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النشر الإلكتروني

CHAPTER IV.

RETURN HOME.

He returned home a boy in years, in experience a man. Broken in health, unhappy in mind, with no strong impulses in any one direction, uncertain of himself and of his aims, he felt, as he approached his native city, much like a repentant prodigal, who has no vision of the fatted calf awaiting him. His father, unable to perceive the real progress he had made, was very much alive to the slender prospect of his becoming a distinguished jurist. The fathers of poets are seldom gratified with the progress visible in their sons. Only your perfectly stupid young gentlemen uniformly delight their parents: they tread the beaten path, whereon are placed milestones marking every distance; and the parents, seeing how far their sons have trudged, are freed from all misgivings. Of that silent progress which consists less in travelling on the broad highway, than in development of the limbs which will make a sturdy traveller, parents cannot judge.

Mother and sister, however, touched by the worn face, and, woman-like, more interested in the man than in what he has achieved, received him with an affection which compensated for the father's coldness. There is quite a pathetic glimpse given of this domestic interior in the Autobiography, where he alludes to his father's impatience

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at his illness, and anxiety for his speedy recovery.* And we gladly escape from this picture to the Letters written from Frankfurt to his old love Käthchen Schönkoptf. † It appears that he left Leipsic without saying adieu. He thus refers to it:

'Apropos, you will forgive me that I did not take leave of you. I was in the neighborhood, I was even below at the door; I saw the lamp burning and went to the steps, but I had not the courage to mount. For the last time how should I have come down again?

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'Thus I now do what I ought to have done then: I thank you for all the love and friendship which you have constantly shown me, and which I shall never forget. I need not beg you to remember me, a thousand occasions will arise which must remind you of a man who for two years and a half was part of your family, who indeed gave you cause for displeasure, but still was always a good lad, and whom it is to be hoped you will often miss; at least I often miss you.'

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The tumor on his neck became alarming: the more so as the surgeons, uncertain about its nature, were wavering in their treatment. Frequent cauterization, and constant confinement to his room, were the worst parts of the cure. He read, drew and etched to wile away the time; and by the end of the year was pronounced recovered. This letter to Käthchen announces the recovery.

'My best, anxious friend,

'You will doubtless have heard from Horn, on the new

* Dickens has, in a masterly manner, given us the same sort of feeling in Dombey, who cannot conceal his impatience at little Paul's illness, not because the child is ill, but because the illness interferes with his plans.

† Printed in Goethe's Briefe an seine Leipsiger Freunde. Herausgegeben von Otto Jahn.

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year, the news of my recovery; and I hasten to confirm it. Yes, dear friend, it is over, and in future you must take it quietly, even if you hear- he is laid up again! You know that my constitution often makes a slip, and in eight days gets on its legs again; this time it was bad, and seemed yet worse than it was, and was attended with terrible pains. Misfortune is also a good. I have learned much in illness which I could have learned nowhere else in life. It is over, and I am quite brisk again, though for three whole weeks I have not left my room, and scarcely any one has visited me but my doctor, who, thank God! is an amiable man! An odd thing it is in us men: when I was in lively society I was out of spirits, now I am forsaken by all the world; I am cheerful; for even throughout my illness my cheerfulness has comforted my family, who were not in a condition to comfort themselves, to say nothing of me. The new year's song which you have also received, I composed during an attack of great foolery, and had it printed for the sake of amusement. Besides this I draw a great deal, write tales, and am contented with myself. God give me, this new year, what is good for me; may He do the same for all of us, and if we pray for nothing more than this, we may certainly hope that He will give it us. If I can only get along till April, I shall easily reconcile myself to my condition. Then I hope things will be better; in particular my health may make progress daily, because it is now known precisely what is the matter with me. My lungs are as sound as possible, but there is something wrong at the stomach. And, in confidence, I have had hopes given me of a pleasant, enjoyable mode of life, so that my mind is quite cheerful and at rest. As soon as I am better again I shall go away into foreign countries, and it must depend only on you and another person how soon I shall see

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Leipsic again; in the meantime I think of going to France to see what French life is, and learn the French language. So you can imagine what a charming man I shall be when I return to you. It often occurs to me, that it would be a laughable affair, if, in spite of all my projects, I were to die before Easter. In that case I would order a gravestone for myself in Leipsic churchyard, that at least every year on St. John's day you might visit the figure of St. John and my grave. What do you think?'

To celebrate his recovery, Rath Moritz gave a great party, at which all the Frankfurt friends assembled. In a little while, however, another illness came to lay the poet low; and, worse than all, there came the news from Leipsic that Käthchen was engaged to a Dr. Kanne, whom Goethe had introduced to her. This forever decided his restlessness about her. Here is a letter from him.

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'A dream last night has reminded me that I owe you an answer. Not that I had entirely forgotten it, not that I never think of you: no, my dear friend, every day says something of you and of my faults. But it is strange, and it is an experience which perhaps you also know, the remembrance of the absent, though not extinguished by time, is veiled. The distractions of our life, acquaintance with new objects, in short every change in our circumstances, do to our hearts what smoke and dirt do to a picture, they make the delicate touches quite undiscernable, and in such a way that one does not know how it comes to pass. A thousand things remind me of you; I see your image a thousand times, but as faintly, and often with as little emotion, as if I thought of some one quite strange to me; it often recurs to me that I owe you an answer, without my feeling the slightest impulse to write to you. Now, when I read your kind letter, which

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is already some months old, and see your friendship and your solicitude for one so unworthy, I am shocked at myself, and for the first time feel what a change has taken place in my heart, that I can be without joy at that which formerly would have lifted me up to heaven. Forgive me this! Can one blame an unfortunate man because he is unable to rejoice? My wretchedness has made me dead to the good which still remains to me. My body is restored, but my mind is still uncured. I am in dull, inactive repose; that is not happiness. And in this quietude my imagination is so stagnant, that I can no longer picture to myself what was once dearest to me. It is only in a dream that my heart often appears to me as it is, only a dream is capable of recalling to me the sweet images, of so recalling them, as to reanimate my feelings; I have already told you that you are indebted to a dream for this letter. I saw you, I was with you; how it was, is too strange for me to relate to you. In one word, you were married. Is that true? I took up your kind letter, and it agrees with the time; if it is true, O may that be the beginning of your happiness!

'When I think of this disinterestedly, how does it rejoice me to know that you, my best friend, you, before every other who envied you and fancied herself better than you, are in the arms of a worthy husband; to know that you are happy, and freed from every annoyance to which a single state, and especially your single state, was exposed! I thank my dream that it has vividly depicted your happiness to me, and the happiness of your husband, and his reward for having made you happy. Obtain me his friendship in virtue of your being my friend, for you must have all things in common, even including friends. If I believe my dream we shall see each other again, but I hope not so very quickly, and for my part I shall try to

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