* * * Yesterday evening I went up the Rochus mountain alone and wrote thee thus far; then I dreamed a little, and when I came to myself I thought the sun was just going down, but it was the rising moon. I was astonished and should have been afraid, but the stars wouldn't let me—these hundreds of thousands and I together on that night. Who am I, then, that I should be of raid? Am I not numbered with them? I didn't dare descend and, besides, I shouldn't have found a boat to cross in. The nights aren't so very long now, anyway, so I turned over on the other side, said "good night" to the stars and was soon fast asleep. Now and then I was awakened by flitting breezes, and then I thought of thee. As often as I awoke I called thee to me and always said in my heart: "Goethe be with me, that I may not be afraid." Then I dreamed that I was floating along the reedy banks of the Rhine, and where it is deepest between black rocky cliffs the ring thou gavest me slipped off. I saw it sinking deeper and deeper till it reached the bottom. I wanted to call for help, but then I awoke in the radiance of the morning, rejoicing that the ring was still on my finger. Ah, prophet, interpret my dream for me! Anticipate fate, and let no dangers beset our love after this beautiful night when, betwixt fear and joy, in counsel with the stars, I thought of thy future!
* * * No one knows where I was—and, even if they did, could they imagine why I was there? Thou tamest toward me through the whispering forest, enveloped in a soft haze, and when thou wert quite near me my tired senses could not endure it, so strong was the fragrance of the wild thyme. Then I fell asleep—it was so beautiful—all blossoms and fragrance! And the great boundless host of stars and the flickering silver moon that danced near and far upon the stream, the intense stillness of nature in which one hears all that stirs—ah, I feel my soul implanted here in this nocturnal trembling! Future thoughts are blossoming here; these cold dew-pearls that weigh down grass and herbs, from these the spirit grows! Oh, it hastens to blossom for thee, Goethe! It will unfold its gayest colors before thee! It is for love of thee that I wish to think, that I struggle with the inexpressible. Thou lookest upon me in spirit and thy gaze draws thoughts from me, and then I am often compelled to say things I do not understand but only see.
The spirit also has senses. Just as there is much that we only hear, or only see, or only feel, so there are thoughts which the spirit also perceives with only one of these senses. Often I only see what I am thinking; often I only feel it, and when I hear it I experience a shock. I do not know how I come by this knowledge which is not the fruit of my own meditation. I look about me for the author of this opinion and then conclude that it is all created from the fire of love. There is warmth in the spirit; we feel it; the cheeks glow from our thoughts and cold chills come over us, which fan our inspiration into new flame. Yes, dear friend, this morning when I awoke it seemed to me as though I had experienced great things, as though the pledges of my heart had wings and soared over hill and dale into the pure, serene, radiant ether. No vow, no conditions—nothing but appropriate motion, pure striving for the divine. This is my pledge: Freedom from all ties, and that I will have faith only in that spirit which reveals the beautiful and prophesies eternal bliss. * * *
We were on the road five days, and since then it has rained incessantly. The whole house full of guests, and not even a little corner where I could enjoy solitude and write thee!
As long as I have anything to tell thee, I firmly believe that thy spirit is fixed upon me as upon so many enigmas of nature. In fact, I believe that every human being is such an enigma, and that the mission of love between friends is to solve that enigma so that each shall learn to know his deeper nature through and in his friend. Yes, dearest, it makes me happy that my life is gradually developing through thee, and for that reason I do not want to seem what I am not; I should prefer to have all my faults and weaknesses known to thee rather than give thee a false conception of what I am, for then thy love would not concern me but rather an illusion that I had substituted for myself. For that reason, also, a feeling often warns me that I must avoid this or that for love of thee, because I should deny it in thy presence.
From the Rochusberg.
Oh, Goethe, thy letters are so dear to me that I have tied them up in a silk kerchief embroidered with bright flowers and golden ornaments. The last day before our Rhine trip I did not know what to do with them. I did not want to take them along, since we had only one portmanteau between us, and I did not want to leave them in my little room, which I could not lock because it was being used; I thought the boat might sink and I drown—and then these letters, one after the other of which has reposed close to my heart, would fall into strange hands. At first I wanted to leave them with the nuns in Vollratz (they are St. Bernard nuns who were driven from their convent and are now living there), but I changed my mind afterwards. The last time I was up here on the mountain I found a spot. Beneath the confession-chair still standing in the Rochus chapel, in which I'm also in the habit of keeping my writings, I dug a hole and lined it on the inside with shells from the Rhine and beautiful little pebbles that I found on the mountain. I placed the letters in it, wrapped in their silken covering, and before the spot planted a thistle which I had pulled up carefully by the roots together with the earth about them. On the journey I was often worried about them; what a shock it would have been if I had not found them again! My heart stands still at the very thought of it!
August 24, 1808.
* * * It was midnight; the moon rose dim. The ship, whose shadow sailed along beside it, like a monster, upon the illuminated Rhine, cast a dazzling light upon the woody meadow of Ingelheim along which it was moving. The moon appeared behind the meadow, mild and modest, and gradually wrapped itself in a thin cloud of mist as in a veil. Whenever we contemplate nature in calm meditation, it always lays hold of our heartstrings. What could have turned my senses more fervently to God, what could have more easily freed me from the trivial things that oppress me? I am not ashamed to confess to thee that at that moment thy image flamed up impetuously in my soul. It is true: Thy radiance pierces me as the sun pours into the crystal of the grape and, like the sun, thou dost ripen me with ever increasing fire and ever increasing purity. * * *
February 23, 1809.