Minna/Book 5, Chapter 1
My hand shook so violently while I lighted the lamp that I very nearly broke the chimney.
There was no mistake. On the table-cloth was lying the big strange letter, containing life or death, or what seemed to me much more glorious, and much more terrible, than life or death. For a moment I had the greatest inclination to run away. Then I nervously tore open the envelope.
The first thing that met my eye was the pencil drawing of Minna.
Just as suddenly as the image of Portia in the lead casket revealed to Bassanio his happy choice, so in the same manner did these lovely features announce my unfortunate lot.
The room swam round before me. I sat down on the sofa and took up the letter. The words danced and spread out before my eyes; two or three minutes passed before I could read—
"My dear tenderly loved Friend,—It is all over! I must be his. I have lingered and would still like to linger, but I feel that it will not be otherwise. I feel powerless to break with my first youth, to take your dear hand and start anew, and I should have to write a whole book if I would tell you all that moves me. But at the same time it appears to me that after this everything I can write to you is of no account, and besides you know it all. There is only one thing which I must tell you in order that you shall not misunderstand me.
"I have not taken this decision because I expect to be more happy with Stephensen than with you; on the contrary—no, it really is impossible to explain myself properly, still, after all, perhaps you have understood me. I mean to say that it is not regard for myself which has decided me, and—yes, I mean especially—(it was therefore I wrote 'on the contrary!') that if there were no past, no reproaches to be felt, or, in short, had it been something quite fresh that began, then I should have been much more certain of being happy with you than with him. But, do you see, now, as it is, I should not be able to make you happy, as you deserve. I should feel a traitor towards my first love. It is true that this feeling perhaps might cease; but circumstances might also arise that made it unnaturally intense, and with your tender loving nature you would in that case suffer terribly under it.
"Perhaps you think I start with over-strained ideas of Stephensen, when I fear to have too much to reproach myself with, if I leave him. Not at all! I know quite well that he will not do himself any harm, and that one would hardly be able to say that I even made him unhappy, though he really loves me passionately; but perhaps I should still do him irreparable harm. A nature like his is exposed to many dangers. It is difficult to make clear to you what I mean; I might easily seem vain, conceited, or overrate my influence—though no, you think much better of me than I deserve, perhaps you, in return, think too little of him. I can only say that he himself fully and firmly believes that a union with me, and only with me, will act ennoblingly (I really am ashamed to write it, but it is his own expression) on his character and art. In the past I myself sometimes thought the same, at least not exactly like that, only that marriage and family life may do an artist good, bind him more closely to humanity and infuse warmth into his art. I express myself badly, but hope you will understand, but in those days (as we have openly discussed, when he lived here and I hoped that he would marry me)—in those days he always stuck to his idea that an artist must be free, without such ties; he had so much to struggle with in relation to his ideal of art. Now he has come to my view, he has learnt, he says, that he cannot be without me; he hardens, gets narrow, has nothing to live for, he stretches out his hand for me, the very hand which has pulled me up out of a moral dullness and the swamp of nothingness. And now is it possible for me to refuse him?—No, no!—You see, it is my duty and my destiny yes, my destiny!
"May God make it so that we may meet and be together, many years hence, when time has taken away the passion. The friendship it cannot touch; I know that neither of us can forget the other. But I suppose you will have to live abroad; it would be too much happiness to have you near by as friend.
"Farewell, my beloved friend, farewell!
I read the letter through several times. Its loving tone calmed my pain—yes, there was even a moment when it called forth in me a certain renunciation. But the reaction soon followed.
"No, I will not, I do not recognise this settlement. What is it? It is I whom she loves—I! With him it is nothing but a reminiscence and duty yes, and 'a destiny'! A nice destiny! To lay her fresh warm life as a plaster on his blasé existence.… But it is, of course, my own fault! Why did I not take the settlement into my own hands? What a fool I have been! All this scrupulousness and generosity and care, that wind and sun were equally shifted; it was nothing but pretence for want of will; and so I allowed myself to be overawed by him. He has indeed 'pleaded his cause,' as she said that day. 'He could not be without her'—no, I should think not, when he has had enough of the flighty girls and been thrown over by rich coquettes, then he has come to think whether 'the best one' might not still be got—for old acquaintance sake. Or perhaps does it only come to this: he could not bear that another one got her, that is the real truth, I suppose."
Yes, I have been a weakling, a young fool! Would a man have given up such a woman?
In this way I scourged myself—yes, I even reproached myself for not having that night in Schandau gone to her room, then she would have been mine and no choice left her; I forgot that in order to let this happen, we should both have required different natures. For the nearer an action lies to its opposite, the deeper is often the natural barrier that parts them.
But now, what was to be done? Go to her, take back my words, bind her by her promise and be myself responsible for all, past and future? Yes, but where was I to find her? It was likely that she was no longer in Meissen, or in any case that I should not find her there to-morrow.
My head was aching, my confused thoughts jumped nervously here and there. It was not possible for me to keep my mind fixed to anything. How I needed to seek counsel with somebody, some person with more mature experience! My motherly friend, Mrs. Hertz, seemed my only refuge.
Yes, I would confide everything to her at once.