Dearest,--Your letter came this afternoon. How glad I was to get it. AndI do think it a good idea to go down into the country to those Americansbefore your exam. Who knows but they may, by giving you peace at theright moment, be the means of making you pass extra brilliantly? Thatyou should not pass at all is absolutely out of the question. Why havethe gods showered gifts on you if not for the proper passing of exams?For I suppose in this as in everything else there are different ways,ways of excellence and mediocrity. I know which way yours will be. Ifonly the presence of my spirit by your side on Saturday could be of use.But that's the worst of spirits: they never seem to be the least goodunless they take their bodies with them. Yet mine burns so hotly when Iam thinking of you--and when am I not thinking of you?--that I feel asif you actually must feel the glow of it as it follows you about. Howstrange and dreadful love is. Till you know it, you are so sure theworld is very good and pleasant up in those serene, frost-bitten regionswhere you stand alone, breathing the thin air of family affection, shoneupon gently by the mild and misty sun of general esteem. Then comeslove, and pulls you down. For isn't it a descent? Isn't it? Somehow,though it is so great a glory, it's a coming-down as well--down from thepride of absolute independence of body and soul, down from thehigh-mightiness of indifference, to something fierce, and hot, andconsuming. Oh, I daren't tell you how little of serenity I have left. Atfirst, just at first, I didn't feel like this. I think I was stunned. Mysoul seemed to stand still. Surely it was extraordinary, thattempestuous crossing from the calm of careless friendship to the placewhere love dashes madly against the rocks? Don't laugh at my images. I'min deadly earnest to-night. I do feel that love hurts. I do feel as ifI'd been thrown on to rocks, left by myself on them to come slowly to mysenses and find I am lying alone in a new and burning sun. It's anexquisite sort of pain, but it's very nearly unbearable. You see, youare so far away. And I, I'm learning for the first time in my life whatit means, that saying about eating out one's heart.
R.-M.
VIII
Jena, Nov. 16th, 9 a.m.
Really, my dear Roger, nicest of all _Braeutigams,_ pleasantest, best,and certainly most charming, I don't think I'll write to you again inthe evenings. One of those hard clear hours that lie roundbreakfast-time will be the most seemly for consecration to you. Moodsare such queer things, each one so distinct and real, so seeminglyeternal, and I am influenced by them to an extraordinary degree. Theweather, the time of day, the light in the room--yes, actually the lightin the room, sunlight, cloudlight, lamplight--the scent of certainflowers, the sound of certain voices--the instant my senses become awareof either of these things I find myself flung into the middle of a freshmood. And the worst part of it is the blind enthusiasm with which I amsure that as I think and feel at that moment so will I think and feelfor ever. Nothing cures me. No taking of myself aside, no weight ofprivate admonishment, no bringing of my spirit within the white glare ofpure reason. Oh, women are fools; and of all fools the most complete ismyself. But that's not what I want to talk about. I want to say that Ihad to go to a _Kaffee-Klatsch_ yesterday at four, which is why I putoff answering your letter of the 13th till the evening. My dear Roger,you must take no notice of that letter. Pray think of me as a youngperson of sobriety; collected, discreet, cold to frostiness. Think of melike that, my dear, and in return I'll undertake to write to you only inmy after-breakfast mood, quite the most respectable I possess. It isnine now. Papa, in the slippers you can't have forgotten, is in hiscorner by the stove, loudly disagreeing with the morning paper; he keepson shouting _Schafskopf._ Johanna is carrying coals about and droppingthem with a great noise. My step-mother is busy telling her how wrong itis to drop dirty coals in clean places. I am writing on a bit of thebreakfast-table, surrounded by crumbs and coffee-cups. I will not clearthem away till I've finished my letter, because then I am sure you'llget nothing either morbid or lovesick. Who, I'd like to know, couldflame into love-talk or sink into the mud of morbidness from astarting-point of anything so sprightly as crumbs and coffee-cups?
It was too sweet of you to compare me to Nausicaa in your letteryesterday. Nobody ever did that before. Various aunts, among whom a fewyears ago there was a great mortality, so that they are all now aunts inheaven, told me in divers tones that I was much too long for my width,that I was like the handle of a broom, like the steeple of the_Stadtkirche_, like a tree walking; but none of them ever said anythingabout Nausicaa. I doubt if they had ever heard of her. I'm afraid ifthey had they wouldn't have seen that I am like her. You know theblindness of aunts. Jena is full of them (not mine, _Gott sei Dank_, butother people's) and they are all stone-blind. I don't mean, of course,that the Jena streets are thick with aunts being led by dogs on strings,but that they have that tragic blindness of the spirit that missesseeing things that are hopeful and generous and lovely; things alightwith young enthusiasms, or beautiful with a patience that has had timeto grow gray. They also have that odd, unfurnished sort of mind that cannever forget and never forgive. Yesterday at the _Kaffee-Klatsch_ I metthem all again, the Jena aunts I know so well and who are yet for everstrange, for ever of a ghastly freshness. It was the first this season,and now I suppose I shall waste many a good afternoon _klatsch_ing. HowI wish I had not to go. My step-mother says that if I do not show myselfI shall be put down as eccentric. 'You are not very popular,' says she,'as it is. Do not, therefore, make matters worse.' Then she appeals,should a more than usual stubbornness cloud my open countenance, toPapa. 'Ferdinand,' she says, 'shall she not, then, do as others of herage?' And of course Papa says, bless him, that girls must see lifeoccasionally, and is quite unhappy if I won't. Life? God bless him for adear, innocent Papa. And how they talked yesterday. Papa would havewrithed. He never will talk or listen to talk about women unless they'vebeen dead some time, so uninteresting, so unworthy of discussion does heconsider all live females except Johanna to be. And if I hadn't had mylove-letter (I took it with me tucked inside my dress, where my heartcould beat against it), I don't think I would have survived that_Klatsch._ You've no idea how proudly I set out. Hadn't I just beenreading the sweetest things about myself in your letter? Of course I wasproud. And I felt so important, and so impressive, and simply gloriouslygood-tempered. The pavement of Jena, I decided as I walked over it, wasquite unworthy to be touched by my feet; and if the passers-by only knewit, an extremely valuable person was in their midst. In fact, my dearRoger, I fancied myself yesterday. Didn't Odysseus think Nausicaa wasArtemis when first he met her among the washing, so god-like did sheappear? Well, I felt god-like yesterday, made god-like by your love. Iactually fancied people would _see_ something wonderful had happened tome, that I was transfigured, _verklaert._ Positively, I had a momentaryfeeling that my coming in, the coming in of anything so happy, mustblind the _Kaffee-Klatsch_, that anything so burning with love mustscorch it. Well, it didn't. Never did torch plunged into wetness go outwith a drearier fizzle than did my little shining. Nobody noticedanything different. Nobody seemed even to look at me. A few carelesshands were stretched out, and the hostess told me to ask the servant tobring more milk.
They were talking about sin. We don't sin much in Jena, so generallythey talk about sick people, or their neighbor's income and what he doeswith it. But yesterday they talked sin. You know because we are poor andPapa has no official position and I have come to be twenty-five withouthaving found a husband, I am a _quantite negligeable_ in our set, abeing in whose presence everything can be said, and who is expected tosit in a draught if there is one. Too old to join the young girls in thecorner set apart for them, where they whisper and giggle and eat amazingquantities of whipped cream, I hover uneasily on the outskirts of thegroup of the married, and try to ingratiate myself by keeping on handingthem cakes. It generally ends in my being sent out every few minutes bythe hostess to the kitchen to fetch more food and things. 'Rose-Marie isso useful,' she will explain to the others when I have been extra quickand cheerful; but I don't suppose Nausicaa's female acquaintances saidmore. The man Ulysse
s might take her for a goddess, but the most thewomen would do would be to commend the way she did the washing.Sometimes I have great trouble not to laugh when I see their heads,often quite venerable, gathered together in an eager bunch, and hearthem expressing horror, sympathy, pity, in every sort of appropriatetone, while their eyes, their tell-tale eyes, betrayers of the soul,look pleased. Why they should be pleased when somebody has had anoperation or doesn't pay his debts I can't make out. But they do. Andafter a course of _Klatsches_ throughout the winter, you are left towardApril with one firm conviction in a world where everything else isshaky, that there's not a single person who isn't either extraordinarilyill, or, if he's not, who does not misuse his health and strength by notpaying his servants' wages.
Yesterday the _Klatsch_ was in a fearful flutter. It had got hold of atale of sin, real or suspected. It was a tale of two people who, afterleading exemplary lives for years, had suddenly been clutched by thethroat by Nature; and Nature, we know, cares nothing at all for theclaims of husbands and wives or any other lawfulnesses, and is a mostunmoral and one-idea'd person. They have, says Jena, begun to love eachother in defiance of the law. Nature has been too many for them, Isuppose. All Jena is a-twitter. Nothing can be proved, but everything isbeing feared, said the hostess; from her eyes I'm afraid she wanted tosay hoped. Isn't it ugly?--_pfui_, as we say. And so stale, if it'strue. Why can't people defy Nature and be good? The only thing that isalways fresh and beautiful is goodness. It is also the only thing thatcan make you go on being happy indefinitely.
I know her well. My heart failed me when I heard her being talked aboutso hideously. She is the nicest woman in Jena. She has been kind to meoften. She is very clever. Perhaps if she had been more dull she wouldhave found no temptation to do anything but jog along respectably--sometimesI think that to be without imagination is to be so very safe. He hasonly come to these parts lately. He used to be in Berlin, and has beenappointed to a very good position in Weimar. I have not met him, butPapa says he is brilliant. He has a wife, and she has a husband, andthey each have a lot of children; so you see if it's true it really isvery _pfui_.
Just as the _Kaffee-Klatsch_ was on the wane, and crumbs were beingbrushed off laps, and bonnet-strings tied, in she walked. There was amoment's dead silence. Then you should have heard the effusion ofwelcoming speeches. The hostess ran up and hugged her. The others werecovered with pleasant smiles. Perhaps they were grateful to her forhaving provided such thrilling talk. When I had to go and kiss her handI never in my life felt baser. You should have seen her looking roundcheerfully at all the Judases, and saying she was sorry to be late, andasking if they hadn't missed her; and you should have heard the eagerchorus of assurances.
Oh, _pfui, pfui_.
R.-M.
How much I love goodness, straightness, singleness of heart--_you._
Later.
I walked part of the way home with the calumniated one. How charming sheis. Dear little lady, it would be difficult not to love her. She talkeddelightfully about German and English poetry. Do you think one can talkdelightfully about German and English poetry and yet be a sinner? Tellme, do you think a woman who is very intellectual, but very _very_intellectual, could yet be a sinner? Would not her wits save her? Wouldnot her bright wits save her from anything so dull as sin?
IX
Jena, Nov. 18th.
Dearest,--I don't think I like that girl at all. Your letter fromClinches has just come, and I don't think I like her at all. What ismore, I don't think I ever shall like her. And what is still more, Idon't think I even want to. So your idea of her being a good friend tome later on in London must retire to that draughty corner of space whereabortive ideas are left to eternal shivering. I'm sorry if I amoffensively independent. But then I know so well that I won't be lonelyif I'm with you, and I think rooting up, which you speak of as adifficult and probably painful process, must be very nice if you are theone to do it, and I am sure I could never by any possibility reach suchdepths of strangeness and doubt about what to do next as would induce meto stretch out appealing hands to a young woman with eyes that, as youput it, tilt at the corners. I wish you hadn't told her about us, aboutme. It has profaned things so, dragged them out into the streets,cheapened them. I don't in the least want to tell my father, or any oneelse. Does this sound as though I were angry? Well, I don't think I am.On the contrary, I rather want to laugh. You dear silly! So clever andso simple, so wise and crammed with learning, and such a dear, ineffablegoose. How old am I, I wonder? Only as old as you? Really only as old?Nonsense: I'm fifteen, twenty years your senior, my dear sir. I've livedin Jena, you in London I frequent _Kaffee-Klatsches_, and you the greatworld. I talk much with Johanna in the kitchen, and you with heavenknows what in the way of geniuses. Yet no male Nancy Cheriton, were hiseyelids never so tilted, would wring a word out of me about a thing sonear, so precious, so much soul of my soul as my lover.
How would you explain this? I've tried and can't.
Your rebellious
ROSE-MARIE.
Darling, darling, don't ask me to like Nancy. The thing's unthinkable.
Later.
Now I know why I am wiser than you: life in kitchens and _Klatsches_turns the soul gray very early. Didn't one of your poets sing ofsomebody who had a sad lucidity of soul? I'm afraid that is what's thematter with me.
X
Jena, Nov. 19th.
Oh, what nonsense everything seems,--everything of the nature ofdifferences, of arguments, on a clear morning up among the hills. I amashamed of what I wrote about Nancy; ashamed of my eagerness and heatabout a thing that does not matter. On the hills this morning, as I waswalking in the sunshine, it seemed to me that I met God. And He took meby the hand, and let me walk with Him. And He showed me how beautifulthe world is, how beautiful the background He has given us, thespacious, splendid background on which to paint our large charities andloves. And I looked across the hilltops, golden, utterly peaceful, andamazement filled me in the presence of that great calm at the way Iflutter through my days and at the noise I make. Why should I cry outbefore I am hurt? flare up into heat and clamor? The pure light up theremade it easy to see clearly, and I saw that I have been silly andungrateful. Forgive me. You know best about Nancy, you who have seenher; and I, just come down from that holy hour on the hills, am verywilling to love her. I will not turn my back upon a ready friend. Shecan have no motive but a good one. Roger, I am a blunderer, a clumsycreature with not one of my elemental passions bound down yet into thedecent listlessness of chains. But I shall grow better, grow more worthyof you. Not a day shall pass without my having been a little wiser thanthe day before, a little kinder, a little more patient. I wish you hadbeen with me this morning. It was so still and the sky so clear that Isat on the old last year's grass as warmly as in summer. I feltirradiated with life and love; light shining on to every tiresomeincident of life and turning it into beauty, love for the wholewonderful world, and all the people in it, and all the beasts andflowers, and all the happy living things. Indeed blessings have beengiven me in full measure, pressed down and running over. In the whole ofthat little town at my feet, so quiet, so bathed in lovely light, therewas not, there could not be, another being so happy as myself. Surely Iam far too happy to grudge accepting a kindness? I tell you I marvel atthe energy of my protest yesterday. Perhaps it was--oh Roger, afterthose hours on the hills I will be honest, I will pull off the veil fromfeelings that the female mind generally refuses to uncover--perhaps thereal reason, the real, pitiful, mean reason was that I felt sure somehowfrom your description of her that Nancy's _blouses_ must be very perfectthings, things beyond words _very_ perfect. And I was jealous of herblouses. There now. Good-by.
XI
Jena, Nov. 20th.
I am glad you did not laugh at that silly letter of mine about scorchingin the sun on rocks. Indeed I gather, my dear Roger, that you liked it.Make the most of it then, for there will be no more of the sort. Adecent woman never gets on to rocks, and if she scorches
she doesn't sayso. And I believe that it is held to be generally desirable that sheshould not, even under really trying circumstances, part with herdignity. I rather think the principle was originally laid down by thehusband of an attractive wife, but it is a good one, and so long as I ambusy clinging to my dignity obviously I shall have no leisure forclinging to you, and then you will not be suffocated with thesuperabundance of my follies.
About those two sinners who are appalling us: how can I agree with you?To do so would cut away the ground from under my own feet. The womanplays such a losing game. She gives so much, and gets so little. So longas the man loves her I do see that he is worth the good opinion ofneighbors and relations, which is one of the chilliest things in theworld; but he never seems able to go on loving her once she has begun towither. That is very odd. She does not mind his withering. And has shenot a soul? And does not that grow always lovelier? But what, then,becomes of her? For wither she certainly will, and years rush past atsuch a terrific pace that almost before she has begun to be happy it isover. He goes back to his wife, a person who has been either patient orbitter according to the quantity of her vitality and the quality of herpersonal interests, and concludes, while he watches her sewing on hisbuttons in the corner she has probably been sitting in through all hisvagrant years, that marriage has its uses, and that it is good to knowthere will be some one bound to take care of you up to the last, and whowill shed decent tears when you are buried. She goes back--but where,and to what? They have gone long ago, her husband, her children, herfriends. And she is old, and alone. You too, like everybody else, seemunable to remember how transient things are. Time goes, emotions wearout. You say these people are in the hands of Fate, and can no more getout of them and do differently than a fly in a web can walk away when itsees the hungry spider coming nearer. I don't believe in webs andspiders; at least, I don't today. Today I believe only in myunconquerable soul--