“I hold nothing to be more silly,” said he, “than to annoy oneself about the future. Look ye,—when I came here it was just summer, and the season was over. Now another man would have been annoyed at having arrived just at such a bad time; but I thought it would pass over, and—just so—you see we’re got to November. In the mean time Esterhazy took me into the country, where I enjoyed myself amazingly; and now there is one more month bad, and then ‘twill be full again: the balls and the routs will begin,—and what can I wish better? Should not I have been a perfect fool, now, to distress myself without a cause? Am I not right? We must live in the world just like a H——, and never think too much of the future.”[75]
I admit, indeed, that this practical gentleman and I are of very different natures; and doubtless many a philosopher by profession must regard my lucubrations with about as much pity as I do the Austrian’s. And yet the result is, alas! the same with all: the only uncertainty is, which is the majority. Probably they who think themselves the cleverest.
Dec. 28th.
I have received the unpleasant intelligence that the vessel on board which I sent you all the seeds and flowers I had bought, has been wrecked off Heligoland, and but few of the hands saved. Friend L—— has also lost a great part of his effects. This is the only vessel that has been lost in those seas this year, and has doubtless the folly of sailing on a Friday to thank for it. You laugh; but that day has a peculiar quality, and I too have a dread of it; for in the inexplicable embodied picture of the days of the week, which my fancy has involuntarily painted, that is the only one coal-black. Perhaps you’d like to know, now I am upon the subject, the colours of the others. It is a mystical sort of secret. Well then; Sunday is yellow, Monday blue, Tuesday brown, Wednesday and Saturday brick-red, Thursday ash-gray. All these day-persons have also an extraordinary and appropriate spiritual body,—that is, transparent, without any determinate form or size.
But to return to Friday.—The American Secretary of Legation lately told me what follows.
“The superstition that Friday is an unlucky day,” said he, “is firmly rooted in the minds of our seamen to this hour. An enlightened merchant in Connecticut conceived the wish, a few years ago, to do his utmost to weaken an impression which has often very inconvenient results. He therefore had a new ship laid on the stocks on a Friday: on a Friday she was launched; he named her Friday; and by his orders she sailed on her first voyage on a Friday. Unhappily for the effect of his well-meant experiment, nothing was ever heard of the vessel or crew from that day to this.”
Yesterday I received your letter.
That your jewel, as you affectionately call him, should be not only overlooked by many in the world, but with great satisfaction trodden under-foot, arises naturally enough from this,—that he is polished only on some few sides; and if one of these does not happen to strike the eye of the passer-by, he is ‘comme de raison,’ regarded as a mere common pebble; and, if it happens that one of his sharp points gives pain, is trodden down as much as possible. He is valued only by here and there a connoisseur, and by the possessor,—who overvalues him.
Your description of the English family in B—— made me laugh; the originals for such portraits are common enough in the world of London. The ‘tournure’ of the ladies, with few exceptions, is indeed as awkward as what you have seen in B——; but long enjoyed and boundless wealth, old historic names, and stately invincible reserve, give to the aristocratical society of England something imposing—especially to a North-German nobleman, who is so small a personage. Do not take to heart the little disaster you tell me of. What are these but insignificant clouds, so long as the sun of the mind shines clear in our inward heaven? You should seek more amusement. Go to W——, to H——, to L——. We ought not to visit people only when we stand in need of them: if we do, they cannot believe that we love and value them, but only that we use them;—and yet could these three but see our hearts, they would learn to know and to love us better, than by words or visits. As to the park, I’m afraid you have murdered venerable age in cold blood, like a cruel tyrant as you are. So then, limes that had seen three centuries fell unwilling martyrs to a clear view. That is certainly in the spirit of the age. Henceforward, however, I give you my instructions only to plant; plant as much as you like, but remove nothing that is there. By-and-by I shall come myself and sever the tares from the wheat.
Dec. 31st.