Reinfeld, 16th August, 1861.
I have just received the news of the terrible misfortune which has befallen you and Malwine. My first thought was to come to you instanter, but I had overestimated my strength. The cure has commenced, and the thought to break it off suddenly was so definitely contradicted, that I determined to let Johanna travel alone. Such a blow is beyond the power of human consolation; and yet it is a natural desire to be near those whom one loves, in sorrow, and to join in their lamentations. It is all we can do. A greater sorrow could scarcely have befallen you—to lose so charming and joyfully growing child in this way, and with it to bury all the hopes which were to become the joys of your old age. As to this, mourning can not depart from you as long as you live in this world. This I feel with you in deeply painful sympathy. We are without counsel, and helpless in the mighty hand of God—in so far as He will not help us—and can do nothing but bow in humility under His behest. He can take away from us all that He gave us, and leave us entirely desolate; and our mourning over this would be the more bitter the more we rise against the Omnipotent will in anger and opposition. Do not mingle bitterness and murmuring with your just sorrow, but remember that you still have a son and daughter left you, and that you must regard yourself as blest with them, and even with the feeling of having possessed a beloved child for fifteen years, in comparison with the many who have never had children and known paternal joys. I will not burden you with weak grounds for comfort, but assure you in these lines that as a friend and brother I feel your sorrow as my own, and am cut to the heart by it. How do all the little cares and troubles which beset our daily lives vanish beside the iron advent of real misfortunes! And I feel the recollections of all complaints and desires, by which I have forgotten how many blessings God gives us, and how much danger surrounds us without touching us, as so many reproofs. We should not depend on this world, and come to regard it as our home. Another twenty or thirty years, under the most favorable circumstances, and we shall both have passed from the sorrows of this world; our children will have arrived at our present position, and will find with astonishment that the life so freshly begun is going down hill. Were it all over with us so, it would not be worth while dressing and undressing. Do not you remember the words of a Stolpmünder fellow-traveller? The thought that death is but the passage to another life may perhaps diminish your sorrow but little, but you might believe that your beloved son would have been a faithful and true companion for the time you have yet to live here, and would have continued your memory. The circle of those whom we love grows narrower and receives no increase until we have grandchildren. At our years we make no new connections which can replace those who have died away. Let us therefore hold each other closer in affection, until death parts us also, as your son is now parted from us. Who can tell how soon! Will you not come with Malle to Stolpmünde, and live quietly with us for a few weeks or days? In any case I shall come in three or four weeks to you to Kröchlendorf, or wherever you may be. I greet my beloved Malle from my heart. May God grant her, as also yourself, strength to endure and patient resignation!
BISMARCK TO HIS SISTER.
Petersburg, 17 (5) Jan., 1862.
I wished last night to go shooting some fifteen miles hence on the road to ——, where some wild quadrupeds, already purchased by me, are awaiting me. I therefore wrote in great haste all that to-day’s courier was to take with him. Brotherly love in this case, however, would have suffered. Then it grew so cold again that the nocturnal sledging would have put my nose in a dilemma, and the chase would have been cruel for the beaters. I therefore gave it up, and won a little time to write you a few loving words—especially to thank you for your excellent purchases and letters. The dress is everywhere admired; and in the little brooch also your good taste has evinced itself. Christmas, with God’s grace, has passed away from us in quietness and content, and Marie is making satisfactory progress. It would, therefore, be unthankful to complain of the cold, which has remained fixed at 18° to 28° with a persistency remarkable even for Russia, which would give 22° to 32° for the little hills to the south-west, where I usually shoot. For fourteen days the temperature has never been less than 18°. Usually, it is seldom longer than thirty hours consecutively over 20°. The houses are so frozen that no fires are of any use. To-day it is 24° at the window in the sun; a bright sun and blue sky. You write in your last letter of imprudent words spoken by ——, in Berlin. Tact he has not, and never will have; but that he is intentionally my enemy I do not consider. Nor does any thing take place here that every body might not know. If I were disposed to continue my career, it might perhaps be the very best thing if a great deal were heard to my disadvantage, for then I should, at least, get back to Frankfurt; or if I were very idle and pretentious for eight years, that would do. This is far too late a thing for me; I shall therefore continue to do my duty. Since my illness I have become so mentally weak, that the energy for exciting circumstances is deficient. Three years ago, I might still have been a useful minister, but now I regard myself, mentally, as a sick circus-rider. I must remain in the service some years, if ever I am to see it. In three years the Kniephof lease will be out, in four years that of Schönhausen: until then I should not know exactly where to live, if I resigned. The present revision of posts leaves me out in the cold. I have a superstitious dread of expressing any wish about it, and afterwards to regret it by experience. I should go to Paris or London without sorrow, without joy, or remain here, as God and His Majesty please; the cabbage will grow no fatter for our policy, nor for me, whichever should happen. Johanna wishes for Paris, because she thinks the climate would suit the children better. Sickness happens everywhere, and so does misfortune; with God’s help, one gets over them, or one bends in resignation to His will; locality has nothing to do with it. To —— I concede any post; he has the material. I should be ungrateful to God and man, were I to declare I am badly off here, and anxious for a change; but for the Ministry I have an absolute fear, as against a cold bath. I would rather go to one of those vacant posts, or back to Frankfurt, even to Berne, where I lived very well. If I am to leave here, I should like to hear of it soon. On the 1 (13) February I must declare whether I retain my house, must, en cas que si, stipulate for buildings and repairs; expensive horses and other matters would have to be purchased, which requires months here, and causes a loss or saving of thousands. To move in winter is scarcely possible. After some interruptions, I read my letter again, and it makes a melancholy impression; unjustly so, for I am neither discontented nor tired of life, and, after careful consideration, have discovered no wish unfulfilled, except that it should be 10° less cold, and that I should have paid some fifty visits which press upon me. Modest wishes! I hear that I am expected in the winter to the Diet. I do not think of coming to Berlin without special orders from the King, unless in summer, upon leave. Johanna and the children will, I think, go to Germany in about four months. I shall follow, if God will, in some four or six weeks, and shall return about as much sooner. By reason of the cold, the children have not been out of the house for nearly three weeks. All Russian mothers observe this rule so soon as it is more than 10°; it must therefore be a matter of experience, although I go to 15°, but no farther. Despite this want of air, they look very well, notwithstanding matters of diet—which is constitutional—and their Christmas feastings. Marie has become a sensible little person, but is still quite a child, which I am glad to see. By my side lies Varnhagen’s Diary. I can not understand the expenditure of moral indignation with which this needy mirror of the times, from 1836 to 1845, has been condemned. There are vulgarities enough in it, but people conversed in that manner in those days, and worse; it is drawn from life. V. is vain and malicious, but who is not? It is merely a question how life has ripened the nature of one or another with worm-holes, sunshine or wet weather, bitter, sweet, or rotten. During the whole time at my command, there has been humbug of all sorts; so I have written away up to two o’clock, and at three the messenger must be on the railway.
THE SAME TO THE SAME.
Petersburg, 7th March, 1862.