May 30
What I said the other day about painting is equally true of poetry. We must only know what is really excellent and dare express it; and that is saying a great deal in a few words. Today I watched a scene which, if I could only convey it, would make the most beautiful idyll in the world. But why talk of poetry and scenes and idylls? Can we never take pleasure in Nature without thinking of improving it?
If, after this introduction, you expect anything grand or magnificent, you will be sadly mistaken. It was only a peasant lad who aroused this interest. As usual, I shall tell my story badly; and you, as usual, will think me eccentric. It is again Wahlheim—always Wahlheim—that produces these wonderful things.
There was a coffee party going on outside the house under the linden trees. The people did not exactly please me; and, under one pretext or another, I lingered behind.
A peasant lad came from an adjoining house, and busied himself with the same plow which I had sketched the other day. I liked his manner; spoke to him, and inquired about his circumstances. We became acquainted, and as is my way with people of that sort, I was soon on fairly familiar terms with him. He told me that he was in the service of a widow and was fairly well off. He spoke so much of the woman, and praised her so, that I could soon see he was desperately in love with her. “She is no longer young,” he said, “and was treated badly by her former husband; now she does not want to marry again.” From his account it was so evident what beauty and charms she possessed for him, and how ardently he wished she would choose him to extinguish the memory of her first husband’s faults, that I should have to repeat what he said word for word in order to describe the genuineness of the poor fellow’s attachment, love, and devotion. It would require the gifts of a very great poet to convey the expression of his features, the harmony of his voice, and the fire of his eye. No, words cannot portray the tenderness of his every movement and his manner. Whatever I might say would only be clumsy. His fears lest I misunderstand his position with regard to the woman or question the propriety of her conduct touched me particularly. It simply cannot be conveyed, how charming it was when he spoke of her figure and body, which although without the graces of youth, had won and attached him to her. I can only recall it to myself. Never in my life have I seen or imagined such intense devotion, such ardent affections, in such purity. Do not blame me if I say that the mere recollection of this innocence and truth burns in my very soul; that this image of fidelity and tenderness haunts me everywhere; and that I consume myself in longing and desire, as though kindled by the flame.
I must try to see her as soon as I can; or perhaps it is better that I should see her through the eyes of her lover. When I actually see her, she might not appear as she now stands before me; and why should I spoil so sweet a picture?
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