VDT-03
MAY 27.
I find I have fallen into raptures, declamation, and similes,
and have forgotten, in consequence, to tell you what
became of the children. Absorbed in my artistic contemplations,
which I briefly described in my letter of yesterday, I continued sitting
on the plough for two hours. Toward evening a young woman, with
a basket on her arm, came running toward the children, who had
not moved all that time. She exclaimed from a distance, "You are
a good boy, Philip!" She gave me greeting: I returned it, rose, and
approached her. I inquired if she were the mother of those pretty
children. "Yes," she said; and, giving the eldest a piece of bread,
she took the little one in her arms and kissed it with a mother's
tenderness. "I left my child in Philip's care," she said, "whilst I went
into the town with my eldest boy to buy some wheaten bread, some
sugar, and an earthen pot." I saw the various articles in the basket,
from which the cover had fallen. "I shall make some broth to-night
for my little Hans (which was the name of the youngest): that wild
fellow, the big one, broke my pot yesterday, whilst he was
scrambling with Philip for what remained of the contents." I inquired
for the eldest; and she bad scarcely time to tell me that he was driving
a couple of geese home from the meadow, when he ran up, and
handed Philip an osier-twig. I talked a little longer with the woman,
and found that she was the daughter of the schoolmaster, and that
her husband was gone on a journey into Switzerland for some money
a relation had left him. "They wanted to cheat him," she said, "and would
not answer his letters; so he is gone there himself. I hope he has met with
no accident, as I have heard nothing of him since his departure." I left the
woman, with regret, giving each of the children a kreutzer, with an
additional one for the youngest, to buy some wheaten bread for his
broth when she went to town next; and so we parted. I assure you,
my dear friend, when my thoughts are all in tumult, the sight of
such a creature as this tranquillises my disturbed mind. She moves
in a happy thoughtlessness within the confined circle of her existence;
she supplies her wants from day to day; and, when she sees the leaves fall,
they raise no other idea in her mind than that winter is approaching.
Since that time I have gone out there frequently. The children have
become quite familiar with me; and each gets a lump of sugar when
I drink my coffee, and they share my milk and bread and butter
in the evening. They always receive their kreutzer on Sundays, for the
good woman has orders to give it to them when I do not go there after
evening service. They are quite at home with me, tell me everything;
and I am particularly amused with observing their tempers, and the
simplicity of their behaviour, when some of the other village children
are assembled with them.
It has given me a deal of trouble to satisfy the anxiety
of the mother, lest (as she says) "they should inconvenience
the gentleman."
MAY 30.
What I have lately said of painting is equally true with respect to
poetry. It is only necessary for us to know what is really
excellent, and venture to give it expression; and that is saying
much in few words. To-day I have had a scene, which, if literally
related, would, make the most beautiful idyl in the world. But
why should I talk of poetry and scenes and idyls? Can we never
take pleasure in nature without having recourse to art?
If you expect anything grand or magnificent from this introduction,
you will be sadly mistaken. It relates merely to a peasant-lad, who
has excited in me the warmest interest. As usual, I shall tell my story
badly; and you, as usual, will think me extravagant. It is Walheim
once more -- always Walheim -- which produces these wonderful
phenomena.
A party had assembled outside the house under the linden-trees,
to drink coffee. The company did not exactly please me; and,
under one pretext or another, I lingered behind.
A peasant came from an adjoining house, and set to work
arranging some part of the same plough which I had lately sketched.
His appearance pleased me; and I spoke to him, inquired about
his circumstances, made his acquaintance, and, as is my wont
with persons of that class, was soon admitted into his confidence.
He said he was in the service of a young widow, who set great store
by him. He spoke so much of his mistress, and praised her so
extravagantly, that I could soon see he was desperately in love with
her. "She is no longer young," he said: "and she was treated so badly
by her former husband that she does not mean to marry again."
From his account it was so evident what incomparable charms she
possessed for him, and how ardently he wished she would
select him to extinguish the recollection of her first husband's
misconduct, that I should have to repeat his own words in order
to describe the depth of the poor fellow's attachment, truth,
and devotion. It would, in fact, require the gifts of a great poet
to convey the expression of his features, the harmony of his voice,
and the heavenly fire of his eye. No words can portray the
tenderness of his every movement and of every feature: no effort
of mine could do justice to the scene. His alarm lest I should misconceive
his position with regard to his mistress, or question the propriety
of her conduct, touched me particularly. The charming manner with
which he described her form and person, which, without possessing
the graces of youth, won and attached him to her, is inexpressible,
and must be left to the imagination. I have never in my life witnessed
or fancied or conceived the possibility of such intense devotion, such
ardent affections, united with so much purity. Do not blame me if I
say that the recollection of this innocence and truth is deeply impressed
upon my very soul; that this picture of fidelity and tenderness haunts
me everywhere; and that my own heart, as though enkindled by
the flame, glows and burns within me.
I mean now to try and see her as soon as I can: or perhaps, on second
thoughts, I had better not; it is better I should behold her through th
MAY 27.
I find I have fallen into raptures, declamation, and similes,
and have forgotten, in consequence, to tell you what
became of the children. Absorbed in my artistic contemplations,
which I briefly described in my letter of yesterday, I continued sitting
on the plough for two hours. Toward evening a young woman, with
a basket on her arm, came running toward the children, who had
not moved all that time. She exclaimed from a distance, "You are
a good boy, Philip!" She gave me greeting: I returned it, rose, and
approached her. I inquired if she were the mother of those pretty
children. "Yes," she said; and, giving the eldest a piece of bread,
she took the little one in her arms and kissed it with a mother's
tenderness. "I left my child in Philip's care," she said, "whilst I went
into the town with my eldest boy to buy some wheaten bread, some
sugar, and an earthen pot." I saw the various articles in the basket,
from which the cover had fallen. "I shall make some broth to-night
for my little Hans (which was the name of the youngest): that wild
fellow, the big one, broke my pot yesterday, whilst he was
scrambling with Philip for what remained of the contents." I inquired
for the eldest; and she bad scarcely time to tell me that he was driving
a couple of geese home from the meadow, when he ran up, and
handed Philip an osier-twig. I talked a little longer with the woman,
and found that she was the daughter of the schoolmaster, and that
her husband was gone on a journey into Switzerland for some money
a relation had left him. "They wanted to cheat him," she said, "and would
not answer his letters; so he is gone there himself. I hope he has met with
no accident, as I have heard nothing of him since his departure." I left the
woman, with regret, giving each of the children a kreutzer, with an
additional one for the youngest, to buy some wheaten bread for his
broth when she went to town next; and so we parted. I assure you,
my dear friend, when my thoughts are all in tumult, the sight of
such a creature as this tranquillises my disturbed mind. She moves
in a happy thoughtlessness within the confined circle of her existence;
she supplies her wants from day to day; and, when she sees the leaves fall,
they raise no other idea in her mind than that winter is approaching.
Since that time I have gone out there frequently. The children have
become quite familiar with me; and each gets a lump of sugar when
I drink my coffee, and they share my milk and bread and butter
in the evening. They always receive their kreutzer on Sundays, for the
good woman has orders to give it to them when I do not go there after
evening service. They are quite at home with me, tell me everything;
and I am particularly amused with observing their tempers, and the
simplicity of their behaviour, when some of the other village children
are assembled with them.
It has given me a deal of trouble to satisfy the anxiety
of the mother, lest (as she says) "they should inconvenience
the gentleman."
MAY 30.
What I have lately said of painting is equally true with respect to
poetry. It is only necessary for us to know what is really
excellent, and venture to give it expression; and that is saying
much in few words. To-day I have had a scene, which, if literally
related, would, make the most beautiful idyl in the world. But
why should I talk of poetry and scenes and idyls? Can we never
take pleasure in nature without having recourse to art?
If you expect anything grand or magnificent from this introduction,
you will be sadly mistaken. It relates merely to a peasant-lad, who
has excited in me the warmest interest. As usual, I shall tell my story
badly; and you, as usual, will think me extravagant. It is Walheim
once more -- always Walheim -- which produces these wonderful
phenomena.
A party had assembled outside the house under the linden-trees,
to drink coffee. The company did not exactly please me; and,
under one pretext or another, I lingered behind.
A peasant came from an adjoining house, and set to work
arranging some part of the same plough which I had lately sketched.
His appearance pleased me; and I spoke to him, inquired about
his circumstances, made his acquaintance, and, as is my wont
with persons of that class, was soon admitted into his confidence.
He said he was in the service of a young widow, who set great store
by him. He spoke so much of his mistress, and praised her so
extravagantly, that I could soon see he was desperately in love with
her. "She is no longer young," he said: "and she was treated so badly
by her former husband that she does not mean to marry again."
From his account it was so evident what incomparable charms she
possessed for him, and how ardently he wished she would
select him to extinguish the recollection of her first husband's
misconduct, that I should have to repeat his own words in order
to describe the depth of the poor fellow's attachment, truth,
and devotion. It would, in fact, require the gifts of a great poet
to convey the expression of his features, the harmony of his voice,
and the heavenly fire of his eye. No words can portray the
tenderness of his every movement and of every feature: no effort
of mine could do justice to the scene. His alarm lest I should misconceive
his position with regard to his mistress, or question the propriety
of her conduct, touched me particularly. The charming manner with
which he described her form and person, which, without possessing
the graces of youth, won and attached him to her, is inexpressible,
and must be left to the imagination. I have never in my life witnessed
or fancied or conceived the possibility of such intense devotion, such
ardent affections, united with so much purity. Do not blame me if I
say that the recollection of this innocence and truth is deeply impressed
upon my very soul; that this picture of fidelity and tenderness haunts
me everywhere; and that my own heart, as though enkindled by
the flame, glows and burns within me.
I mean now to try and see her as soon as I can: or perhaps, on second
thoughts, I had better not; it is better I should behold her through th
MAY 27.
I find I have fallen into raptures, declamation, and similes,
and have forgotten, in consequence, to tell you what
became of the children. Absorbed in my artistic contemplations,
which I briefly described in my letter of yesterday, I continued sitting
on the plough for two hours. Toward evening a young woman, with
a basket on her arm, came running toward the children, who had
not moved all that time. She exclaimed from a distance, "You are
a good boy, Philip!" She gave me greeting: I returned it, rose, and
approached her. I inquired if she were the mother of those pretty
children. "Yes," she said; and, giving the eldest a piece of bread,
she took the little one in her arms and kissed it with a mother's
tenderness. "I left my child in Philip's care," she said, "whilst I went
into the town with my eldest boy to buy some wheaten bread, some
sugar, and an earthen pot." I saw the various articles in the basket,
from which the cover had fallen. "I shall make some broth to-night
for my little Hans (which was the name of the youngest): that wild
fellow, the big one, broke my pot yesterday, whilst he was
scrambling with Philip for what remained of the contents." I inquired
for the eldest; and she bad scarcely time to tell me that he was driving
a couple of geese home from the meadow, when he ran up, and
handed Philip an osier-twig. I talked a little longer with the woman,
and found that she was the daughter of the schoolmaster, and that
her husband was gone on a journey into Switzerland for some money
a relation had left him. "They wanted to cheat him," she said, "and would
not answer his letters; so he is gone there himself. I hope he has met with
no accident, as I have heard nothing of him since his departure." I left the
woman, with regret, giving each of the children a kreutzer, with an
additional one for the youngest, to buy some wheaten bread for his
broth when she went to town next; and so we parted. I assure you,
my dear friend, when my thoughts are all in tumult, the sight of
such a creature as this tranquillises my disturbed mind. She moves
in a happy thoughtlessness within the confined circle of her existence;
she supplies her wants from day to day; and, when she sees the leaves fall,
they raise no other idea in her mind than that winter is approaching.
Since that time I have gone out there frequently. The children have
become quite familiar with me; and each gets a lump of sugar when
I drink my coffee, and they share my milk and bread and butter
in the evening. They always receive their kreutzer on Sundays, for the
good woman has orders to give it to them when I do not go there after
evening service. They are quite at home with me, tell me everything;
and I am particularly amused with observing their tempers, and the
simplicity of their behaviour, when some of the other village children
are assembled with them.
It has given me a deal of trouble to satisfy the anxiety
of the mother, lest (as she says) "they should inconvenience
the gentleman."
MAY 30.
What I have lately said of painting is equally true with respect to
poetry. It is only necessary for us to know what is really
excellent, and venture to give it expression; and that is saying
much in few words. To-day I have had a scene, which, if literally
related, would, make the most beautiful idyl in the world. But
why should I talk of poetry and scenes and idyls? Can we never
take pleasure in nature without having recourse to art?
If you expect anything grand or magnificent from this introduction,
you will be sadly mistaken. It relates merely to a peasant-lad, who
has excited in me the warmest interest. As usual, I shall tell my story
badly; and you, as usual, will think me extravagant. It is Walheim
once more -- always Walheim -- which produces these wonderful
phenomena.
A party had assembled outside the house under the linden-trees,
to drink coffee. The company did not exactly please me; and,
under one pretext or another, I lingered behind.
A peasant came from an adjoining house, and set to work
arranging some part of the same plough which I had lately sketched.
His appearance pleased me; and I spoke to him, inquired about
his circumstances, made his acquaintance, and, as is my wont
with persons of that class, was soon admitted into his confidence.
He said he was in the service of a young widow, who set great store
by him. He spoke so much of his mistress, and praised her so
extravagantly, that I could soon see he was desperately in love with
her. "She is no longer young," he said: "and she was treated so badly
by her former husband that she does not mean to marry again."
From his account it was so evident what incomparable charms she
possessed for him, and how ardently he wished she would
select him to extinguish the recollection of her first husband's
misconduct, that I should have to repeat his own words in order
to describe the depth of the poor fellow's attachment, truth,
and devotion. It would, in fact, require the gifts of a great poet
to convey the expression of his features, the harmony of his voice,
and the heavenly fire of his eye. No words can portray the
tenderness of his every movement and of every feature: no effort
of mine could do justice to the scene. His alarm lest I should misconceive
his position with regard to his mistress, or question the propriety
of her conduct, touched me particularly. The charming manner with
which he described her form and person, which, without possessing
the graces of youth, won and attached him to her, is inexpressible,
and must be left to the imagination. I have never in my life witnessed
or fancied or conceived the possibility of such intense devotion, such
ardent affections, united with so much purity. Do not blame me if I
say that the recollection of this innocence and truth is deeply impressed
upon my very soul; that this picture of fidelity and tenderness haunts
me everywhere; and that my own heart, as though enkindled by
the flame, glows and burns within me.