ready early the next morning.
When he had left, Friederike said, “It is very good of you to cater to Papa’s weakness, not like the others, who are sick and tired of the topic and either try to avoid him or break away. But I must confess that we don’t really want a new building. It would cost the community too much, and us too. A new house means new furnishings. Our guests would not feel happier in a new house; they are used to the old one. Here we can entertain them lavishly; in the big rooms of a new house we would feel constrained. That’s how it is—but don’t stop being kind to him. I thank you for it with all my heart.”
Another young girl, who had joined us, asked Friederike about several novels. Had she read them? Friederike said she had not; altogether she had not done much reading. She had been reared in a gay, moral enjoyment of life and was educated in accordance with it. It was on the tip of my tongue to mention The Vicar of Wakefield, but I didn’t dare to offer her the book. The similarities of the situation were too conspicuous and far-reaching. “But I like to read novels,” she said. “One meets such nice people in them. It would be pleasant if one could be like them.”
Next morning we figured out the measurements of the house. It took quite some time, since neither the schoolmaster nor I was very experienced in this art, but in the end we produced a passable sketch. The good old man told me what he had in mind, and was pleased when I departed to finish the plan more conveniently in town. Friederike bade me farewell happily. Now she was sure of my attachment to her, as I was of hers to me, and the six hours that separated us no longer seemed like any distance at all. It was easy to drive to Drusenheim by stagecoach and to keep in touch through it or use the ordinary and the special messenger services, in which latter case George was to be the messenger.
Once I got back to the city, I spent the early morning hours—for there could be no thought any more of long nights spent in sleep—redrawing the plan as neatly as I could. Meanwhile, I sent Friederike some books and accompanied them with a few friendly words. She replied right away, and her light, pretty, generous handwriting delighted me. Content and style were just as natural, good, and affectionate, and what she wrote came from the heart. Thus the pleasant impression she had made on me remained intact and was constantly renewed. I loved to reflect on her sweet personality and nourished the hope of seeing her again soon, and then for a longer time.
Now I no longer needed my good professor’s exhortation. He had cured me with those last words at just the right time and so thoroughly that I was in no hurry to see him and his patients again. My correspondence with Friederike became more and more animated. She invited me to a festival, to which people from the other side of the Rhine had also been invited. I should leave myself time for it. I did so, and sent a sizable bag by stagecoach. In a few hours, I was at her side, where I found a large, jolly crowd. Taking her father aside, I handed him the plan, and he was delighted with it. I discussed with him what had occurred to me while I had been working on it. He was beside himself with pleasure and especially praised the neatness of my drawing. This was something I had practiced since youth, and this time I had taken special pains on the very best paper. Unfortunately, my host’s delight was soon spoiled when, against my advice, but in his sincere pleasure, he showed the plan to those present. Far from expressing the desired enthusiasm, some paid no attention to the precious thing while others, who thought they knew something about draftsmanship, were worse. They criticized the plan as unprofessional, and when the old man wasn’t looking, took my neat drawing and—using it as a rough draft—one of them drew his suggestions for improvement all over the fragile paper with a hard pencil, so crudely that there could be no thought of restoring it to its pristine condition.
I could scarcely console the disgusted old man whose pleasure had been so rudely spoiled, although I tried to assure him that I too had considered the plan something which should be open to discussion and upon which we could construct a new design. Paying no attention to me, he took himself off with his ill humor, and Friederike thanked me for being so attentive to her father and so patient with the rudeness of the guests.
But I didn’t know the meaning of pain or grievance when I was near her. The company consisted of young, rather noisy friends, whom an older gentleman was trying to outdo by holding forth in an even more astonishing fashion. Already at breakfast they had not been sparing with the wine and they lacked for nothing on the laden luncheon table, either. Everyone enjoyed the food, especially after having indulged in physical exercise in rather warm weather. The old magistrate had a little too much to drink, but the young folk didn’t lag far behind him.
I was blissfully happy at Friederike’s side. I was talkative, gay, witty, bold, yet tempered by my feelings for her, and by my respect and devotion. She, who felt the same way for me, was frank, blithe, interested, and communicative. We seemed to have nothing on our minds but the party, yet actually had nothing on our minds but each other.
After lunch, everyone sought the shade, games were played, and the time came for games with forfeits. With the redeeming of the forfeits, all behavior became exaggerated—the pantomime demanded, the tasks that had to be fulfilled—everything that took place reflected a bold joy that seemed to know no bounds. I augmented the wild proceedings with some pranks of my own, and Friederike shone with her droll ideas. To me she seemed more adorable than ever. All my hypochondriac, superstitious foibles had disappeared, and when the opportunity came to kiss my dearly beloved warmly, I did not avoid it; even less did I avoid a repetition of the pleasure.
Everyone was hoping that there would be music; at last we could hear it, and all of us hurried off to dance. The allemande—waltzing and turning—was the beginning, middle, and end of our dancing. Everyone had grown up with this folk dance, and I did ample honor to the two girls who had taught me. Friederike, who danced as she walked, jumped, and ran, was delighted to find such a good partner in me. She danced with me most of the time, but soon had to stop because she was being advised from all sides to calm down. We compensated ourselves by taking a walk alone, hand in hand, and by a warm embrace at her tranquil resting place, where we exchanged assurances that we loved each other deeply.
Some old people who had left the games brought us back. During the evening refreshments, we found just as little time to ourselves. The dancing continued until late in the night, and there were as many toasts and temptations to drink more as there had been at noon.
I had slept only a few hours when my hot, tumultuous blood roused me. It is at such times and under such circumstances th
at anxiety and remorse tend to overwhelm the defenseless man as he lies stretched out in his bed. My imagination conjured up the liveliest visions. I saw Lucinda: how she had drawn back from me after kissing me passionately, her cheeks glowing, her eyes sparkling, pronouncing the curse that was intended to threaten only her sister, yet with it unwittingly menacing strangers and innocents. I could see Friederike facing her, pale, petrified at the sight of her, feeling the effects of a curse of which she knew nothing. And I saw myself in the middle, incapable of rejecting the spiritual effects of that adventure or of averting that accursed kiss. Friederike’s frailty seemed to hasten the threatened disaster, and my love for her now appeared to me as most unfortunate. I wished myself a thousand miles away.
But I won’t conceal what lay even more painfully in the back of my mind. I was, to a degree, made conceited by the superstition. My lips, blessed or accursed, seemed more significant than before, and I was conscious with no less self-satisfaction of the attitude of self-denial with which I had rejected many innocent joys, partly to preserve that magical advantage, partly to avoid hurting a harmless creature if I renounced it.