Berlin, February 27th, 1847.

Here, at last, is my thankful letter to Carriere, containing three warm recommendations.

You were right in reprimanding me as to my extreme severity against the man of the “sidereal terraces.” I am severe only to the mighty ones of the earth, and this man impressed me very uncomfortably at Stolzenfels: “I know you feel great compassion for the Poles under the Russian sceptre; but, I am sorry to say, the Poles are as little deserving of our sympathy as the Irish.” “Mihi dixit;” and one is the handsome husband of the Queen of Great Britain!

I hasten to Potsdam to-day, in order to bring all the manuscripts here, which have fortunately arrived from Erfurt. Madame von Buelow writes, that they contain a long and very beautiful passage about our Rahel, and flattering things for you.

With old attachment,

A. v. H.

Saturday.

133.
HUMBOLDT TO VARNHAGEN.

Berlin, March 27th, 1847.

I am more deserving than you would believe, dear friend! I am through with the first volume of the “Letters”[[53]] (Therese’s property). I had very little to correct, and only about four pages to suppress, viz. allusions to biscuits, household details, a few sarcasms against Duke Charles of Brunswick (which he would have answered with calumnies as to the lady’s virtue), and more such things. The letters are excellent both in thought and expression. They furnish a picture of a most remarkable life. Their contempt of all worldly happiness or unhappiness beyond the narrow circle of one’s own feelings, this mixture of scriptural and Christian dogmas, of stoical indifference to the affairs of the world, together with so much delicacy and gentleness in a correspondence, continued to the four last days of a life, and written by a trembling hand on ruled paper. The torments of love-sickness, qui n’impatientent, are left untouched, in order not to lessen the impression of that powerful individuality. I repeat, all that I struck out amounts to only five or six lines—all that I suppressed as dull or trivial, would not fill two printed pages. You will, however, see much, very much, in the manuscript stricken out, thus ∽∽∽∽∽∽∽∽ sometimes half pages; this is, however, not mine but the old lady’s doing. This “Daughter of the Pastor of Taubenheim”[[54]] had, perhaps, hysterical fits of prudery now and then. The different ink shows that I am a stranger to these obliterations.