I was so weary that I was obliged to rest by the wayside. In former days, I had so often proudly passed by the spot where I was now sitting. No matter! It is well that it is so. The little pitchman was delighted when I told him that our path now lay homeward. He must have felt quite alarmed about me, and must have thought to himself: "The folks who say that you're not quite right, were not so far out after all."
Those who see me not, think me dead; those who do see me, think me crazed.
I had determined that, in case of discovery, I would tell all to the king and queen, and, after that, quietly return to my retreat.
It is better thus.
We returned home. When I reached the foot of the mountain on which we live, and had begun to ascend it, I asked myself: "Is this your home?" And yet, absence makes it seem like a new home. The life I lead here is a real life.
Since I have noted down this thought, I feel as if a weight were lifted from my heart. While writing, I often feel as giddy as if standing on the edge of a precipice; but I shall remain firm. I will not look at these pages again. But now work begins once more, and my head will cease to be filled with thoughts of repentance. The next minute is ours; the passing moment is scarcely so; and the past one not at all.
There is much work awaiting me. I am glad that it is so. Walpurga and the children are quite happy to have me with them again.
During my absence, Walpurga had my room painted a pale red. It is in wretched taste, and yet I must needs show myself grateful. She thought that I would not return.