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OBERMANN 

VOLUME   II 


LO  HERMANN 

SELECTIONS    FROM 

LETTERS  TO  A  FRIEND 

BY 

ETIENNE  PIVERT  DE  SENANCOUR 

Cfiosen  and  translated  with  an  Introductory 
Essay  and  Notes  by  JESSIE  PEABODY 
FROTHINGHAM,  Translator  of  the 
Journal  of  Maurice  de  Guerin 

VOLUME     TWO 


Tbe  RIVERSIDE  PRESS,  Cambridge 
1901 


Copyright,  1901 
By  Jessie  Peabody  Frothingbam 

All  rights  reserved 


OBERMANN 


LETTERS 

TO   A 

FRIEND 


LETTER    XXXVII 

Lyons,  May  2d,  6th  year. 
•&  $•  $•  ^  $F   all  the   vague  and  fleet- 

^  *SL 

/^V  *  ing  moments  when  I  be- 
^  V-/  ^  lieved,  in  my  simplicity, 
•&  ^  ^  ^  ^  that  we  were  upon  the  earth 
in  order  to  live,  none  have  left  mem- 
ories so  deep  as  those  twenty  days  of 
forgetfulness  and  hope,  when,  towards 
the  close  of  March,  near  the  torrent, 
beside  the  rocks,  among  the  happy 
hyacinth  and  the  simple  violet,  I  had 
the  illusion  that  it  would  be  given  me 
to  love. 

I  touched  what  I  was  destined  never 


4          OBERMANN 

to  grasp.  Without  tastes,  without  hope, 
I  might  have  existed  weary  but  tran- 
quil ;  instinctively  I  could  picture  to 
myself  human  energy,  but  in  my 
shadowed  life  I  was  content  to  endure 
my  apathy.  What  sinister  power  has 
opened  the  gates  of  the  world  before 
me,  and  swept  away  the  consolations  of 
the  nothing  ? 

Carried  along  by  a  wide  activity,  — 
eager  to  love  everything,  to  support 
everything,  to  console  everything,  for- 
ever torn  between  the  desire  to  see  so 
many  wrongs  redressed  and  the  convic- 
tion that  they  never  will  be  redressed, 
—  I  am  weary  of  the  evils  of  life,  and 
still  more  indignant  against  the  perfi- 
dious seduction  of  pleasures,  my  gaze 
being  ever  fixed  upon  the  vast  mass  of 
hate,  iniquity,  shame,  and  misery  of 
this  misguided  earth. 

And  I !  twenty-seven  years  have 
come  and  gone  ;  the  beautiful  days 
have  passed  away,  and  I  have  not  even 


OBERMANN          5 

seen  them.  Unhappy  in  the  years  of 
joy,  what  can  I  expect  from  future 
years  ?  I  have  spent  in  weariness  and 
emptiness  the  glad  season  of  confidence 
and  hope.  On  all  sides  repressed,  suf- 
fering, my  heart  empty  and  wounded, 
I  knew  while  still  young  the  regrets 
of  old  age.  Accustomed  to  seeing  all 
the  flowers  of  life  wither  beneath  my 
blighting  steps,  I  am  like  those  old 
men  from  whom  all  things  have  taken 
flight ;  but  more  unfortunate  than  they, 
I  have  lost  everything  long  before  I 
have  myself  reached  the  consummation 
of  life.  With  an  eager  soul,  I  cannot 
rest  in  this  silence  of  death. 

Memory  of  years  long  passed  away, 
of  things  that  have  forever  perished,  of 
places  never  to  be  seen  again,  of  men 
who  are  wholly  changed  !  sentiment 
of  the  life  that  is  lost ! 

What  scenes  were  ever  for  me  what 
they  are  for  other  men  ?  What  seasons 
were  ever  endurable,  and  under  what 


6  OBERMANN 

sky  have  I  found  peace  of  the  soul  ? 
I  have  seen  the  stir  of  the  cities,  the 
void  of  the  plains,  the  austerity  of  the 
mountains ;  I  have  seen  the  coarseness 
of  ignorance,  and  the  travail  of  the 
arts  ;  I  have  seen  useless,  paltry  success, 
and  all  the  good  lost  in  all  the  evil ; 
I  have  seen  men  and  fate  in  unequal 
strife,  and  always  deceived ;  and,  in  the 
unbridled  struggle  of  the  passions,  the 
odious  victor  receiving,  as  the  price  of 
his  triumph,  the  heaviest  link  in  the 
chain  of  evils  which  he  has  forged. 

Were  man  planned  for  misfortune 
I  should  pity  him  less ;  and  in  view  of 
his  fleeting  span  of  years  I  should  de- 
spise, for  him  as  for  me,  the  afflictions 
of  a  day.  But  all  good  things  surround 
him,  all  his  faculties  summon  him  to 
enjoy,  all  say  to  him,  "  Be  happy ;  " 
and  man  has  answered,  "  Happiness 
shall  be  for  the  brute ;  art,  science, 
glory,  greatness,  shall  be  for  me."  His 
mortality,  his  sorrows,  his  very  crimes, 


7 

are  but  the  smallest  part  of  his  mis- 
ery. I  mourn  over  the  things  that  he 
has  lost :  peace,  choice,  unity,  tranquil 
possession.  I  lament  a  hundred  years 
which  millions  of  sentient  beings  waste 
in  anxieties  and  in  restraint,  in  the 
midst  of  what  goes  to  make  security, 
liberty,  and  joy  ;  living  in  bitterness  on 
a  delectable  earth,  because  they  have 
desired  a  mythical  good,  and  special 
blessings. 

But  all  this  is  of  small  account ;  fifty 
years  ago  I  did  not  realize  it,  and  fifty 
years  hence  I  shall  realize  it  no  more. 

I  said  to  myself:  If  it  has  not  been 
given  me  to  lead  back  to  primitive 
ways  even  a  narrow  and  isolated  land, 
if  I  must  strive  to  forget  the  world, 
and  believe  that  I  am  sufficiently  happy 
when  I  can  attain  endurable  days  upon 
this  misguided  earth,  then  I  claim  only 
one  boon,  one  vision  in  this  dream  from 
which  I  long  never  to  awake.  There 
remains  upon  the  earth,  as  it  now  is, 


8          OBERMANN 

one  illusion  which  can  still  beguile  me ; 
it  is  the  only  one,  and  I  shall  have  the 
wisdom  to  be  deceived  by  it ;  nothing 
else  is  worth  the  effort.  So  said  I  to 
myself.  But  chance  alone  could  grant 
me  this  priceless  delusion.  Chance  is 
slow  and  uncertain  ;  life  is  swift  and 
irrevocable ;  its  springtime  passes,  and 
this  disappointed  longing,  by  complet- 
ing the  ruin  of  my  life,  must  at  last 
alienate  my  heart  and  change  my  na- 
ture. I  already  feel,  at  times,  that  I  am 
growing  bitter,  exasperated,  and  that 
my  affections  are  contracting ;  des- 
peration gives  me  fierce  resolve,  and 
disdain  urges  me  on  to  great  and  au- 
stere designs.  But  this  bitterness  does 
not  endure  in  all  its  strength  ;  I  soon 
grow  disheartened,  as  though  I  realized 
that  careless  men,  and  uncertain  things, 
and  my  fleeting  life^  were  not  worth 
the  anxiety  of  a  day,  and  that  a  stern 
awakening  is  useless  when  we  must  so 
soon  fall  asleep  forever. 

« 


*• 


*  . 


OBERMANN          o 

'  Tb"  *       • 
,       •    ,*:    rr  >        ^£g*     ".•. 

THIRD     FRAGMENT 

.   *  V  ' 

On  Romantic  Expression  and  the 
Ranz  des  V aches          %* 

*  «  A    '« 

A  rich  and  vivid  fancy  is  charmed 

*      •  '-'"••;  '     *       •*  ' 

by  romance;  but  a  great  soul  and  true    •»  ' 
feeling  are  alone  satisfied  by  the  ro- 
mantic.1    Nature  is  full  of  romantic 
effects  in  primitive  regions ;  persistent 
cultivation  has  destroyed  these  effects 
in  overworked  lands,  especially  on  the 
plains,  which  are  readily  made  subject.  •» 
to  man. 

Romantic  effects  are  the  accents  of 
• w  .   •        •  • 

a  language  which  all  men  do  not  un- 
derstand, and  which  in  many  places  is- 
becoming  a  foreign  tongue.  We  soon 
cease  to  hear  these  accents  when  we  no 
longer  live  among  them  ;  and  still  it 
is  this  romantic  harmony  which  alone 

keeps  fresh  in  our  hearts  the  bloom  of 
*  •  *C"    ^  *  '-*r  *     *  *s*  * 

youth  and  the  springtime  of  life.    The 

man  of  the  world  no  longer  feels  these 

o  *  n»  *  » t  ^*.  ftt.  *c 

!^*il-»*:*  \ :  •;* :  :'3£&- 


* 


«^  ^-SSa?-'  * 

jr» 


A, 

*     •  k      *  '" 

10         OBERMANN 

•       '         V     ^      * 

effects,  for  they  are  too  far  removed 
from  his  usual  habits  of  thought,  and 
he  ends  by  saying  :  "  What  do  I  care  ?  " 
He  is  like  those  temperaments  worn 
out  by  the  parching  heat  of  a  slow 
and  constant  poison  ;  he  has  grown  old 
in  the  years  of  his  strength,  and  the 
springs  of  his  inner  life  are  unstrung, 
even  though  he  still  bears  the  outward 
semblance  of  a  man. 

But  you,  whom  ordinary  men  be- 
lieve to  be  made  of  the  same  stuff 
as  themselves,  because  forsooth  your 
ways  are  simple,  because  you  have  gen- 
ius without  pretension,  or  else  merely 
•f«"**  because  you  live,  and  like  them  you 

eat  and,  sleep  —  you,  primitive  jnerf, 
.  •  scattered  here  and  there  over  the  fruit- 
less centuries  to  perpetuate  the  type 
of  natural  things,  you,  recognize  one 
another,  you  understand  one  another 
in  a  tongue  unknown  to  'the  common 
herd,  when  the  October  sun  shines 
through  the  mist  on  the  golden  woods  ; 

..  "    *• 

**       *•!  ••  '  •     - 

v     ;t     *  * 
\  ,  «    .1    ••• 

•  .  > 


"**  ' 


•'*       « 

.  '<   ' 


OBERMANN         n 

when  the  rippling  brook  flows  through 
a  meadow  encircled  by  trees,  at  the 
waning  of  the  moon ;  when  under 
the  summer  sky,  on  a  cloudless  day,  a 
woman's  voice  sings  in  the  distance,  .  . 
among  the  walls  and  the  roofs  of  a 
great  city. 

Picture  to  yourself  an  expanse  of 
water,  limpid  and  white.  It  is  vast, 
but  not  boundless ;  its  curved  and 
oblong  shape  stretches  out  toward  the 
winter  sunset.  High  peaks,  majestic 
mountain-chains,  inclose  it  on  three 
sides.  You  are  seated  on  the  slope 
of  the  mountain,  above  the  northern 
strand,  where  the  waves  ebb  and  flow.  ,  •  ••  « 
Steep  rocks  rise  behind  you  ;  they  lift 
their  heights  to  the  region  of  the 
clouds  ;  the  melancholy  wind  of  the 
north  has  never  swept  across  this  happy 
shore.  On  your  left,  the  mountains  part, 
a  quiet  valley  lies  amid  their  depths,  a  * 
torrent  leaps  down  from  the  snowy 
summits  which  inclose  it ;  and  when 

»**'  **-.!'  *.   **;*'    *J 

*  •*  \\     *•>„  '     -.-.*•:• 


•: 


12         OBERMANN 

the  morning  sun  rises  between  the  ice- 

.    clad  pinnacles,  above  the  mists,  when 

the  voices  of  the  mountains  tell  of  hid- 

•  *  * 

den  chalets,  above  the  meadows  still  in 
*• 

shadow,  it  is  the  awakening  of  a  prim- 
itive earth,  it  is  a  record  of  our  unreal- 
••         *• 

ized  destinies. 

•  * 

And  here  come  the  heralds  of  the 

*  * 

night ;  the  hour  of  rest  and  of  sublime 
melancholy.  The  valley  is  flooded  with 

•  « 

vapor ;  darkness  steals  over  it.  At  noon 
it  is  still  night  upon  the  lake  ;  the  en- 
circling rocks  form  a  belt  of  darkness, 
beneath  the  ice-clad  dome  which  lifts 
its  height  above,  and  seems  to  hold  the 
light  of  day  in  its  white  frost.  Then 
the  dying  rays  gild  the  chestnut  groves 
on  the  wild  clifFs,  steal  in  long,  slant- 
ing beams  beneath  the  tall  spires  of 
the  Alpine  fir,  darken  the  mountains, 
kindle  the  snows,  illumine  the  air ; 
,  *  '  and  the  waveless  water,  shining  with 

light  and  mingled  with  the  sky,  has 


OBERMANN         13 

and  purer,  more  ethereal,  more  beauti- 
ful still.  Its  peace  is  bewildering,  its 
clearness  is  deceptive,  the  aerial  splen- 
dor reflected  upon  its  surface  seems  to 
increase  its  depth ;  and  beneath  those 
heights,  divided  from  the  earth  and 
suspended  in  space,  you  see  at  your 
feet  the  void  of  the  heavens  and  the 
immensity  of  the  world. 

Such  moments  are  filled  with  magic 
and  forgetfulness.  Where  is  the  sky, 
where  are  the  mountains,  on  what  do 
we  stand  ?  There  is  no  level,  no  ho- 
rizon ;  thoughts  are  new,  feelings  are 
strange ;  we  are  above  the  life  we  know. 

And  when  darkness  covers  this  val- 
ley of  water,  when  the  eye  can  dis- 
cern neither  object  nor  space,  when  the 
wind  of  the  evening  ruffles  the  waves, 
then,  toward  the  west,  the  farthest  end 
of  the  lake  alone  glimmers  in  the  pale 
light ;  but  all  within  the  encircling 
rocks  is  a  mysterious  gulf,  and,  in  the 
midst  of  the  darkness  and  the  silence, 


*  9 


r< 


14        OBERMANN 

you  hear,  a  thousand  feet  below,  the 
stir  of  the  ever-moving  waves  which 
rise  and  fall  and  never  cease,  which 
tremble  on  the  beach  in  measured  ca- 
dence, plunge  among  the  rocks,  dash 
against  the  shore,  and  echo  with  a 
lengthened  murmur  through  the  dark 
abyss. 

It  is  to  sound  that  nature  has  given 
the  strongest  expression  of  the  roman- 
tic character  ;  it  is  above  all  through 
the  sense  of  hearing  that  we  can  shape, 
in  bold,  simple  outlines,  a  picture  of 
striking  scenes  and  things.  Odors  pro- 
duce swift  and  broad  but  indefinite 
perceptions ;  sight  seems  to  awaken 
perceptions  which  belong  more  to  the 
mind  than  to  the  heart ;  we  admire 
what  we  see,  but  we  feel  what  we  hear. 
The  voice  of  a  beloved  woman  is  more 
beautiful  than  her  features ;  the  sounds 
that  are  associated  with  sublime  scenes 
produce  a  deeper  and  more  lasting  im- 
pression than  their  forms.  I  have  never 


OBERMANN        15 

seen  a  painting  of  the  Alps  that  could 
bring  them  as  distinctly  before  my  eyes 
as  can  a  truly  Alpine  melody. 

The  Ranz  des  Caches 2  does  not  sim- 
ply renew  memories  ;  it  delineates.  .  .  . 
If  it  is  rendered  in  a  way  more  charac- 
teristic than  technical,  and  with  true 
depth  of  feeling,  the  first  notes  carry 
us  to  the  high  valleys,  near  the  bare, 
russet-gray  rocks,  under  the  cold  sky, 
beneath  the  burning  sun.  We  are  on 
the  brow  of  the  rolling  mountain-tops, 
where  the  pastures  lie.  We  are  filled 
with  a  sense  of  the  slowness  of  things 
and  the  grandeur  of  nature  ;  we  see  the 
tranquil  pace  of  the  cows,  and  the  mea- 
sured swing  of  their  great  bells,  near  to 
the  clouds,  on  the  gently  falling  ground 
between  the  crest  of  imperishable  gran- 
ite and  the  shattered  rocks  in  the  snow 
ravines.  The  winds  rustle  harshly  in 
the  distant  larches ;  we  hear  the  rush- 
ing of  the  torrent,  hidden  among  the 
steep  crags,  which,  century  by  century, 


16        OBERMANN 

have  been  hollowed  out  by  the  wa- 
ters. 

Then,  close  upon  these  lonely  sounds, 
there  come  through  the  air  the  hurried 
and  heavy  accents  of  the  Kuheren^  the 
nomadic  expression  of  a  mirthless  plea- 
sure, of  a  mountain  joy.  The  songs 
cease ;  the  man  is  lost  in  the  distance  ; 
the  bells  have  passed  beyond  the  larches; 
there  is  no  sound  save  the  noise  of  the 
rolling  pebbles,  and,  now  and  again, 
the  plunge  of  the  trees,  swept  down 
by  the  torrent  to  the  valleys  beyond. 
These  Alpine  sounds  swell  and  wane  on 
the  wind ;  and  when  they  fade  away,  all 
things  seem  cold,  motionless,  and  dead. 

It  is  the  abode  of  impassive  man.  He 
comes  from  under  the  low,  wide  roof, 
which  heavy  stones  protect  from  the 
ravages  of  the  storms.  The  sun  may 
send  down  its  scorching  heat,  the  wind 
may  sweep  across  the  pastures,  the  thun- 
der may  roll  beneath  his  feet,  but  he 
is  alike  unconscious.  He  goes  to  the 


OBERMANN        17 

wonted  pasture  of  the  cows,  and  they 
are  there  ;  he  calls  them,  they  gather 
from  all  sides,  they  draw  near,  one  by 
one ;  and  then  he  retraces  his  steps  as 
slowly  as  he  came,  carrying  the  milk 
which  is  to  be  sent  to  those  plains  that 
he  will  never  see.  The  cows  linger 
and  ruminate ;  there  is  no  visible  stir, 
there  is  no  sign  of  man.  The  air  is 
cold,  the  wind  has  fallen  with  the  even- 
ing light ;  nothing  is  left  but  the  gleam 
of  the  timeless  snows,  and  the  dash  of 
the  waters,  whose  wild  roar,  rising  from 
the  abyss,  seems  to  add  to  the  silent  per- 
manence of  the  high  peaks,  the  glaciers, 
and  the  night. 


LETTER   XXXIX 

Lyons,  May  nth,  6th  year. 

I  HAVE  seen  the  valley  flooded  with 
a  soft  radiance  in  the  shadow,  un- 
der the  veil  of  haze,  the  misty  charm  of 


i8        OBERMANN 

the  morning ;  and  it  was  full  of  beauty. 
I  have  seen  it  change  and  fade ;  the  con- 
suming planet  had  passed  over  it ;  he 
had  scorched  and  wearied  it  with  light ; 
he  had  left  it  dry,  old,  and  pitifully 
barren.  Even  thus  the  happy  veil  of 
our  days  has  slowly  lifted  and  has  faded 
away.  No  longer  do  I  see  those  half- 
shadows,  those  hidden  places,  so  de- 
lightful to  explore ;  nor  can  my  eyes 
again  find  rest  in  that  vague,  transpar- 
ent light.  All  is  sterile  and  wearisome, 
like  the  burning  sands  under  the  skies 
of  the  Sahara ;  all  the  things  of  life, 
stripped  of  this  disguise,  show  with 
repulsive  truth  the  unadorned  and  mel- 
ancholy mechanism  of  their  denuded 
skeletons.  Their  ceaseless,  inevitable, 
resistless  movements  drag  me  along 
without  interesting  me,  and  make  me 
move  without  making  me  live. 


OBERMANN         19 


LETTER   XL 

Lyons,  May  ifth,  6th  year. 

1WAS  near  the  Saone,  behind  the 
long  wall  where  we  walked  to- 
gether in  old  times,  when  we  were  boys, 
and  talked  of  Tinian,4  and  aspired  to 
happiness,  and  were  filled  with  the  high 
resolve  to  live.  I  looked  upon  that  river 
which  still  flowed  onward  as  before, 
and  at  the  autumn  sky,  as  tranquil  and 
as  beautiful  as  in  those  far  distant  years 
that  have  forever  gone.  A  carriage  ap- 
proached ;  unconsciously  I  turned  aside, 
and,  as  I  walked,  kept  my  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  yellowed  leaves  which  the 
wind  chased  over  the  dry  grass  and  the 
dusty  road.  The  carriage  stopped ;  Ma- 
dame Del was  alone  with  her  lit- 
tle girl  of  six.  As  you  know,  Madame 

Del is  only  twenty-five,  and  she 

has  greatly  changed;   but    she  speaks 


20         OBERMANN 

with  the  same  simple  and  perfect  grace ; 
her  eyes  have  a  more  melancholy,  but  a 
no  less  beautiful  expression.  We  did  not 
refer  to  her  husband ;  you  may  remem- 
ber that  he  is  thirty  years  her  senior, 
and  that  he  is  a  financier,  very  wise  on 
the  subject  of  money,  but  wholly  ig- 
norant of  everything  else.  Unfortunate 
woman !  Hers  is  a  wasted  life ;  yet 
destiny  seemed  to  have  given  her  the 
promise  of  so  much  happiness  !  What 
did  she  lack  to  merit  joy,  and  to  make 
the  happiness  of  another?  What  a 
mind  !  What  a  soul !  What  purity  of 
intention  !  All  this  is  useless. 

It  was  almost  five  years  since  I  had 
seen  her.  .  .  . 

Her  image,  though  weakened  by 
discouragement,  by  time,  and  by  the 
waning  even  of  my  trust  in  such  use- 
less or  deceptive  affections  —  her  im- 
age was  linked  to  the  very  conscious- 
ness of  my  existence  and  of  my  life 
in  the  midst  of  the  world.  I  saw  her 


OBERMANN        21 

within  me,  but  like  the  indelible  mem- 
ory of  a  dream  that  has  faded  away, 
like  those  ideals  of  happiness  the  im- 
pression of  which  we  cherish,  but  which 
belong  to  our  past.  .  .  . 

An  all-winning  grace,  an  eloquence 
sweet  and  deep,  an  expression  ampler 
than  the  things  expressed,  a  harmony 
which  is  the  universal  bond,  all  this 
lies  revealed  in  the  eye  of  a  woman. 
All  this,  and  more  still,  dwells  in  the 
fathomless  voice  of  the  woman  who 
feels. 


LETTER  XLI 

Lyons ,  May  i8thy  6th  year. 

IT  would  seem  as  though  fate  were 
determined  to  lead  man  back  under 
the  yoke  which  he  had  striven  to  shake 
off  in  defiance  of  that  very  fate.  Of 
what  avail  has  it  been  to  me  to  have 
renounced  my  former  ways,  and  to  have 


22         OBERMANN 

gone  out  in  search  of  a  freer  life  ?  If  I 
have  seen  things  that  were  in  harmony 
with  my  nature,  I  was  given  a  glimpse 
of  them  only  as  I  passed  along  the 
road  of  life,  and  they  brought  me  no 
enjoyment,  but  served  merely  to  in- 
crease twofold  my  feverish  longing  to 
possess  them. 

I  am  not  the  slave  of  passion ;  I  am 
still  more  unfortunate,  for  its  vanity 
does  not  deceive  me.  But,  after  all, 
must  not  life  be  filled  by  something  ? 
When  existence  is  empty  can  it  be 
satisfying  ?  If  the  life  of  the  heart  is 
nothing  but  a  restless  void,  would  it 
not  be  better  to  leave  it  for  a  more  tran- 
quil void  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  intelli- 
gence looks  for  a  result,  and  I  should 
like  to  be  told  the  result  of  my  life. 
I  long  for  something  that  will  blind- 
fold my  days,  and  carry  them  swiftly 
onward.  It  is  intolerable  to  feel  them 
rolling  perpetually  over  my  head,  slug- 
gish, slow,  and  solitary,  without  aspi- 


OBERMANN        23 

rations,  without  illusions,  without  aim. 
If  I  am  to  know  only  the  miseries  of 
life,  is  it  good  to  have  been  given  life ; 
is  it  wise  to  preserve  it  ? s 

You  do  not  believe  that,  too  weak 
to  stand  steadfast  against  the  ills  of  hu- 
manity, I  dare  not  even  endure  the  fear 
of  them.  You  know  me  better.  Not 
in  misfortune  would  I  think  of  throw- 
ing away  my  life.  Resistance  awakens 
the  soul  and  lends  it  a  prouder  bearing. 
When  we  are  called  upon  to  battle  with 
great  sorrows,  we  are  finally  worthy  of 
ourselves ;  we  take  delight  in  our  en- 
ergy, we  have  at  least  something  to  do. 
But  it  is  the  perplexity,  the  tedium, 
the  restraint,  the  insipidity  of  life  that 
dishearten  and  repel  me.  The  passion- 
ate man  can  be  resigned  to  suffer,  since 
he  claims  some  day  to  enjoy  ;  but  what 
thought  can  sustain  the  man  who  ex- 
pects nothing  ?  I  am  weary  of  leading 
so  empty  a  life.  It  is  true  that  I  might 
still  find  it  in  my  heart  to  be  patient ; 


24        OBERMANN 

but  my  days  are  passing  without  a 
useful  act,  without  enjoyment,  without 
hope,  and  without  peace.  Think  you 
that  with  an  indomitable  soul  all  this 
can  endure  through  long  years  ?  .  .  . 

Again  I  see  rising  before  me  the 
sad  memory  of  the  long,  wasted  years. 
I  see  how  the  ever  -  seductive  future 
changes  and  diminishes  as  we  approach 
it.  Struck  by  the  breath  of  death, 
under  the  lurid  light  of  the  present's 
funeral  torch,  that  future  fades  at  the 
very  moment  when  we  think  to  enjoy 
it ;  throwing  off  the  seductions  which 
disguised  it,  and  the  spell  which  has 
already  grown  old,  it  moves  onward, 
solitary  and  abandoned ;  and  bears  with 
stolidity  and  inertness  its  hideous  and 
worn-out  sceptre,  as  though  mocking 
at  the  baleful  clanking  of  its  eternal 
chain  and  the  weariness  of  it  all. 

When  I  foresee  the  disenchanted 
void  through  which  the  ruins  of  my 
youth  and  my  life  are  to  be  dragged, 


OBERMANN        25 

when  my  thought  strives  to  follow  in 
advance  the  uniform  slope  down  which 
everything  flows  and  is  lost,  what  think 
you  that  I  can  expect  at  its  close,  and 
who  can  hide  from  me  the  abyss  in 
which  all  this  is  to  end  ?  Is  it  not  meet 
that,  dejected  and  disheartened,  when 
I  feel  certain  that  I  am  capable  of  no- 
thing, I  shall  at  least  seek  rest  ?  And 
when  an  inexorable  force  weighs  un- 
ceasingly upon  me,  how  can  I  rest 
except  by  hurrying  myself  onward  to 
my  release  ? 

All  things  must  have  an  end  in 
harmony  with  their  nature.  Since  my 
relative  life  is  cut  off  from  the  course 
of  the  world,  why  should  I  vegetate 
through  a  long  future,  useless  to  the 
others,  and  tiresome  to  myself?  To  sat- 
isfy the  mere  love  of  life !  to  breathe 
and  grow  old !  to  awake  in  bitterness 
when  all  is  at  rest,  and  to  grope  in 
darkness  when  the  earth  is  in  bloom ; 
to  possess  only  the  need  of  aspirations, 


26        OBERMANN 

and  to  know  only  the  dream  of  life ; 
to  be  forever  isolated  and  out  of  place 
on  the  stage  of  human  afflictions,  while 
through  me  no  one  is  made  happy,  and 
I  am  vouchsafed  only  the  conception 
of  a  man's  part ;  to  cling  to  a  wasted 
life,  cowardly  slave  !  whom  life  rejects, 
and  who  still  pursues  life's  shadow, 
eager  for  existence,  as  though  real  ex- 
istence had  been  granted  it,  and  who 
lives  in  misery,  for  want  of  the  courage 
not  to  live  at  all ! 

Of  what  avail  to  me  is  the  sophis- 
try of  a  soft  and  flattering  philosophy, 
hollow  disguise  of  a  dastard  instinct, 
empty  wisdom  of  patient  souls  who  per- 
petuate the  evils  they  endure  so  well, 
and  who  justify  our  servitude  by  an 
imaginary  law  of  necessity  ? 

"  Wait,"  they  will  say  to  me,  "moral 
evil  exhausts  itself  by  its  very  continu- 
ity. Wait,  times  will  change,  and  you 
will  be  satisfied ;  or  if  times  remain  the 
same,  you  will  yourself  change.  By 


OBERMANN        27 

making  use  of  the  present  such  as  it 
is,  you  will  weaken  the  too  vivid  con- 
sciousness of  a  better  future ;  and  when 
you  tolerate  life,  then  life  will  be  good 
to  your  more  tranquil  heart." 

A  passion  dies,  a  loss  is  forgotten,  a 
wrong  may  be  redressed  ;  but  I  have 
neither  passions,  nor  losses,  nor  wrongs, 
nothing  that  can  die,  or  be  forgotten, 
or  redressed.  A  fresh  passion  has  the 
power  to  bring  solace  for  the  loss  of 
the  old ;  but  what  will  give  life  to  my 
heart  when  it  shall  have  lost  the  thirst 
that  consumes  it  ?  It  desires  everything, 
claims  everything,  contains  everything. 
What  will  take  the  place  of  the  bound- 
less which  my  thought  requires  ?  Af- 
flictions are  forgotten ;  fresh  benefits 
wipe  them  away.  But  what  benefits 
can  assuage  universal  grief  ?  .  .  .  Know 
you  of  any  good  that  brings  consola- 
tion for  world-sorrow  ?  If  my  suffer- 
ing has  its  source  in  the  nothingness 
of  my  life,  will  time  allay  evils  which 


28        OBERMANN 

time  increases,  and  can  I  hope  that  they 
will  die,  when  it  is  by  their  very  con- 
tinuance that  they  are  intolerable  ? 

"  Wait,  for  better  times  may  bear 
the  fruits  which  fate  seems  to  withhold 
from  you  to-day." 

Men  of  a  day,  who  scheme  as  you 
grow  old,  and  argue  for  a  distant  future 
when  death  walks  in  your  footsteps, 
will  you  never  realize  the  swift  current 
of  time,  while  you  are  lost  in  dreams 
of  consoling  illusions  amid  the  insta- 
bility of  mortal  things  ?  Will  you  never 
see  that  your  life  falls  asleep  as  it  sways 
to  and  fro,  and  that  the  very  changes 
which  give  courage  to  your  deluded 
heart  stir  it  only  in  order  to  quench  its 
life  with  a  last,  swift  blow  ? 

Were  man's  life  unending,  or  were 
it  longer  and  changeless  until  near  its 
last  hour,  then  hope  might  seduce  me, 
and  I  might  perhaps  wait  for  what 
would  be  at  least  a  possibility.  But  is 
there  any  permanence  in  life?  Can 


OBERMANN        29 

the  future  have  the  needs  of  the  pre- 
sent ?  And  what  was  meet  yesterday, 
will  it  be  good  to-morrow  ?  Our  heart 
changes  more  swiftly  than  the  seasons 
of  the  year  ;  their  variations  are  at  least 
fraught  with  some  degree  of  constancy, 
since  they  repeat  themselves  through- 
out the  course  of  the  centuries.  But 
our  days,  never  to  be  renewed,  have 
not  two  hours  that  are  alike;  our  sea- 
sons, which  are  never  retrieved,  have 
each  their  individual  needs.  If  one  age 
loses  its  peculiar  rights,  it  has  lost  them 
without  return,  and  no  other  age  can 
attain  to  what  the  age  of  strength  has 
missed.  .  .  . 

But  I  am  calmer  now,  and  am  be- 
ginning to  be  tired  of  my  very  impa- 
tience. Thoughts  sombre,  yet  tranquil, 
are  becoming  more  familiar  to  me. 
My  mind  willingly  reverts  to  those 
who  in  the  morning  of  their  lives  have 
found  their  eternal  night ;  this  feeling 
rests  and  consoles  me ;  it  is  the  instinct 


30        OBERMANN 

of  evening.  But  why  this  need  of  dark- 
ness ?  why  is  light  painful  to  me  ? 
They  will  know  one  day,  when  they 
will  have  changed,  when  I  shall  no 
longer  be. 

"  When  you  will  no  longer  be  !  .  .  . 
Do  you  meditate  a  crime  ?" 

If,  weary  of  the  ills  of  life,  but  espe- 
cially disillusioned  of  its  benefits,  al- 
ready suspended  over  the  abyss,  set  apart 
for  the  supreme  moment,  held  back  by 
a  friend,  accused  by  the  moralist,  con- 
demned by  my  country,  culpable  in  the 
eyes  of  social  man,  I  were  called  upon 
to  reply  to  his  reproaches  and  his  exer- 
tions in  my  behalf,  this,  it  seems  to  me, 
is  what  I  might  say :  — 

I  have  searched  everything,  known 
everything,  and  if  I  have  not  expe- 
rienced, I  have  at  least  foreseen  every- 
thing. Your  sorrows  have  withered  my 
soul ;  they  are  intolerable  because  they 
are  aimless.  Your  pleasures  are  illusive, 
evanescent ;  one  day  suffices  to  know 


OBERMANN        31 

them  and  renounce  them.  I  sought  hap- 
piness within  myself,  but  not  blindly, 
and  I  found  that  joy  was  not  made  for 
isolated  man.  I  proffered  it  to  those 
around  me,  but  they  had  no  leisure  to 
give  it  thought.  I  questioned  the  mul- 
titude blighted  by  misery,  and  the  elect 
oppressed  by  tedium  ;  they  answered, 
"  We  suffer  to-day,  but  to-morrow  we 
shall  enjoy."  As  for  myself,  I  know 
that  the  day  that  is  to  come  will  walk 
in  the  footprints  of  the  waning  day. 
Live  on,  you  who  can  still  be  duped 
by  the  magic  of  happy  illusions  ;  but 
tired  of  what  may  lead  hope  astray, 
expecting  nothing,  and  wellnigh  de- 
siring nothing,  I  must  no  longer  live. 
I  judge  of  life  like  the  man  who  goes 
to  his  grave ;  may  that  grave  open  for 
me  also.  Ought  I  to  delay  the  end 
when  it  has  already  been  reached  ?  Na- 
ture offers  illusions  to  be  believed  in 
and  loved ;  she  lifts  the  veil  only  at 
the  hour  marked  for  death.  She  has 


32         OBERMANN 

not  raised  it  for  you  —  live  on.  She 
has  lifted  it  for  me  —  my  life  has 
already  passed.  .  .  . 

Without  aspirations  what  can  one 
do  with  life  ?  Vegetate  stupidly  ;  drag 
one's  self  over  the  lifeless  tracks  of  cares 
and  concerns ;  crawl  impotently  in  the 
abasement  of  the  slave,  or  the  nullity  of 
the  multitude ;  think,  without  serving 
universal  order  ;  feel,  without  living. 
Thus,  the  pitiable  plaything  of  an  in- 
scrutable destiny,  man  abandons  his  life 
to  the  chances  of  times  and  things.  .  .  . 

It  is  true,  I  leave  behind  me  friends 
whom  I  shall  grieve,  my  country  whose 
benefits  I  have  not  sufficiently  repaid, 
all  men  whom  I  ought  to  serve  ;  for 
this  I  feel,  not  remorse,  but  regret. 
Who,  more  than  I,  could  realize  the 
value  of  union,  the  authority  of  duty, 
the  happiness  of  a  useful  life  ?  I  had 
hoped  to  do  some  good ;  it  was  the 
most  pleasing,  the  most  foolish  of  my 
dreams. 


OBERMANN        33 

Amid  the  ceaseless  uncertainty  of 
an  existence  forever  troubled,  fleeting, 
servile,  you  all  follow,  in  your  blindness 
and  docility,  the  beaten  track  of  estab- 
lished order;  and  thus  give  up  your 
life  to  your  habits,  wasting  it  as  heed- 
lessly as  you  would  waste  a  day.  I 
might,  if  I  were  likewise  carried  away 
by  this  general  aberration,  leave  behind 
me  a  few  benefits  along  these  paths  of 
error ;  but  this  good,  easy  to  all,  will 
be  done  without  me  by  virtuous  men. 
There  are  such  men ;  may  they  live, 
and,  useful  in  some  way,  may  they  be 
happy.  As  for  me,  I  confess  that  I 
should  not  be  consoled  if,  in  this  abyss 
of  evils,  I  could  not  do  more.  The  bur- 
den of  one  unfortunate  man  near  me 
might  perhaps  be  lightened,  but  the 
groans  of  a  hundred  thousand  would 
still  strike  upon  my  ear,  and,  powerless 
in  their  midst,  I  should  see  the  bitter 
fruits  of  human  error  always  attributed 
to  the  nature  of  things,  and  I  should 


34        OBERMANN 

watch  the  perpetuation  of  those  miser- 
ies which  are  looked  upon  as  the  inev- 
itable work  of  necessity,  but  in  which 
I  trace  the  accidental  caprice  of  an  ex- 
periment in  perfection.  I  ought  to  be 
severely  condemned  if  I  should  refuse 
to  sacrifice  a  happy  life  for  the  general 
good ;  but  since  I  am  doomed  to  remain 
useless,  I  feel  only  regrets,  and  not  re- 
morse, when  I  claim  a  rest  too  long 
delayed.  .  .  . 

If  it  were  a  clearly  defined  duty  to 
allow  the  life  that  has  been  given  me 
to  run  its  full  course,  I  should,  doubt- 
less, face  its  miseries  ;  time  would  soon 
carry  them  along  on  its  swift  current. 
However  harassed  may  be  our  days, 
they  are  endurable  since  they  are  lim- 
ited. Death  and  life  are  in  my  power ; 
I  neither  cling  to  one,  nor  desire  the 
other.  Let  reason  decide  whether  I 
have  the  right  to  choose  between 
them.  .  .  . 

The  Eternal  has  given  me  life,  you 


OBERMANN         35 

say,  and  has  intrusted  me  with  my  part 
in  the  harmony  of  his  works ;  I  must 
fill  it  to  the  end,  and  I  have  not  the 
right  to  flee  from  his  sovereignty.  — 

You  forget  too  quickly  the  soul 
which  you  have  given  me.  This  earthly 
body  is  only  dust,  do  you  no  longer  re- 
member ?  But  my  intelligence,  imper- 
ishable breath  which  emanated  from 
universal  intelligence,  can  never  escape 
from  its  law.  How  can  I  flee  beyond 
the  dominion  of  the  Lord  of  all  things  ? 
It  is  merely  a  change  of  place,  and 
places  are  as  nought  to  Him  who  holds 
and  governs  all  things.  .  .  . 

Nature  watches  over  my  preserva- 
tion ;  I  must  also  preserve  myself  in 
order  to  obey  her  laws,  and  since  she 
has  given  me  the  fear  of  death,  she  for- 
bids me  to  seek  death. — 

This  is  a  fine  phrase.  But  nature  pre- 
serves or  sacrifices  me  at  will ;  there  is, 
at  least,  in  the  natural  course  of  things, 
no  known  law  on  this  point.  When  I 


36        OBERMANN 

desire  to  live,  a  gulf  opens  to  swallow 
me  up,  the  lightning  falls  from  heaven 
to  consume  me.  If  nature  takes  away 
the  life  which  she  has  made  me  love,  I 
take  it  away  when  I  no  longer  love  it. 
If  she  wrests  from  me  a  good,  I  throw 
away  an  evil.  If  she  surrenders  my  ex- 
istence to  the  arbitrary  course  of  events, 
I  leave  it  or  preserve  it  according  to  my 
choice.  Since  she  has  given  me  the 
faculty  of  willing  and  choosing,  I  use 
it  under  circumstances  when  I  am  led 
to  decide  between  the  greatest  interests ; 
and  I  cannot  comprehend  that  by  using 
the  liberty  she  has  given  me,  in  choos- 
ing a  course  inspired  by  her,  I  am 
by  this  very  act  outraging  her.  I,  the 
work  of  nature,  study  her  laws,  and 
find  in  them  my  liberty.  .  .  . 


OBERMANN        37 


LETTER   XLII 

Lyons,  May  2gth,  6th  year. 

1HAVE  read  over  your  entire  letter 
several  times.  It  was  dictated  by 
too  keen  an  interest.  I  respect  the 
friendship  which  deceives  you,  and 
realize  that  I  was  not  as  solitary  as  I 
had  claimed  to  be.  You  are  clever  in 
laying  stress  upon  most  praiseworthy 
motives  ;  but,  believe  me,  while  a  great 
deal  may  be  said  to  the  passionate  man 
who  is  carried  away  by  despair,  there 
is  not  a  single  valid  word  in  answer  to 
the  man  who  quietly  reasons  out  his 
own  death. 

Not  that  I  have  decided  on  anything. 
Despondency  overwhelms  me,  disgust 
crushes  me.  I  know  that  this  evil  takes 
its  spring  from  within.  Why  can  I  not 
be  content  to  eat  and  to  sleep  —  for  I 
do  eat  and  sleep.  The  life  that  I  drag 


38        OBERMANN 

along  is  not  so  very  wretched  after  all. 
Each  separate  day  is  endurable,  but 
their  whole  overpowers  me.  An  organ- 
ized being  must  act,  and  act  in  har- 
mony with  his  nature.  Can  it  satisfy 
him  to  be  well  sheltered,  to  sleep  in 
warmth  and  ease,  to  be  fed  on  delicate 
fruits,  to  be  surrounded  by  the  murmur 
of  the  waters  and  the  fragrance  of  the 
flowers  ?  You  keep  him  stagnant ;  this 
indolence  wearies  him,  these  scents 
annoy  him,  this  delicate  food  fails  to 
nourish  him.  Take  back  your  gifts 
and  your  fetters.  Let  him  act ;  let  him 
suffer,  even.  Let  him  act,  for  to  act  is 
to  enjoy  and  to  live. 

But  apathy  has  become  natural  to 
me,  as  it  were ;  the  thought  of  an  ac- 
tive life  alarms  or  surprises  me.  Small 
things  offend  me,  but  I  cling  to  them 
as  to  a  habit.  Great  things  will  always 
attract  me,  but  my  sloth  fears  them.  I 
do  not  know  what  I  am,  what  I  love, 
what  I  desire ;  I  groan  without  reason, 


OBERMANN        39 

I  yearn  without  object,  and  the  only 
thing  I  realize  is  that  I  am  not  in  my 
right  place. 

Man's  moral  sense,  his  enthusiasm, 
the  restlessness  of  his  desires,  his  con- 
stant need  of  development,  all  seem  to 
indicate  that  his  existence  does  not  end 
with  this  passing  life ;  that  his  activity 
is  not  limited  to  visible  illusions ;  that 
his  thought  must  deal  with  inevitable 
and  eternal  concepts ;  that  his  vocation 
is  to  work  for  the  betterment  or  the 
reformation  of  the  world ;  that  his 
destiny  is,  in  a  measure,  to  perfect,  to 
deepen,  to  organize,  to  give  to  matter 
more  energy,  to  beings  greater  power, 
to  faculties  fuller  perfection,  to  germs 
ampler  fruitfulness,  to  the  relations  of 
things  completer  equity,  to  order  a 
wider  dominion. 

He  is  looked  upon  as  the  instrument 
of  nature,  employed  by  her  to  complete 
and  perfect  her  work  ;  to  make  use  of 
the  brute  matter  that  comes  within  his 


4o        OBERMANN 

reach;  to  bring  formless  compounds 
into  subjection  to  the  laws  of  harmony  ; 
to  refine  the  metals,  beautify  the  plants ; 
to  separate  or  combine  elements ;  to 
transform  gross  into  volatile  substances, 
and  inert  into  active  matter  ;  to  uplift 
less  developed  beings,  and  to  himself 
progress  and  mount  upward  to  the  uni- 
versal principle  of  fire,  light,  order, 
harmony,  and  energy. 

Starting  with  this  hypothesis,  the 
man  who  is  worthy  of  so  high  a  min- 
istry, a  conqueror  of  obstacles  and  dis- 
couragements, will  stand  at  his  post 
until  the  last.  I  respect  this  constancy. 
.  .  .  The  upright  man  will  undoubt- 
edly not  renounce  his  life  as  long  as  he 
can  be  useful ;  to  be  useful  and  to  be 
happy  are  for  him  synonymous.  If  he 
suffers,  but  at  the  same  time  does  great 
good,  he  is  more  satisfied  than  discon- 
tented. But  when  the  evil  he  expe- 
riences is  greater  than  the  good  he 
can  accomplish,  then  he  may  abandon 
everything.  .  .  . 


OBERMANN        41 


LETTER  X  LI  II 

Lyons,  May  joth,  6th  year. 

WISE  men,  it  is  said,  live  with- 
out passion,  without  impa- 
tience, and  as  they  look  at  all  things 
from  the  same  point  of  view,  they  find 
in  their  quietude  the  peace  and  the  dig- 
nity of  life.  .  .  . 

The  wise  man  of  Epicurus  must  have 
neither  wife  nor  children ;  but  even  that 
is  not  enough.  As  soon  as  the  interests 
of  another  depend  upon  our  prudence, 
trifling  and  vexing  cares  destroy  our 
peace,  harass  our  soul,  and  often  quench 
our  very  genius.  .  .  . 

One  must  be  neither  father  nor  hus- 
band, if  one  wishes  to  live  independ- 
ently, and  one  ought,  perhaps,  not 
even  to  have  friends ;  but  a  life  so  lonely 
would  be  sad  and  useless.  A  man  who 
rules  the  destiny  of  a  people,  who 


42        OBERMANN 

meditates  and  does  great  things,  may 
be  bound  to  no  particular  individual ; 
the  people  are  his  friends,  and,  a  bene- 
factor of  men,  he  may  be  exempt  from 
being  the  benefactor  of  one  man.  But 
to  me  it  seems  as  if  those  who  live  in 
obscurity  ought  to  at  least  find  some 
one  toward  whom  they  have  duties  to 
fulfill.  .  .  . 

It  would  be  terrible  to  end  one's 
days  in  saying :  "  Through  me  no 
heart  has  been  made  happy  ;  no  joy  of 
man  has  been  my  work  ;  I  have  passed 
through  life  impassive  and  null,  like 
the  glacier,  which,  in  the  mountain 
fastnesses,  has  resisted  the  noonday  sun 
and  has  never  flowed  downward  to  the 
valley  below,  to  redeem  with  its  waters 
the  pastures  which  lay  parched  in  the 
burning  heat."  .  .  . 


OBERMANN        43 


LETTER  XLV 

Chessely  July  2fth,  6th  year. 

THE  multitude  of  living  men  is 
sacrificed  to  the  prosperity  of 
the  few,  even  as  the  majority  of  chil- 
dren die  and  are  sacrificed  to  the  exist- 
ence of  those  who  remain,  as  millions 
of  acorns  are  sacrificed  to  the  beauty  of 
the  great  oaks  which  spread  out  their 
wide  branches,  free  and  unhampered. 
And  the  lamentable  part  of  it  is,  that 
in  this  throng  which  fate  abandons  and 
thrusts  back  into  the  miry  morass  of 
life,  there  are  men  who  struggle  against 
their  lot,  and  whose  impotent  energy 
becomes  exasperated  even  while  it  is 
being  consumed. 

General  laws  are  very  beautiful,  and 
I  would  willingly  sacrifice  to  them 
one,  two,  even  ten  years  of  my  life ;  but 
all  my  being,  that  is  too  much !  It  is 


44        OBERMANN 

nothing  to  nature,  but  everything  to 
me.  .  .  .  These  laws  for  the  whole, 
this  heed  for  species,  this  scorn  of  indi- 
viduals, this  onward  march  of  beings, 
is  hard  for  us  who  are  individuals.  I 
reverence  a  Providence  that  carves  out 
everything  in  broad  masses,  but  how 
man  is  tossed  among  the  shavings  !  and 
how  amusing  it  is  for  him  to  think 
himself  something  !  .  .  . 

Man,  counting  for  so  little  in  nature, 
and  for  so  much  to  himself,  ought  to 
be  concerned  somewhat  less  with  the 
laws  of  the  world,  and  somewhat  more 
with  his  own  laws ;  ought  to  set  aside, 
perhaps,  those  of  transcendental  science 
which  have  never  dried  a  solitary  tear 
in  hamlet  or  attic  ;  set  aside,  perhaps, 
certain  admirable  but  useless  arts,  he- 
roic and  evil  passions ;  and  seek,  if 
possible,  to  form  institutions  which 
shall  hold  man  in  check  and  cease  to 
brutalize  him,  to  have  less  science  and 
less  ignorance ;  and  admit  that  if  man 


OBERMANN        45 

is  not  a  blind  energy  to  be  abandoned 
to  the  forces  of  fate,  if  his  acts  have  in 
them  something  spontaneous,  morality 
is  the  only  science  which  man  is  per- 
mitted to  frame. 


LETTER    XL VI 

Lyons  y  August  2d,  6th  year. 

WHEN  the  day  first  dawns,  I 
am-  downcast,  I  feel  sad  and 
troubled  ;  I  take  no  interest  in  things, 
and  it  seems  impossible  to  fill  the  long 
hours.  When  the  day  is  in  its  full 
strength,  it  overwhelms  me,  and  I  flee 
from  its  dazzling  brightness.  But  when 
the  light  is  softened,  and  I  feel  around 
me  that  charm  of  happy  evenings  so 
long  alien  to  my  heart,  then  I  drain 
the  cup  of  misery  and  abandon  myself 
to  grief. 

In  this  my  life  of  ease  more  sorrows 
crowd  upon  me  than  upon  the  man 
who  is  pursued  by  misfortune. 


46        OBERMANN 

I  have  been  told  :  "  You  are  tranquil 
now."  The  paralytic  is  tranquil  on  his 
bed  of  pain.  What  a  lot,  to  consume 
the  days  of  our  strength,  even  as  the  old 
man  passes  the  days  of  repose !  For- 
ever waiting,  without  hope ;  restless, 
without  aspiration ;  disquieted,  without 
cause ;  hours  ever  empty  ;  talk  always 
superficial ;  .  .  .  friends,  without  inti- 
macy ;  pleasures,  for  the  sake  of  appear- 
ances ;  laughter,  to  satisfy  those  who 
are  as  bored  as  one's  self;  and  not  one 
feeling  of  joy  in  two  years  !  The  body 
always  inactive,  the  mind  tormented, 
the  soul  unhappy,  and  not  even  in  sleep 
to  escape  from  this  sense  of  bitterness, 
of  restraint,  of  restless  tedium  —  this  is 
the  slow  agony  of  the  heart.  It  is  not 
thus  that  man  should  live. 

August  3d. 

.  .  .  Resignation  is  often  good  for 
individuals ;  it  can  only  be  fatal  to  the 
race. 


OBERMANN        47 

Will  it  be  said  that  one  must  not 
insist  on  imaginary  beauty,  on  absolute 
happiness,  but  rather  on  the  details  of 
direct  usefulness  in  the  actual  order  of 
things  ?  and  that,  as  perfection  is  not 
possible  to  man,  and  especially  to  men, 
it  is  both  useless  and  romantic  to  talk 
to  them  about  it  ?  But  nature  herself 
always  sows  much  to  reap  little.  Of  a 
thousand  seeds  only  one  will  germi- 
nate. We  must  keep  our  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  greatest  good,  not  because  we 
hope  to  reach  it,  but  because  we  shall 
come  nearer  to  it  than  if  we  were  to 
elect  the  possible  as  the  goal  of  our 
efforts.  .  .  . 

You  alone  know  how  to  fill  your 
lives,  —  men  simple  and  just,  —  full  of 
confidence  and  broad  affections,  of  sen- 
timent, and  of  repose,  who  experience 
your  existence  to  the  full,  and  who  will 
reap  the  results  of  your  work  !  You 
find  your  joy  in  domestic  order  and 
tranquillity,  on  the  brow  of  a  friend,  on 


48        OBERMANN 

the  happy  lips  of  a  wife.  Come  not 
to  our  cities  to  be  a  slave  to  wretched 
mediocrity,  to  proud  weariness.  .  .  . 
Forget  not  the  things  of  nature.  .  .  . 
I  say  again,  time  flies  ever  more 
swiftly  as  the  seasons  of  man  come  and 
go.  My  lost  days  are  heaped  up  be- 
hind me ;  they  fill  the  indefinite  space 
with  their  colorless  shadows ;  they  hud- 
dle together  their  wasted  skeletons  — 
it  is  the  shadowy  phantom  of  a  fu- 
nerary monument.  And  if  my  restless 
gaze  turns  away  and  seeks  rest  on  the 
once  happier  chain  of  future  days,  it 
finds  that  their  full  forms  and  brilliant 
images  have  paled.  Their  colors  fade. 
That  softened  distance,  which,  by  the 
magic  of  uncertainty,  once  clothed  them 
with  a  celestial  grace,  now  strips  to  the 
bone  their  lifeless  and  mournful  phan- 
toms. By  the  austere  light  which  be- 
trays them  in  the  eternal  night,  I  can 
already  see  the  last  day  advancing  alone 
across  the  abyss,  and  between  it  and  me 
there  is  nought. 


OBERMANN        49 

Do  you  remember  our  vain  aspira- 
tions, the  projects  of  our  childhood  ? 
The  joy  of  a  beautiful  sky,  the  forget- 
fulness  of  the  world,  and  the  freedom 
of  the  lonely  wilds  ! 

Youthful  enchantment  of  a  heart 
that  believes  in  happiness,  wants  to 
satisfy  its  desires,  and  is  ignorant  of  life! 
Simplicity  of  hope,  where  hast  thou 
flown  ?  The  silence  of  the  forests,  the 
limpidness  of  the  waters,  the  wild  fruits, 
the  intimacy  of  comradeship,  these  were 
sufficient  for  us.  The  real  world  holds 
nothing  that  can  replace  these  desires 
of  a  true  heart,  of  an  untaught  mind, 
the  early  dream  of  our  early  years. 

But  when  a  happier  hour  crowns 
our  brow  with  unwonted  serenity,  with 
a  fleeting  shadow  of  peace  and  well- 
being,  the  following  hour  is  quick  to 
draw  across  it  deep  lines  of  sorrow  and 
fatigue,  furrows  steeped  in  bitterness, 
which  stamp  out  forever  its  early  inno- 
cence. 


50        OBERMANN 

I  am  not  suffering,  impatient,  irri- 
tated ;  I  am  downcast  and  weary ;  I 
am  overwhelmed  with  despondency. 
Now  and  again,  it  is  true,  I  fling 
myself  by  an  unexpected  impulse  be- 
yond the  narrow  limits  of  the  sphere  in 
which  I  was  compressed.  This  move- 
ment is  so  swift  that  it  comes  upon 
me  with  unforeseen  strength,  and  I  am 
filled  and  carried  away  by  it  before  I 
remember  the  vanity  of  my  impulse.  I 
lose  in  this  way  the  reasoned  repose 
which  perpetuates  our  ills,  and  calcu- 
lates our  miseries  with  its  impassive 
compass,  according  to  its  wise  and  soul- 
destroying  formulas. 

In  that  hour  ...  I  see  only,  on 
the  one  side,  my  soul  with  its  powers 
and  its  aspirations,  like  a  limited  but 
independent  agent,  which  nothing  can 
hinder  from  destroying  itself  at  its 
allotted  time,  and  which  nothing  can 
prevent  from  living  in  harmony  with 
its  own  nature ;  and,  on  the  other  side, 


OBERMANN        51 

I  see  the  whole  earth  as  the  necessary 
domain  of  my  soul,  as  the  means  of 
its  activity,  as  the  materials  of  its  life. 
I  scorn  that  inert  and  spiritless  prudence 
which  forgets  the  power  of  genius, 
quenches  the  fire  of  the  heart,  and  loses 
for  all  time  what  constitutes  life,  that 
it  may  fashion  playthings  and  set  up 
puerile  shadows. 

I  ask  myself  what  I  am  doing  ;  why 
I  do  not  begin  to  live ;  what  force 
enthralls  me,  when  I  am  free ;  what 
weakness  holds  me  back,  when  I  feel  an 
energy  that  consumes  me  in  the  very 
effort  to  repress  it ;  what  I  look  forward 
to,  when  I  hope  for  nothing ;  what  I 
seek  here,  when  here  I  love  nothing, 
desire  nothing ;  what  fatality  forces  me 
to  act  in  opposition  to  my  wishes,  when 
it  is  incomprehensible  how  this  fatal- 
ity should  have  the  power  to  control 
me?  . 


52        OBERMANN 


LETTER  XLVIII 

Meterville,  September  1st,  6th  year. 

THOUGH  we  drag  along  our 
years  in  indifference,  we  still 
may  chance  to  see  the  sky  on  a  cloud- 
less night.  We  see  the  vast  planets ; 
they  are  not  delusions  of  the  fancy, 
they  are  real  before  our  eyes ;  we  see 
the  yet  vaster  space,  and  the  suns  that 
give  light  to  other  worlds,  where  be- 
ings different  from  ourselves  are  born, 
feel,  and  die. 

The  trunk  of  the  young  fir  stands 
near  me,  straight  and  firm ;  it  rises 
into  the  air,  and  seems  to  have  neither 
life  nor  motion  ;  but  it  exists,  and  if  it 
knows  itself,  its  secret  and  the  spring 
of  its  life  are  within.  It  grows  unseen. 
It  is  the  same  by  night  and  by  day  ;  the 
same  under  the  cold  snow,  and  under 
the  summer  sun.  It  turns  with  the 


OBERMANN        53 

earth  ;  motionless  it  turns  among  all 
these  worlds.  The  grasshopper  is  alert 
while  man  is  at  rest ;  it  will  die,  the  fir 
will  fall,  the  worlds  will  change. 

In  that  day  where  will  our  books  be, 
our  fame,  our  fears,  our  prudence,  and 
the  house  we  were  to  have  built,  and 
the  grain  which  the  hail  had  spared  ? 
For  what  season  do  you  harvest  ?  In 
what  age  do  you  place  your  hope  ?  One 
more  revolution  of  a  planet,  one  more 
hour  of  its  span,  and  all  that  is  you  will 
no  longer  be.  .  .  . 

Intelligence  of  the  worlds !  how  vain 
are  the  cares  of  man  !  What  laughable 
solicitude  for  the  incidents  of  an  hour  ! 
What  senseless  torments  to  arrange  the 
details  of  this  life  which  a  breath  of 
time  will  destroy  ! 


54        OBERMANN 


L  ETTER    L I 

Paris,  September  2d,  fth  year. 

OF  what  avail  to  my  happiness  is 
a  fame  which  during  my  life  is 
still  in  its  bud,  and  will  bloom  forth 
only  after  my  death  ?  It  is  pride  that 
makes  the  living  utter  with  such  deep 
respect  the  great  names  of  the  dead.  I 
do  not  see  that  it  is  any  great  benefit 
to  us  to  minister,  a  thousand  years 
from  now,  to  the  passions  of  different 
parties,  or  the  whims  of  public  opinion. 
I  am  content  if  honest  men  cannot  cast 
a  slur  upon  my  memory ;  the  rest  is 
vanity.  Chance  holds  too  often  the 
casting  vote,  and  oftener  still  the  means 
repel  me ;  I  should  not  wish  to  be 
either  a  Charles  XII.,  or  a  Pacomus.6 
To  seek  glory  and  not  attain  it  is  hu- 
miliating ;  to  be  worthy  of  it,  and  yet 
lose  it,  is  melancholy  perhaps,  but,  after 


OBERMANN        55 

all,  to  gain  it  is  not  the  chief  end  of 
man. 

Tell  me  whether  the  greatest  names 
are  those  of  just  men  ?  When  we  can 
do  good  deeds  let  us  do  them  for  their 
own  sakes,  and  if  our  destiny  leads  us  far 
away  from  great  things,  let  us  at  least 
not  neglect  those  which  glory  does  not 
reward ;  let  us  put  aside  uncertainties, 
and  be  good  in  obscurity.  Some  men, 
seeking  fame  for  fame's  sake,  may  pos- 
sibly give  a  needed  impetus  to  public 
enterprise  in  great  states;  but,  as  for 
ourselves,  let  us  strive  to  do  only  those 
things  which  ought  to  bring  glory,  and 
be  indifferent  to  the  whims  of  fate  that 
often  grant  it  to  happiness,  sometimes 
deny  it  to  heroism,  and  rarely  accord 
it  to  purity  of  intention. 

I  have  felt  for  some  days  a  great 
longing  for  simple  things,  .  .  .  violets 
which  we  find  with  so  much  pleasure, 
and  seek  with  so  much  interest !  ber- 
ries, nuts,  strawberries  ;  wild  pears,  and 


56        OBERMANN 

fallen  chestnuts ;  fir  cones  for  the  au- 
tumn hearth  —  gentle  ways  of  a  more 
natural  life  !  Joy  of  simple  men ;  sim- 
plicity of  happy  lands  !  .  .  . 


LETTER  LII 

Paris,  October  Qth,  fth  year. 

1AM  delighted  with  your  young 
friend.  .  .  .  He  seems  to  justify 
all  the  interest  you  take  in  him ;  were 
he  your  son,  I  should  congratulate  you. 
Yours  would  have  been  of  his  age ;  and 
he  has  no  father !  Your  son  and  his 
mother  were  destined  to  die  early.  I 
do  not  avoid  speaking  of  this.  Old  sor- 
rows sadden,  but  do  not  torture  us  ;  that 
deep  bitterness,  softened  and  made  en- 
durable by  time,  becomes  to  us  a  ne- 
cessity ;  it  brings  back  to  us  the  charm 
of  the  ways  of  old ;  it  stirs  our  hearts 
eager  for  emotion,  and  seeking  the 
boundless  even  in  their  regrets.  .  .  . 


OBERMANN        57 

To  return  to  my  protege;  I  wrote 
you  that  we  were  to  make  a  long  trip 
through  the  neighborhood  of  Paris. 
.  .  .  We  started  on  the  I4th  of  Sep- 
tember ;  and  throughout  almost  our 
entire  trip  we  had  beautiful  autumn 
weather  —  a  peaceful  sky,  a  gentle  and 
half-veiled  sun,  misty  mornings,  beau- 
tiful evenings,  wet  earth  and  good  roads, 
and  everywhere  abundant  fruit.  We 
were  well,  and  in  good  spirits ;  he, 
keen  to  see  and  ready  to  admire ;  I, 
content  to  roam.  .  .  . 

Of  the  little  that  I  know  of  France, 
Chessel 7  and  Fontainebleau  are  the 
only  places  where  I  should  willingly 
consent  to  stay,  and  Chessel  the  only 
one  where  I  should  wish  to  live.  You 
will  soon  see  me  there. 

I  have  already  told  you  that  the  as- 
pens and  the  birches  of  Chessel  are  not 
like  other  aspens  and  other  birches  ;  the 
chestnuts,  and  the  ponds,  and  the  boat, 
are  not  the  same  as  those  elsewhere. 


58        OBERMANN 

There,  the  autumn  sky  is  like  the  sky 
of  one's  native  land.  Those  muscatel 
grapes,  those  pale  starworts  which  you 
used  not  to  love  but  which  now  we 
love  together,  and  the  fragrance  of  the 
Chessel  hay  in  that  great  barn  where 
we  played  when  I  was  still  a  child ! 
What  hay !  What  delicious  fresh  cheese 
and  cream  !  What  beautiful  heifers ! 
And  what  a  pleasant  sound  the  chest- 
nuts made  as  they  were  emptied  out  of 
the  bag  and  rolled  over  the  floor  above 
my  room. 

My  friend,  happiness  has  fled.  You 
have  your  cares  and  your  profession ; 
your  mind  has  matured ;  your  heart 
has  not  changed,  but  mine  has  con- 
tracted. You  no  longer  have  time  to 
put  the  chestnuts  under  the  ashes,  they 
have  to  be  prepared  for  you  ;  what  have 
you  done  with  our  pleasures  ? 


OBERJVJANN        59 


LETTER   LV 

Fribourg,  March  joth,  8th  year. 

I  AM  still  able  to  judge  as  before  of 
the  beauty  of  a  picturesque  land- 
scape ;  but  I  feel  it  less,  or  else  the 
way  in  which  I  feel  it  has  no  longer 
the  power  to  satisfy  me.  I  might  say, 
"  I  remember  that  this  is  beautiful." 
When  in  other  days  I  turned  away 
from  beautiful  places,  it  was  with  the 
impatience  of  desire,  with  the  restless- 
ness born  of  lonely  and  incomplete  en- 
joyment. To-day  I  again  leave  them  ; 
but  now  from  weariness  at  their  silence. 
The  language  they  speak  is  not  exalted 
enough  for  me ;  I  do  not  hear,  I  do 
not  see,  what  I  desire  to  see,  what  I 
desire  to  hear,  and  I  feel  that  by  no 
longer  finding  myself  in  the  world  of 
things,  I  now  fail  to  find  myself  in  the 
life  within. 


60        OBERMANN 

I  am  beginning  to  look  at  physical 
beauties  as  I  do  at  moral  illusions ; 
everything  fades  imperceptibly  and  in- 
evitably. The  sense  of  outward  con- 
gruity  is  merely  the  indirect  perception 
of  intellectual  harmony.  How  can  I 
expect  to  find  in  things  a  life,  an  activ- 
ity, which  are  no  longer  in  my  own 
heart,  an  eloquence  of  the  passions 
which  I  do  not  possess,  and  the  silent 
sounds,  the  flights  of  hope,  the  voices 
of  a  joyful  nature  —  magic  of  a  world 
already  left  far  behind. 


LETTER   L  VI I 

Bains  du  Schwartz-s'ee?  May  6th>  8th  year. 

THE  snow  melted  early  on  the 
lower  slopes  of  the  mountains. 
The  valley  is  level,  the  mountains  rise 
cragged  from  their  base  ;  there  are  only 
pastures,  firs,  and  water.  It  is  a  soli- 
tude after  my  heart,  and  the  weather 
is  good,  but  the  days  are  long. 


OBERMANN        61 


LETTER  LIX 

Chateau  de  Chupru,  May  22dy  8th  year. 

AT  two  o'clock  we  were  already 
in  the  woods  looking  for  straw- 
berries. They  covered  the  southern 
slopes ;  some  were  only  just  beginning 
to  form,  but  many  already  had  the 
color  and  fragrance  of  maturity.  The 
strawberry  is  one  of  the  loveliest  of 
nature's  products ;  it  is  among  fruits 
what  the  violet  is  among  flowers,  sweet, 
fair,  and  simple.  Its  scent  is  wafted  on 
the  light  breath  of  the  air,  as,  now  and 
again,  it  steals  beneath  the  arches  of 
the  woods  and  softly  stirs  the  thorny 
thickets  and  the  bindweed  which 
climbs  over  the  tall  trunks.  It  is  car- 
ried into  the  deepest  shadows  by  the 
warm  breath  of  the  earth,  which  lies 
uncovered  where  the  strawberries  ripen; 
it  mingles  with  the  fresh  moisture,  and 


62        OBERMANN 

seems  to  exhale  from  the  mosses  and 
the  brambles.  Wild  harmonies!  you 
are  formed  of  these  contrasts. 

While  we  scarcely  felt  the  stir  of 
the  air  in  the  cool  and  gloomy  solitude, 
a  fierce  wind  swept  over  the  tops  of 
the  fir-trees ;  their  branches  moaned 
with  a  strange  sound  as  they  bent 
to  meet  the  buffets  of  their  fellows. 
Sometimes  the  high  boughs  swayed 
apart,  as  they  were  swept  to  and  fro, 
and  we  could  see  their  pointed  crests 
illumined  by  the  full  light  of  day,  and 
burned  by  the  sun's  hot  rays,  high 
above  the  shades  of  that  silent  earth 
where  their  roots  found  refreshment. 

When  our  baskets  were  filled,  we 
left  the  woods,  some  of  us  gay,  others 
full  of  content.  We  took  our  way 
through  narrow  lanes,  across  fields  shut 
in  by  hedges  and  lined  with  great  trees 
of  the  wild  cherry  and  wild  pear.  A 
land  still  patriarchal,  while  the  men 
no  longer  are !  .  .  . 


OBERMANN        63 

A  deep  ravine  borders  the  woods  of 
the  chateau ;  on  each  side  rise  steep 
rocks,  cragged  and  wild.  On  their 
crest,  at  the  further  end  of  the  wood, 
are  the  ruins  of  an  old  quarry ;  the 
sharp  edges  left  by  the  blasting  had 
been  rounded  off  by  time,  and  a  rude 
in  closure  had  been  formed,  large  enough 
to  seat  six  or  eight  persons  with  ease. 
After  leveling  off  the  bottom  of  the 
stones,  and  finishing  the  rock  shelf 
which  was  to  serve  as  a  sideboard,  we 
made  a  circular  bench  of  heavy  branches 
covered  with  leaves.  The  table  was  a 
plank  laid  upon  blocks  of  wood  left  by 
some  workmen  who  had  been  cutting 
down  several  acres  of  beech-trees  in 
the  neighborhood. 

All  this  was  made  ready  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  the  secret  carefully  kept. 
Then  we  led  our  guests,  all  laden  with 
strawberries,  to  this  wild  retreat,  which 
was  to  them  a  complete  surprise.  Pine 
branches  were  lighted  in  an  angle  of 


64        OBERMANN 

the  rock  overhanging  the  precipice, 
which  was  made  less  terrifying  by  the 
outspreading  branches  of  the  beech- 
trees.  Wooden  spoons,  made  after  the 
pattern  of  the  Koukisberg,  dainty  cups, 
and  baskets  of  wild  cherries  were  placed 
here  and  there  along  the  stone  shelf, 
together  with  platefuls  of  thick  moun- 
tain cream,  and  bowls  filled  with  the 
second  skimming,  which  is  used  for 
the  coffee,  and  is  flavored  with  a  deli- 
cate almond  perfume,  known  only  in 
the  region  of  the  Alps.  Small  jugs  con- 
tained the  sweetened  water  prepared 
for  the  strawberries. 

Everything  had  been  arranged  and 
thought  out  beforehand,  but  when  the 
time  came  to  make  the  coffee,  we 
found  that  the  simplest  thing  was  want- 
ing ;  there  was  no  water.  We  then  tied 
together  some  ends  of  rope  and  lowered 
several  jugs  over  the  side  of  the  preci- 
pice ;  and  after  breaking  a  number  of 
them  against  the  rocks,  we  finally  sue- 


OBERMANN        65 

ceeded  in  filling  two  with  the  ice-cold 
water  of  the  torrent,  three  hundred  feet 
below  us. 

The  gathering  was  friendly,  the 
laugh  sincere.  The  weather  was  fine ; 
the  wind  moaned  through  the  gloomy 
depths  of  the  long  gully,  where  the 
torrent,  white  with  foam,  dashed  be- 
tween the  jagged  rocks.  The  song  of 
the  "  K-hou-hou "  was  heard  in  the 
woods,  and  its  harsh  notes  were  re- 
echoed by  the  higher  forests  ;  from  the 
far  distance  came  the  sound  of  the  great 
clanging  bells,  as  the  cows  climbed 
slowly  to  the  Kousin-berg.  The  pun- 
gent odor  of  the  burning  fir  was  min- 
gled with  these  mountain  sounds ;  and 
in  the  midst  of  wild  fruits,  in  a  solitary 
spot,  a  party  of  friends  sat  around  the 
table  on  which  stood  the  smoking  cof- 
fee-pot. 

But  the  only  ones  among  us  who 
enjoyed  that  moment  were  those  who 
did  not  feel  its  moral  harmony.  As  for 


66        OBERMANN 

me,  I  turned  to  dreams  rather  than  to 
enjoyment.  I  need  very  little,  but  that 
little  must  be  harmonious  ;  the  most 
seductive  pleasures  would  not  attract 
me  if  I  were  to  discover  in  them  a  dis- 
cord, and  the  most  trifling,  but  unsul- 
lied joy  fully  satisfies  my  longings. 
This  is  what  makes  simplicity  essential 
to  my  nature  ;  for  simplicity  alone  is 
harmonious.  To-day  the  scene  was 
too  beautiful.  Our  picturesque  hall, 
our  rustic  hearth,  a  lunch  of  fruit  and 
cream,  our  intimacy  born  of  the 
moment,  the  song  of  the  birds,  and 
the  wind  which  every  moment  tossed 
the  fir-needles  into  our  cups  —  this 
was  enough.  But  the  torrent  in  the 
shadows,  and  the  distant  sounds  of  the 
mountain  —  this  was  far  too  much.  I 
was  the  only  one  who  heard  them. 


OBERMANN        67 


LETTER  LX 

Villeneuve,  June  idth,  8th  year. 

I  HAVE  just  returned  from  a  visit  to 
all  the  inhabited  valleys  between 
Charney,  Thun,  Sion,  Saint-Maurice, 
and  Vevay.  I  did  not  go  with  hope- 
fulness, to  admire  or  to  enjoy.  I  have 
once  again  seen  the  mountains  that  I 
saw  almost  seven  years  ago.  I  did 
not  bring  to  them  that  exuberance  of 
youth  which  sought  with  avidity  their 
savage  beauties.  The  ancient  names 
were  there,  but  I,  too,  bear  the  same 
name  as  of  old  !  I  rested  on  the  strand 
near  Chillon.  I  had  once  understood 
the  voices  of  the  waves,  and  yet  again 
I  strove  to  comprehend  them. 

That  spot  where  I  had  stood  in  days 
gone  by,  that  strand  so  beautiful  in  my 
memory,  those  waves  that  France  can 
never  know,  and  the  high  peaks,  and 


68        OBERMANN 

Chillon,  and  Lake  Leman  —  all  these 
did  not  fill  me  with  wonder,  nor  did 
they  satisfy  me.  I  felt  there  even  as  I 
would  have  felt  elsewhere.  The  scenes 
I  found  again,  but  the  years  I  cannot 
call  back.  .  .  . 

I  have  searched  through  all  the  val- 
leys for  an  isolated,  but  accessible  up- 
land, with  a  mild  climate,  a  good  situ- 
ation, crossed  by  a  stream,  and  in  the 
distance  the  sound  of  a  falling  torrent, 
or  the  lapping  of  the  waves  on  the 
shores  of  a  lake.  What  I  now  want  is 
a  large  tract  of  land,  but  one  of  no 
great  value,  and  different  from  what  is 
found  in  the  Rhone  valley.  I  also  want 
to  build  a  frame  house,  an  easier  task 
here  than  in  the  Bas-Valais. 

Hantz,  who  speaks  Romance,9  and 
is  also  somewhat  familiar  with  the 
Oberland  German,  followed  the  valleys 
and  highways,  and  made  inquiries  in 
the  villages.  I,  meanwhile,  climbed 
from  chalet  to  chalet,  across  the  moun- 


OBERMANN        69 

tains,  and  through  places  where  he 
would  not  have  dared  to  go,  even 
though  he  is  more  athletic  than  I,  and 
more  familiar  with  the  Alps  —  places, 
indeed,  through  which  I  should  not 
have  had  the  nerve  to  pass  had  I  not 
been  alone. 

I  have  ended  by  finding  a  piece  of 
land  which  I  like  extremely,  but 
which  I  am  not  sure  of  being  able  to 
purchase. 


LETTER  LXI 

Saint-Saphorin™  June  i6th,  8  thy  ear. 

1AM  not  sorry  that  I  engaged  Hantz 
and  brought  him  with   me.    Tell 

Madame  T that  I  thank  her  for 

having  given  him  to  me.  He  seems 
frank,  affectionate,  and  intelligent ;  and 
he  plays  the  horn  with  more  taste  than 
I  should  have  expected.  He  is  a  truly 
good  man,  and  I  must  keep  him,  since 


70        OBERMANN 

he  seems  to  like  being  in  my  service. 
He  tells  me  that  his  mind  is  now  at 
ease,  and  that  he  hopes  he  may  stay 
with  me.  He  is  right.  Why  should  I 
throw  away  the  only  good  I  possess, 
a  contented  man  ?  .  .  . 

The  lake  is  fair  when  the  moon 
silvers  our  sails ;  when  the  echoes  of 
Chillon  repeat  the  notes  of  the  horn, 
and  the  great  wall  of  Meillerie  looms 
in  deep  shadow  against  the  soft,  trans- 
parent sky,  and  forms  a  dark  back- 
ground to  the  shimmering  lights  on  the 
water  ;  when  the  waves  break  around 
our  floating  boats,  and  in  the  distance  we 
hear  the  surf  washing  over  the  countless 
pebbles,  swept  down  by  the  Vevayse 
from  the  mountain-sides.  .  .  . 

I  find  that  in  a  few  days  I  can  secure 
the  land  about  which  I  told  you  ;  and 
I  shall  start  work  at  once,  for  the  sea- 
son is  advancing. 


OBERMANN        71 


LETTE  R   LXII I 

July,  8th  year. 

IT  was  midnight ;  the  moon  had  set ; 
the  lake  was  troubled,  the  sky 
limpid,  the  night  deep  and  beautiful. 
There  was  restlessness  upon  the  earth. 
I  could  hear  the  birches  tremble,  and 
the  leaves  fall  from  the  poplar-trees. 
The  pines  gave  angry  moans  ;  roman- 
tic sounds  came  from  the  mountain- 
side ;  high  waves  swept  over  the  strand. 
Then  the  osprey  wailed  within  the 
rocky  caverns ;  and  when  his  lamenta- 
tions ceased,  the  waves  had  fallen,  and 
an  austere  silence  reigned. 

Ever  and  anon,  the  nightingale  sent 
forth  into  the  restless  hush  his  lonely 
note,  unrivaled  and  oft  repeated,  that 
song  of  happy  nights,  the  sublime 
expression  of  a  primitive  melody ; 
ineffable  outburst  of  love  and  sorrow ; 


72        OBERMANN 

rapturous  as  the  longing  that  consumes 
me  ;  simple,  mysterious,  boundless  as 
the  heart  that  loves.  « 

Yielding  myself  with  an  almost 
deathlike  repose  to  the  measured  ca- 
dence of  the  pale,  silent,  ever-moving 
waves,  I  was  filled  with  their  slow  and 
changeless  motion,  with  the  enduring 
peace,  with  the  sounds  which  came 
now  and  again  amid  the  long  silence. 
Nature  seemed  to  me  too  beautiful ; 
and  the  waters,  and  the  earth,  and  the 
night  too  languid,  too  happy.  The 
peaceful  harmony  of  things  was  pain- 
ful to  my  troubled  heart. 

I  thought  of  the  springtime  of  per- 
ishable earth,  and  of  the  springtime  of 
my  life.  I  saw  the  years,  melancholy 
and  fruitless,  as  they  move  on  from 
future  eternity  into  the  vast  unknown. 
I  saw  the  present,  ever  profitless  and 
unblest,  loose  its  misty  chain  from  the 
indefinite  future ;  I  saw  it,  as  in  a  vi- 
sion, approach  my  death,  which  was  at 


ft; 


OBERMANN        73 

last  made  manifest,  and  trail  my  phan- 
tom days  through  the  darkness,  con- 
sume them,  and  lay  them  waste  ;  then 
it  reached  the  only  remaining  phan- 
tom, devoured  even  that  last  day  as 
relentlessly  as  the  others,  and  closed 
the  silent  abyss. 

As  though  all  men  had  not  passed 
away,  and  all  had  not  passed  in  vain ! 
As  though  life  were  real,  and  essen- 
tially existent !  As  though  the  concep- 
tion of  the  universe  were  the  idea  of 
a  positive  being,  and  the  ego  of  man 
other  than  the  accidental  expression  of 
an  ephemeral  alloy  !  What  do  I  de- 
sire ?  What  am  I  ?  What  shall  I  ask 
of  nature  ?  Is  there  a  universal  system, 
is  there  a  fitness,  are  there  laws  to  meet 
our  needs  ?  Does  intelligence  direct  the 
results  that  my  intellect  wishes  to  at- 
tain ? 

The  cause  of  things  is  unseen,  the 
end  of  things  is  delusive  ;  forms  change, 
life  is  wasted ;  and  the  torment  of  an 


74        OBERMANN 

insatiable  heart  is  like  the  blind  im- 
petus of  a  meteor  rushing  aimlessly 
through  the  void  in  which  it  is  soon 
to  be  lost.  Fulfillment  never  equals 
anticipation.  We  cannot  know  things 
as  they  exist.  We  see  relationships,  not 
essences  ;  we  deal  not  with  things,  but 
with  their  images.  And  this  nature, 
which  we  strive  to  see  outside  of  us, 
and  which  is  inscrutable  within  us,  is 
everywhere  shrouded  in  darkness.  "  I 
feel  "  is  the  only  reality  left  to  the  man 
in  search  of  truth.  And  that  which 
makes  the  certainty  of  my  being  is  also 
its  torment.  I  feel,  I  exist,  merely  to 
be  consumed  with  ungovernable  desires, 
satiated  with  the  seductions  of  a  fan- 
tastic world,  and  oppressed  by  its  capti- 
vating illusions.  .  .  . 

Man  loves  himself,  he  loves  man,  he 
loves  all  animate  existences.  This  love 
seems  necessary  to  an  organized  being  ; 
it  is  the  motive  power  of  its  preserv- 
ing forces.  Man  loves  himself;  without 


OBERMANN        75 

this  animating  principle,  what  spring 
of  action  would  he  have,  how  could  he 
subsist  ?  Man  loves  other  men,  because 
he  feels  as  they  feel,  because  he  is  linked 
to  them  in  the  order  of  the  world; 
without  this  relationship,  what  would 
his  life  be? 

Man  loves  all  animate  beings.  If  he 
ceased  to  suffer  at  sight  of  suffering, 
if  he  ceased  to  feel  in  unison  with  all 
creatures  who  have  sensations  like  his 
own,  he  would  no  longer  be  interested 
in  what  was  outside  of  himself,  he  might 
even  cease  to  love  himself.  There  is 
surely  no  love  limited  to  the  individual 
since  there  is  no  being  essentially  iso- 
lated. 

If  man  feels  in  unison  with  all  ani- 
mate beings,  the  joys  and  misfortunes 
of  his  fellows  are,  to  him,  as  real  as  his 
personal  affections.  The  happiness  of 
those  around  him  is  necessary  to  his 
own  happiness;  he  is  linked  to  every- 
thing that  feels,  he  lives  in  the  organ- 
ized world. 


76        OBERMANN 

The  chain  of  relationships  of  which 
he  is  the  centre,  and  which  cannot 
be  wholly  severed  excepting  when  all 
things  come  to  an  end,  makes  him  a 
part  of  this  universe,  a  numerical  unity 
in  the  number  of  nature.  The  bond 
formed  by  these  personal  links  consti- 
tutes the  order  of  the  world  ;  and  the 
force  which  perpetuates  its  harmony  is 
natural  law.  .  .  . 

An  isolated  being  is  never  perfect. 
His  existence  is  incomplete ;  he  is  nei- 
ther truly  good  nor  truly  happy.  The 
complement  of  each  thing  has  been 
placed  outside  of  itself,  but  the  rela- 
tionship must  be  reciprocal.  There  is 
an  end  and  a  fulfillment  for  all  natural 
beings.  It  is  reciprocity  that  leads  to 
productiveness ;  it  is  a  feeling  mutually 
shared  that  leads  to  happiness.  In  this 
harmony  all  existence  is  completed,  all 
animate  beings  find  rest  and  enjoy- 
ment. .  .  . 

Every  possession  which  we  do  not 


OBERMANN        77 

share  with  another  increases  our  long- 
ings, but  does  not  satisfy  our  hearts ;  it 
does  not  nourish  them,  but  saps  their 
strength,  and  exhausts  their  life.  .  .  . 

Love  must  govern  the  earth  which 
ambition  exhausts.  Love  is  that  fire, 
calm  and  productive,  that  celestial 
warmth,  which  animates  and  renews, 
gives  birth  and  bloom,  sheds  color, 
grace,  hope,  and  life.  Ambition  is  the 
sterile  fire  which  burns  beneath  the  ice, 
consumes  but  does  not  animate.  It 
rends  deep  chasms  and  the  earth  trem- 
bles at  its  voice,  and  on  the  very  verge 
of  the  abyss  it  has  opened,  it  bursts 
asunder  and  carries  death  and  desola- 
tion over  the  land  that  had  been  daz- 
zled by  its  passing  glare. 

All  is  sorrow,  void,  despair,  when 
love  departs ;  all  is  joy,  hope,  felicity, 
when  love  comes  near.  A  distant  voice, 
a  sound  on  the  air,  the  stir  of  the 
branches,  the  tremor  of  the  waters,  all 
declare  it,  all  express  it,  all  echo  its 


78        OBERMANN 

accents  and  add  to  our  longing.  The 
grace  of  nature  is  in  the  movement  of 
an  arm  ;  the  law  of  the  world  is  in  the 
expression  of  a  glance. 

It  is  for  love  that  the  light  of  the 
morning  wakens  the  creatures,  and 
colors  the  skies  ;  it  is  for  him  that  the 
heat  of  the  noon  warms  the  moist  earth 
under  the  moss  of  the  woods ;  it  is  for 
him  that  the  evening  light  sends  forth 
the  sweet  melancholy  of  its  mysterious 
rays.  Silence  watches  over  the  dreams 
of  love.  The  stir  of  the  waters  fills  him 
with  its  sweet  unrest ;  the  fury  of  the 
waves  inspires  him  with  its  fierce  tur- 
moil ;  and  all  things  wait  on  his  plea- 
sure when  the  night  is  soft,  when  the 
moon  shines  in  the  midnight  sky,  when 
enchantment  is  in  the  shadows  and  the 
light,  in  the  solitude,  the  air,  and  the 
waters,  and  the  night. 

Happy  delirium !  sole  moment  left 
to  man.  That  flower  rare,  solitary, 
ephemeral  under  a  leaden  sky,  unshel- 


OBERMANN        79 

tered,  beaten  by  the  winds,  and  wearied 
with  the  storms,  languishes  and  dies 
before  it  blooms ;  a  cold  blast,  a  pass- 
ing vapor,  a  breath  —  and  hope  fades 
in  its  withered  bud.  Again  we  press 
onward,  we  are"  filled  with  hope,  we 
hasten  our  steps,  and,  yonder,  growing 
as  before  in  sterile  ground,  we  see 
other  flowers  precarious,  uncertain,  tran- 
sient as  the  first — flowers  which  will 
also  prove  vain,  and  will  also  perish. 
Happy  is  he  who  possesses  what  man 
must  seek,  and  who  enjoys  the  frui- 
tion of  all  things  that  man  must  feel ! 
Happy  also,  it  is  said,  is  he  who  seeks 
nothing,  feels  nothing,  has  need  of 
nothing,  and  for  whom  to  exist  is  to 
live.  .  .  . 

It  is  a  sign  of  greatness  to  be  stronger 
than  one's  passions,  but  it  is  a  sign  of 
stupidity  to  commend  the  silence  of  the 
senses  and  of  the  heart.  .  .  . 

A  true  man  knows  how  to  love  love, 
while  remembering  always  that  love  is 


So-        OBERMANN 

merely  an  accident  of  life.  When  these 
illusions  come  to  him,  he  will  enjoy  the 
possession  of  them,  but  he  will  not  for- 
get that  the  sternest  truths  are  still 
greater  than  the  happiest  illusions.  A 
true  man  knows  how  to  choose  and  how 
to  wait  with  patience,  how  to  love  with 
constancy,  and  how  to  give  himself 
wholly  but  without  weakness.  The  in- 
tensity of  a  deep  passion  is  to  him  the 
spirit  of  good,  the  fire  of  genius ;  he 
finds  in  love  the  ardent  zeal,  the  virile 
enjoyment  of  a  heart,  just,  sensitive,  and 
great;  he  meets  with  happiness,  and 
knows  how  to  make  it  a  part  of  him- 
self. 

That  mutual  delight,  that  gradual 
growth  of  trust  and  confidence,  that 
happiness  which  is  a  hope  fulfilled,  that 
ardent  faith  which  inspires  us  to  expect 
all  things  from  the  beloved  heart,  that 
still  greater  rapture  of  giving  joy  to  the 
one  we  love,  and  of  being  all-sufficient 
and  necessary  each  to  the  other  —  all 


OBERMANN        81 

this  fullness  of  sentiment  and  of  hope 
enlarges  the  soul  and  makes  it  long 
to  live.  Ineffable  abandonment !  The 
man  who  has  known  it  need  never 
blush ;  and  he  who  is  not  capable  of 
feeling  it  was  not  born  to  judge  of  love. 

I  do  not  condemn  the  man  who 
has  not  loved,  but  only  he  who  cannot 
love.  Circumstances  determine  our 
affections ;  but  warmth  of  sentiment  is 
natural  to  the  man  whose  moral  organ- 
ization is  perfect.  He  who  is  incapable 
of  love  is  also  incapable  of  a  magnan- 
imous sentiment,  of  a  sublime  affection. 
He  may  be  honest,  good,  industrious, 
prudent ;  he  may  possess  gentle  quali- 
ties, and  even  reflected  virtues.  But  he 
is  not  a  man,  he  has  neither  soul  nor 
genius.  I  should  like  to  know  him,  he 
would  have  my  confidence  and  even 
my  esteem,  but  he  could  never  be  my 
friend. 

But,  oh,  ye  hearts  of  true  sensibility  ! 
repressed  in  the  springtime  of  your 


82        OBERMANN 

youth  by  a  sinister  fate,  who  will  blame 
you  for  not  having  loved  ?  Every  gen- 
erous sentiment  was  natural  to  you,  and 
all  the  fire  of  passion  lay  smouldering 
within  your  virile  instinct.  Love  was 
your  birthright ;  love  would  have  de- 
veloped you,  and  fitted  you  for  great 
achievements.  But  all  things  were  with- 
held from  you;  the  voice  of  love  was 
silent,  and,  in  that  day,  there  opened 
at  your  feet  the  void  in  which  your 
life  is  finally  to  be  extinguished. 

The  sense  of  what  is  honest  and  just, 
the  need  of  order  and  of  moral  fitness, 
lead  necessarily  to  the  need  of  love. 
Beauty  is  the  object  of  love;  harmony 
is  its  principle  and  its  aim ;  all  perfec- 
tion, all  excellence,  seem  to  belong  to 
it,  gentle  graces  attract  it,  and  a  broad 
and  virtuous  morality  holds  it  steadfast. 
Love  does  not  truly  exist  without  the 
magic  of  personal  beauty,  but  it  de- 
pends still  more  on  intellectual  har- 
mony, on  graces  of  thought,  on  depth 
of  sentiment. 


*• 

»  <          •  • 

• 


OBERMANN        83 

Harmony,  hope,  admiration,  charm, 
grow  ever  stronger  till  the  perfect 
union  is  reached.  .  .  .  The  man  who 
loves  does  not  change  ;  the  more  deeply 
he  is  loved,  the  stronger  becomes  his 
love ;  the  more  fully  he  possesses  what 
he  desired,  the  more  tenderly  he  cher- 
ishes what  he  has  won. 


LETTER   LXIV 

Saint-Saphorin,  July  loth,  8th  year. 

IT  is  generally  said  that  it  is  harder 
to  endure  prosperity  than  adversity. 
But  for  a  man  who  is  not  led  by  strong 
passions,  who  likes  to  do  well  what- 
ever he  has  to  do,  whose  chief  need 
is'  order,  and  who  looks  rather  at  the 
whole  of  things  than  at  their  details  — 
for  him  it  is  more  difficult  to  endure 
adversity  than  prosperity. 

Adversity  suits  a  man  of  strength 
and  enthusiasm,  whose  soul  is  intent 


84        OBERMANN 

upon  stern  virtues,  and  whose  mind, 
happily,  is  blind  to  their  uncertainty. 
But  adversity  is  sad  and  discouraging 
for  the  man  with  whose  nature  it  is 
not  in  accord.  He  wants  to  do  good, 
but  for  this  he  must  have  the  power  to 
act ;  he  wants  to  be  of  use,  but  a  man 
under  a  cloud  of  misfortune  finds  lit- 
tle opportunity  to  succor  others.  He 
knows  how  to  resist  calamity,  but  not 
being  upheld  by  the  noble  fanaticism 
of  Epictetus,  he  is  not  proof  against  an 
unhappy  life  ;  in  the  end  it  disheartens 
him,  for  he  feels  that  it  is  destroying 
his  very  being. 

The  religious  man,  and  especially 
one  who  believes  in  a  rewarding  God, 
has  a  great  advantage ;  it  is  easy  to 
endure  affliction  when  affliction  is  the 
greatest  good  that  one  can  have.  I  con- 
fess I  can  see  nothing  surprising  in  the 
virtue  of  a  man  who  struggles  under 
the  eye  of  his  God,  and  who  renounces 
the  whims  of  an  hour  for  a  felicity  with- 


OBERMANN         85 

out  limit  and  without  end.  A  man  of 
firm  faith  could  not  do  otherwise,  ex- 
cepting in  a  moment  of  delirium.  It 
seems  to  me  evident  that  he  who  yields 
to  terrestrial  passions  has  no  faith ;  he 
must  have  a  clear  view  of  nothing  but 
the  earth.  Were  he  to  see,  with  the 
same  distinctness,  the  heaven  and  the 
hell  which,  at  times,  he  remembers, 
were  they  always  as  present  in  his 
thoughts  as  are  the  things  of  this  earth, 
it  would  be  impossible  for  him  ever  to 
fall. 


LETTER  LXV 

Sain  f -Sap  horin,  July  ifth,  8th  year. 

NO,  I  shall  never  forget  that,  in 
money,  man  holds  one  of  the 
strongest  instruments  for  good  or  evil, 
and  that  by  its  use  he  betrays  his  true 
character.  The  way  of  ways  most  pro- 
fitable and  wise  is  rarely  ours  to  choose. 


86 

We  can  scarcely  ever  do  good  under 
all  its  aspects,  for  so  many  things 
which  are  in  themselves  opposed  are 
both  fit  and  expedient.  I  believe  it 
is  one  of  the  essentials  of  life  to  live 
with  a  certain  degree  of  form,  and  to 
regulate  one's  household  in  an  attrac- 
tive and  orderly  way.  Beyond  this,  a 
reasonable  man  can  find  no  excuse  for 
wasting  in  superfluities  what  might  be 
the  means  of  doing  so  many  things  of 
better  value.  Where  is  the  man  who 
takes  account  of  the  fruitfulness  of 
money  ?  Men  waste  it  as  they  squan- 
der their  powers,  their  health,  their 
years.  It  is  so  easy  to  hoard  or  to  lavish 
it ;  so  difficult  to  use  it  wisely. 

I  know  a  priest,  near  Fribourg,  who 
is  badly  clothed,  poorly  fed,  and  who 
does  not  spend  a  farthing  needlessly ; 
he  gives  away  everything,  and  gives  it 
intelligently.  Yet  one  of  his  parish- 
ioners referred,  in  my  hearing,  to  his 
avarice  ;  but  what  a  noble  avarice  ! 


OBERMANN        87 

How  many  wrongs  might  be  pre- 
vented or  redressed,  what  pleasure,  what 
consolation  might  be  given !  and  in  a 
purse  of  gold  this  power  for  good  lies 
hidden,  like  secret  and  forgotten  germs, 
waiting  for  the  workings  of  a  gentle 
heart,  to  bring  forth  their  fruits  of  ten- 
derness and  sympathy. 

A  whole  country  is  wretched  and 
degraded  ;  need,  anxiety,  disorder,  have 
blighted  every  heart ;  all  suffer,  and 
chafe.  The  discontent,  discord,  sick- 
ness, the  bad  food,  brutal  education, 
and  unfortunate  habits  —  all  these  may 
be  changed.  Harmony,  order,  peace, 
confidence  may  be  restored ;  and  even 
hope,  and  happy  ways  !  Fruitfulness 
of  money ! 


OBERMANN 


LETTER  LXVII 

Imensfrdm,"  July  2 1st,  8  thy  ear. 

AT  last  I  am  at  home,  and  my 
home  is  in  the  Alps.  .  .  . 
My  solitary  house  is  never  lighted 
by  the  early  dawn,  and  only  in  winter- 
time can  I  see  the  setting  of  the  sun. 
Toward  the  summer  solstice,  he  is  hid 
from  view  at  eventide,  and  at  his  ris- 
ing does  not  come  in  sight  for  three 
hours  after  he  has  crossed  the  horizon 
line.  Then  he  mounts  between  the 
straight  branches  of  the  firs,  and  flings 
his  rays  high  above  to  illumine  the  bare 
summit  of  a  rocky  cliff  which  stands 
outlined  against  the  sky ;  he  seems  to 
be  borne  upon  the  waters  of  the  tor- 
rent before  it  takes  its  mighty  spring ; 
his  dazzling  rays  pierce  every  corner  of 
the  black  and  gloomy  forest ;  and,  for 
one  moment,  his  resplendent  disk  rests 


OBERMANN        89 

upon  the  crest  of  the  wild  and  wooded 
mountain  whose  body  still  lies  deep 
in  shadow ;  it  is  the  flashing  eye  of  a 
dark  colossus. 

At  the  coming  of  the  equinox  the 
evenings  will  be  fair,  and  worthy  of  a 
younger  head  than  mine.  The  gorge 
of  Imenstr6m  falls  away  and  opens  to 
the  winter  sunset ;  its  northern  sweep 
will  be  in  shadow,  but  the  slope  on 
which  my  dwelling  stands,  looking 
toward  the  south,  will  be  lighted  by 
all  the  splendor  of  the  sunset,  and  I 
shall  see  the  sun  drop  into  the  broad 
lake  aflame  with  his  last  rays.  My 
deep  valley  will  be  a  tempered  and 
genial  resting-place,  hidden  between 
the  burning  plain  wearied  with  heat, 
and  the  cold  snows  of  the  mountain- 
peaks,  which  inclose  it  on  the  east. 

I  have  seventy  acres  of  very  fair 
meadow  land  ;  twenty  acres  of  fine 
woodland ;  and  about  thirty-five  acres 
of  rough  ground  covered  with  rocks, 


9o        OBERMANN 

with  damp  and  shady  bogs,  sparse 
woods,  and  forests  tangled  with  un- 
derbrush —  a  sterile  and  unproductive 
tract,  but  pleasant  to  own. 

What  I  like  about  the  property, 
besides  its  situation,  is  that  all  the 
different  parts  are  connected  and  can 
be  united  within  one  large  inclosure ; 
and,  besides,  there  are  neither  fields  nor 
vineyards.  The  grape  might  be  culti- 
vated successfully  in  certain  exposures, 
and  was,  in  fact,  at  one  time ;  but  the 
vines  have  now  been  replaced  by  chest- 
nut-trees, which  I  greatly  prefer.  .  .  . 

Grass,  woods,  and  fruit  are  all  that 
I  desire,  especially  in  this  region.  Un- 
fortunately, there  is  not  much  fruit  at 
Imenstrdm ;  .  .  .  but  this  fall  and  next 
spring  I  shall  plant  a  great  many  apple 
and  cherry  trees,  and  some  pears  and 
plums.  .  .  . 


OBERMANN        91 


LETTER   LXVIII 

Imenstrom,  July  2jd,  8th  year. 

THIS  beautiful  eastern  basin  of 
Lake  Leman,  broad  and  roman- 
tic, and  bordered  by  shores  strangely 
picturesque  ;  the  scattered  houses  and 
chalets;  the  cows  swinging  their  moun- 
tain bells  as  they  come  and  go  ;  the 
,  nearness  of  the  plains,  .and  of  the  high 
mountain-peaks ;  a  singular  harmony 
rare  in  Catholic  countries  ;  the  sweet- 
ness of  a  land  which  sees  the  sunset  — 
the  distant  sunset  of  the  north ;  the 
long,  curved  sweep  of  water  stretching 
its  undefined  length  into  the  distance ; 
the  far-off  haze,  rising  under  the  rays 
of  the  noonday  sun,  or  glowing  and 
aflame  under  his  evening  beams ;  and, 
through  the  still  night,  the  sound  of 
the  waves  as  they  rise,  sweep  onward, 
surge  and  swell,  and  die  out  on  the 


• 

4  * 

• 


* 
* 


92        OBERMANN 

shore  at  our  feet  —  all  these  hold  sweet 
converse  with  man  in  the  midst  of 
scenes  so  rare  to  find. 


LETTER    LXIX 

Imenstrom,  July  2fthy  8th  year. 

I  AM  delighted  to  know  that  M.  de 
Fonsalbe  has  returned  from  Saint 
Domingo,  but  I  hear  that  he  has  lost 
his  fortune,  and,  what  is  more,  that  he 
is  married.  I  am  also  told  that  he  has 
business  which  will  soon  take  him  to 
Zurich.  Do  ask  him  to  pass  through 
Imenstr6m  ;  he  will  be  most  welcome. 
He  must  be  warned,  however,  that  he 
will  be  far  from  comfortable  if  he  does 
come,  but  I  hardly  think  he  will  ob- 
ject. If  he  has  not  greatly  changed,  he 
has  a  good  heart ;  and  does  a  true  heart 
ever  change  ? 

Were  he   alone,  I  should  pity  him 
but  little  for  having  had  his  house  de- 


OBERMANN        93 

molished  by  a  cyclone,  and  his  hopes 
destroyed.  But  since  he  is  married,  I 
pity  him  greatly.  If  he  has  a  true  wife, 
it  will  be  painful  for  him  not  to  see  her 
happy  ;  if  he  has  merely  a  woman  who 
bears  his  name,  he  will  be  overcome 
by  an  antipathy  which  he  might  have 
borne  only  by  a  life  of  ease.  Make  him 
promise  to  pass  through  Vevey,  and  to 
stop  here  for  several  days. 

The  brother  of  Madame  Dellemar 
is  perhaps  destined  to  be  my  friend.  — 
A  new  hope  is  born  within  me.  Tell 
me  something  about  him,  you  who 
know  him  so  much  better  than  I.  Con- 
gratulate his  sister  on  his  escape  from 
the  dangers  of  the  voyage.  No,  say 
nothing  to  her  from  me ;  let  the  past 
be  buried. 


94        OBERMANN 


LETTER  LXX 

Imenstrdmy  July  2Qth,  8th  year. 

THE  snow  covers  the  mountains, 
the  clouds  hang  low,  a  cold  rain 
floods  the  valleys.    It  is  bleak,  even  on 
the  shores  of  the  lake.     I  do  not  dis- 
like these  short  winters  in  the  midst 

\ 

of  summer.  .  .  .  Such  changes,  more 
sudden  and  more  severe  than  on  the 
plains,  make  the  rugged  climate  of  the 
mountains  even  more  interesting,  in  a 
way.  .  .  .  Changeable,  stormy,  uncer- 
tain days  are  necessary  to  our  restless- 
ness; a  more  even  and  a  milder  cli- 
mate, while  it  may  content  us,  leaves 
us  indifferent. 

It  may  be  that  unvarying  days,  cloud- 
less skies,  and  perpetual  summer  in- 
spire the  common  throng  with  a  more 
fervid  imagination ;  .  .  .  but  scenes  full 
of  strong  contrasts,  of  beauty  and  of 


OBERMANN        95 

horror,  where  we  experience  opposite 
sentiments  and  swift  changes  of  feel- 
ing, such  places  exalt  the  imagination 
of  certain  men  toward  the  romantic, 
the  mysterious,  the  ideal. 

Temperate  plains  may  breed  men  of 
deep  learning ;  burning  sands  may  de- 
velop gymnosophists  and  ascetics ;  but 
Greece,  the  land  of  mountains,  Greece 
both  cold  and  mild,  now  stern  now 
radiant,  covered  here  with  snow  and 
there  with  olive-groves,  Greece  gave 
birth  to  Orpheus,  to  Homer,  and  to 
Epimenides ;  while  Caledonia  of  the 
north,  more  rigid,  more  changeable, 
less  joyous,  produced  Ossian. 

When  the  trees,  the  waters,  and  the 
clouds  are  peopled  by  the  souls  of  an- 
cestors, by  the  spirits  of  heroes,  by 
dryads  and  divinities ;  when  invisible 
beings  are  chained  in  caverns,  or  carried 
on  the  wings  of  the  wind,  when  they 
wander  among  the  silent  tombs,  and 
the  sound  of  their  wailings  is  wafted 


96        OBERMANN 

through  the  air,  on  a  dark  and  sombre 
night  —  what  a  land  for  the  heart  of 
man  !  what  a  world  for  eloquence  !  — 

Under  a  changeless  sky,  on  an  illim- 
itable plain,  straight  palm-trees  shade 
the  banks  of  a  broad  and  silent  river  ; 
a  mussulman  sits  at  his  ease,  and  smokes 
throughout  the  long  hours  of  the  day, 
while  the  sweep  of  fans  stirs  the  air 
around  him.  — 

The  scene  has  changed :  moss-clad 
rocks  reach  out  over  an  abyss  of  dash- 
ing waves ;  through  the  long  winter,  a 
dense  fog  has  separated  them  from  the 
world.  Now  the  sky  is  brilliant,  violets 
are  in  flower  and  strawberries  ripen  fast, 
the  days  bloom  forth,  the  forests  take 
on  life.  On  the  tranquil  ocean  the 
daughters  of  warriors  sing  of  the  bat- 
tles and  the  hopes  of  their  nation. 
Then  clouds  surge  in  the  heavens,  the 
sea  is  unchained,  lightning  blasts  the 
giant  oaks,  ships  are  swallowed  up  in 
the  seething  waters,  snow  covers  the 


OBERMANN        97 

mountain-tops,  rushing  torrents  sweep 
over  the  land  and  hollow  out  deep 
ravines.  The  wind  changes ;  the  sky 
is  clear  and  cold.  By  the  light  of  the 
stars,  we  can  see  a  wreck  floating  on 
the  raging  sea  ;  the  warriors'  daughters 
are  no  more. 

Then  the  voices  of  the  winds  are 
silent ;  all  is  at  peace.  And  from  the 
crags  above  is  heard  the  sound  of  hu- 
man voices,  and  cold  drops  fall  from  the 
cavern's  roof.  The  Caledonian  flies  to 
arms,  he  sets  forth  in  the  night,  he 
hurries  onward  over  mountain  and  tor- 
rent, he  rushes  to  Fingal,  and  cries  : 
"  Slisama  I2  is  dead,  but  she  spoke,  and 
I  heard  her ;  she  will  not  leave  us 
desolate  ;  she  told  the  names  of  your 
friends ;  she  commanded  us  to  win." 

It  is  to  the  lands  of  the  north  that 
belong  the  heroism  born  of  enthusiasm, 
and  the  titanic  dreams  bred  of  sublime 
melancholy.  To  the  lands  of  the  south 
belong  austere  conceptions,  mystic  rev- 


98        OBERMANN 

cries,  inscrutable  dogmas,  secret,  magic, 
and  cabalistic  sciences,  and  the  inflexi- 
ble endurance  of  the  recluse.  .  .  . 

Even  if  it  were  possible  for  the  total 
yearly  heat  to  be  equal  both  in  Nor- 
way and  in  the  Hedjas,  the  difference 
between  the  two  countries  would  still 
be  very  marked,  and  it  would  be  al- 
most as  great  between  the  peoples  them- 
selves. The  Arab  is  familiar  with  no- 
thing but  undeviating  nature,  uniform 
days,  unbroken  seasons,  and  the  burn- 
ing monotony  of  an  arid  earth.  The 
Norwegian,  after  long  months  when 
dark  and  gloomy  fogs  cover  the  land, 
when  the  earth  is  frozen,  the  waters  are 
motionless,  and  the  sky  is  convulsed  by 
the  winds,  will  at  last  see  the  coming 
of  a  new  season  which  will  illumine 
the  skies,  give  life  to  the  waters,  and 
fertilize  the  earth,  now  decked  with 
flowers  and  robed  in  all  the  beauty  of 
harmonious  colors  and  romantic  sounds. 
There  are,  in  the  springtime,  hours  of 


OBERMANN        99 

inexpressible  beauty  ;  there  are  autumn 
days  made  still  more  alluring  by  that 
melancholy  which  fills  the  soul,  but 
does  not  lead  it  astray,  which  fails  to 
excite  it  with  delusive  pleasures,  but 
inspires  and  sustains  it  with  a  rapture 
full  of  mystery,  of  grandeur,  and  of 
lassitude. 

It  may  be  that  the  changes  of  the 
earth  and  sky,  the  permanence  or  the 
mobility  of  natural  phenomena,  leave 
their  impress  only  on  men  of  high 
organization,  and  not  on  the  multitude 
who  seem  limited,  either  from  impo- 
tence or  from  misery,  to  the  experi- 
ences of  mere  animal  instinct.  But  the 
men  who  possess  broad  faculties  are 
those  who  guide  their  country,  who,  by 
means  of  institutions,  example,  open  or 
hidden  forces,  become  the  leaders  of 
men  ;  and  the  multitude  unconsciously 
obey  their  compelling  power.  .  .  . 


ioo      OBERMANN 


LETTER  LXXII 

Imenstrom,  August  6th,  8th  year. 

1AM  not  in  the  least  surprised  that 
your  friends  censure  me  for  having 
hidden  myself  in  a  remote  and  lonely 
spot.  ...  It  is  not  that  I  like  one 
kind  of  life  better  than  another,  but 
rather  the  life  which  seems  nearest  to 
perfection  in  its  own  sphere,  the  one 
which  best  fulfills  its  own  nature. 

I  should  prefer  the  life  of  a  wretched 
Finlander  amid  his  ice-clad  steeps,  to 
that  of  countless  little  commoners  in 
small  towns,  who,  wrapped  in  their 
daily  habits,  pale  with  vexation,  and 
immersed  in  stupidities,  think  them- 
selves superior  to  the  heedless  and  stal- 
wart beings  who  vegetate  in  the  coun- 
try, and  are  merry  every  Sunday.  .  .  . 


OBERMANN       101 


LETTER   LXXIV 

Imenstrom,  June  i6thy  gth  year. 

WHEN  I  remember  that  your 
life  is  full  and  calm,  that  you 
work  with  interest  and  take  delight  in 
restful  pleasures,  I  find  myself  on  the 
verge  of  censuring  my  own  independ- 
ence, which  is,  nevertheless,  very  dear 
to  me !  It  is  undeniable  that  man  has 
need  of  an  object  to  charm  him,  a 
thralldom  to  allure  him  and  rule  over 
him.  Yet  it  is  a  delight  to  be  free,  to 
select  what  is  best  suited  to  one's  na- 
ture, and  not  to  be  as  a  slave  forever 
toiling  for  a  master.  But  when  I  am 
filled  with  a  sense  of  all  the  uselessness\ 
all  the  vanity  of  what  I  do,  I  realize 
that  my  days  are  too  empty.  This 
passionless  estimate  of  the  true  value 
of  things  is  near  akin  to  antipathy  for 

everything. 

•  * 

•  * 


102      OBERMANN 

You  are  to  sell  Chessel,  and  buy  pro- 
perty near  Bordeaux.  Shall  we  never 
meet  again  ?  You  were  so  delightfully 
settled  !  But  the  destiny  of  every  one 
must  be  fulfilled.  It  is  not  enough  to 
seem  contented  ;  I,  too,  appear  to  be, 
yet  I  am  not  happy.  .  .  .  But  you  will 
be  happy,  you  whose  heart  is  obedient 
to  reason,  who  are  both  good  and  wise, 
whom  I  admire  but  cannot  imitate. 
You  know  how  to  make  use  of  life  ;  I 
still  stand  in  waiting.  I  am  ever  search- 
ing in  the  beyond,  as  though  my  hours 
were  not  wasted,  and  eternal  death 
nearer  than  my  dreams. 


LETTER  LXXV 

Imenstrom,  June  28thy  gth  year. 

1  SHALL  no  longer  look  for  better 
days.    The  months  pass,  the  years 
come  and  go.    All  things  are  renewed 
in  vain :  I  am  ever  the  same.    In  the 


OBERMANN      103 

midst  of  what  I  so  ardently  desired,  I 
am  destitute  of  all  things.  I  have  found 
nothing,  I  possess  nothing  ;  weariness 
consumes  my  years  in  unending  silence. 
Whether  the  futile  solicitudes  of  life 
blot  out  the  remembrance  of  natural 
things,  whether  the  unprofitable  long- 
ing for  enjoyment  lures  me  back  to 
their  faint  images,  I  am  forever  encom- 
passed by  an  empty  void,  which,  as  the 
seasons  pass  in  long  procession  by, 
spreads  in  ever-widening  circles  round 
me.  No  intimate  companionship  has 
given  solace  to  my  weariness  through 
the  long  days  of  winter  mists.  Spring- 
time came  for  nature ;  for  me  it  came 
not.  The  days  that  brought  the  vital 
spark  of  life  awakened  every  being ; 
yet  their  unquenchable  fire  did  not 
revive  me,  but  filled  me  with  lassitude. 
I  was  an  alien  in  the  world  of  gladness. 
And  now  the  flowers  have  fallen,  the 
lily  is  withered ;  the  heat  is  gaining 
strength,  the  days  grow  long,  the  nights 


104      OBERMANN 

more  fair.  Season  of  joy  !  For  me  the 
beautiful  days  are  profitless,  the  soft 
nights  are  full  of  gall.  Peace  of  the 
shadows  !  dash  of  the  waves  !  silence  ! 
moon !  birds  that  sang  in  the  night ! 
sentiment  of  youth  !  whence — whence 
have  ye  flown ! 

Their  ghosts  are  here.  They  steal 
before  me  ;  they  pass  and  pass  again, 
and  fade  away,  like  an  ever-changing 
cloud  in  countless  pale  and  giant  shapes. 
Vainly  I  strive  to  enter  with  calmness 
the  long  night  of  the  grave ;  my  eyes 
do  not  close.  These  phantoms  of  life 
appear  without  surcease,  and  hold  their 
silent  wantonings ;  they  steal  nigh,  and 
flee  away,  they  vanish  and  reappear.  I 
see  them  all,  but  I  hear  nothing  ;  like 
wreaths  of  smoke,  I  chase  them  and 
they  are  gone.  I  listen,  I  call,  my  very 
voice  I  cannot  hear;  an  insufferable  void 
surrounds  me,  and  I  am  alone,  lost, 
perplexed,  stifling  with  disquietude  and 
wonder,  in  the  midst  of  the  wander- 


OBERMANN      105 

ing  shadows,  in  intangible  and  voiceless 
space. 

Inscrutable  nature !  Thy  splendor 
crushes  me,  and  thy  favors  consume 
me.  What  are  thy  unending  days  to 
me  ?  Their  dawn  too  soon  dispels  the 
shadows  ;  their  burning  noon-day  dis- 
arms and  deadens  me ;  and  the  heart- 
breaking harmony  of  their  heavenly 
evenings  exhausts  the  ashes  of  my  heart ; 
the  spirit  which  slept  beneath  its  ruins 
shudders  at  the  stir  of  life. 

The  snows  are  melting  on  the  moun- 
tain peaks ;  storm  clouds  roll  over  the 
valley.  Miserable  man  that  I  am  !  The 
heavens  are  on  fire,  the  earth  brings 
forth  fruit,  but  the  waste  of  winter  still 
keeps  its  watch  within  me.  Soft  beams 
of  the  waning  sunset !  vast  shadows  of 
the  enduring  snows  !  And  shall  man 
feel  nought  but  the  rapture  of  bitter- 
ness, when  the  torrent  rolls  afar  its 
rushing  waters  in  the  universal  silence, 
when  the  peace  of  the  night  closes 


106      OBERMANN 

upon  the  threshold  of  the  mountain 
chalets,  when  the  moon  rises  above  the 
Velan  ? 

When  I  left  behind  me  that  oft  re- 
gretted childhood,  my  imagination  and 
my  sensibility  pictured  to  themselves 
a  life  of  reality ;  but  I  found  only  fan- 
tastic impressions.  I  had  conjured  up 
beings,  I  met  phantoms.  I  longed  for 
harmony,  I  detected  dissonance.  Then 
I  grew  sombre ;  the  void  entered  my 
heart.  Boundless  cravings  consumed  me 
amid  the  silence  ;  and  a  sense  of  the 
weariness  of  life  was  the  sole  feeling 
left  to  me  on  the  very  threshold  of  ex- 
perience. All  things  spoke  to  me  of 
that  full,  universal  happiness  whose  ideal 
image  is  in  the  heart  of  man,  while  its 
real  manifestation  seems  effaced  from 
nature.  I  was  proving  as  yet  only  un- 
known sorrows.  But  when  I  saw  the 
Alps,  the  shore-bound  lakes,  the  silent 
chalets,  the  permanence,  the  regular- 
ity of  times  and  things,  I  recognized 


OBERMANN       107 

in  them  a  few  solitary  phases  of  that 
preconceived  nature.  .  .  . 

Then  I  came  back  to  earth  again, 
and  I  saw  vanishing  into  the  far  dis- 
tance that  blind  faith  in  the  real  exist- 
ence of  beings,  that  chimera  of  homo- 
geneous relations,  of  perfection,  and 
true  joy  —  that  brilliant  assumption, 
which  is  the  toy  of  an  unformed  heart, 
but  which  brings  a  smile  of  melan- 
choly to  the  lips  of  him  whose  soul 
has  been  cooled  by  depth  of  experi- 
ence, or  ripened  by  time. 

Unending  transmutations,  aimless 
activity,  universal  obscurity :  this  is  all 
we  know  of  the  world  in  which  we 
reign  supreme. 

An  invincible  destiny  destroys  our 
dreams ;  and  how  does  she  repeople  a 
void  which  must  be  filled  ?  Power  is 
wearisome ;  pleasure  is  illusive  ;  glory 
is  for  our  ashes  ;  religion  is  for  the 
unhappy ;  love  once  had  the  colors 
of  life,  but  darkness  comes,  the  rose 


io8      OBERMANN 

withers  and  falls,  and  eternal  night 
closes  upon  us.  ... 

I  see  without  regret  the  giant  tree, 
which  has  been  nourished  by  two  hun- 
dred springs,  now  lying  prostrate  upon 
the  earth,  and  struck  with  death.  It 
has  fed  and  sheltered  thousands  of  ani- 
mate beings  ;  it  has  drunk  of  the  waters 
of  the  air,  and  has  stood  firm  against 
the  tempest  winds ;  now  it  lies  dead 
among  trees  born  of  its  seed.  Its  des- 
tiny is  fulfilled ;  it  has  received  the 
promise ;  and  though  it  is  no  more,  it 
has  been. 

But  the  fir  which  has,  by  chance, 
taken  root  on  the  margin  of  the  swamp, 
grows  wild,  strong,  and  proud,  like  a 
son  of  the  deep  forests ;  fruitless  en- 
ergy !  Its  roots  drink  of  fetid  water, 
they  strike  down  into  the  foul  mire  ; 
its  trunk  becomes  weak  and  exhausted ; 
its  topmost  branches,  blown  over  by 
the  heavy,  moist  winds,  bow  their 
heads  with  discouragement;  its  seed, 


OBERMANN      109 

scarce  and  feeble,  useless  and  unpro- 
ductive, falls  into  the  mire  and  is  lost. 
Languishing,  formless,  yellowed,  old 
before  its  time,  and  already  bending 
limply  over  the  morass,  it  seems  to 
crave  the  storm  which  is  to  fell  it  to 
the  earth.  Its  life  has  ceased  long  be- 
fore its  fall. 


LETTER  LXXVIII 

Imenstrom,  July  i6thy  yth  year. 

1  AGREE  with  you  entirely.  There 
is  something  which  sustains  the 
soul  in  this  communion  with  the 
thinking  beings  of  other  centuries. 
The  thought  that  some  day  we  may 
stand  beside  Pythagoras,  Plutarch,  or 
Ossian,  on  the  bookshelves  of  a  future 

L ,  is  an  inspiring  illusion,  and  one 

of  the  noblest  pleasures  of  man.  .  .  . 
But  he  who  has  seen  bitter  tears  mois- 
tening the  cheek  of  the  unhappy, 


* 


no      OBERMANN 

dreams  of  a  yet  more  captivating  fan- 
tasy. He  believes  that  he  can  tell 
the  man  of  melancholy  disposition  the 
price  of  another's  joy ;  that  he  can 
lighten  the  burden  of  the  sufferer  whom 
the  world  has  forgotten ;  that  he  can 
awaken  the  wounded  heart  to  new  life 
by  recalling  those  images,  full  of  grand- 
eur and  consolation,  which  to  some 
are  a  Fata  Morgana,  and  to  others  a 
sustaining  power. 

He  believes  that  our  ills  are  built 
upon  the  sands,  and  that  man  holds 
moral  good  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
He  follows  out  theoretic  consequences 
which  lead  to  the  idea  of  universal 
happiness  ;  he  loses  sight  of  the  secret 
force  which  keeps  the  human  race  in 
a  state  of  perpetual  confusion  and  thus 
achieves  its  destruction.  He  says  to 
himself :  "  I  shall  combat  errors,  I 
shall  study  the  results  of  natural  prin- 
ciples, and  shall  formulate  ideas  that 
are,  or  may  become,  helpful  to  the 


OBERMANN       in 

human  race."  Thus  he  feels  himself 
to  be  less  useless,  less  hopeless  upon  the 
earth.  He  unites  the  dream  of  great 
things  to  the  peace  of  obscurity,  he 
enjoys  ideal  life,  and  enjoys  it  truly, 
because  he  feels  that  he  is  making  it 
useful. 

The  order  of  ideal  things  is  like  a 
new  world,  as  yet  unrealized,  but  still 
within  the  limits  of  the  possible.  The 
spirit  of  man  journeys  thither  in  search 
of  a  harmony  adapted  to  our  needs, 
and  brings  back  to  earth  timely  changes, 
drawn  from  this  supernatural  type. 

The  unremitting  versatility  of  man 
is  a  proof  that  he  is  skillful  in  adapting 
himself  to  opposite  habits.  One  might, 
by  collecting  the  mental  product  of 
different  times  and  places,  shape  a 
working  system  less  irksome  to  the 
heart  of  man  than  all  that  has  been, 
thus  far,  offered  to  him.  This  shall 
be  my  mission. 

It  is  only  by  working  at  some  self- 


ii2      OBERMANN 

appointed  task,  even  though  its  results 
may  be  fruitless,  that  we  can  press  on- 
ward, still  unwearied,  to  the  close  of 
day.  I  shall  journey  towards  the  even- 
ing of  life,  illusioned,  if  possible,  and 
upheld  by  the  hope  of  adding  some- 
thing to  the  resources  that  have  been 
given  to  man.  Illusions  are  needful  to 
my  heart,  too  large  not  to  crave  them, 
and  too  weak  to  live  without  them. 

As  the  sentiment  of  happiness  is  our 
chief  need,  what  is  left  for  man  when 
he  neither  expects  it  in  the  present, 
nor  dares  hope  for  it  in  the  future  ? 
Must  he  not  look  for  its  expression  in 
the  eye  of  a  friend,  or  on  the  brow  of 
his  fellow-beings  ?  He  can  but  be  eager 
for  the  joy  of  other  men  ;  his  sole  de- 
light must  be  to  shed  happiness  around 
him.  Unless  he  can  awaken  in  another 
the  consciousness  of  life,  unless  he  can 
make  others  glad,  he  feels  that  the  cold- 
ness of  death  has  entered  into  his  de- 
spised and  rejected  heart ;  and  the  only 


,«  -  • 

•    ••?> 


-r 


OBERMANN      113 

end  reserved  for  him  is  in  the  darkness 
of  the  nothing. 

We  hear  of  men  who  are  sufficient 
unto  themselves,  and  live  upon  their 
own  wisdom.  If  they  have  eternity 
before  them,  I  admire  and  envy  them  ; 
if  not,  I  do  not  understand  them. 

As  for  me,  I  not  only  am  not,  and 
never  shall  be  happy,  but  if  the  plau- 
sible assumptions  I  might  make  were 
ever  to  be  realized,  even  then  I  should 
not  be  happy.  The  affections  of  man 
are  a  gulf  of  avidity,  of  regrets,  and  of 
errors. 

I  do  not  tell  you  what  I  feel,  what  I 
want,  what  I  am  ;  I  no  longer  see  my 
own  needs,  I  scarcely  know  my  desires. 
If  you  think  'to  understand  my  tastes, 
you  are  mistaken.  ...  I  have  greatly 
changed.  I  remember  that  once  I  was 
impatient  of  life,  and  endured  it  as  an 
evil  that  was  to  last  only  a  few  months 
longer.  But  this  memory  now  seems  to 
me  a  thing  foreign  to  my  nature,  and 


•      % 


I  •  •  • 

.v        •      •      *»     * 

]3$'-\-«<\ 


,..'•'•'     -v  .  ••*.•'•, 


ii4      OBERMANN 

would  even  surprise  me,  if  it  were  pos- 
sible for  the  fickleness  of  my  feelings 
to  astonish  me.  .  .  . 

Life  both  wearies  and  amuses  me. 
To  come  into  the  world,  to  rise  above 
one's  fellows,  become  famous,  be  in- 
terested in  many  things,  measure  the 
orbit  of  comets,  and  then,  after  a  few 
days,  to  lie  under  the  sod  —  this  strikes 
me  as  enough  of  a  burlesque  to  be 
watched  to  the  end. 

But  why  pretend  that  it  is  from  a 
habit  of  discontent,  or  from  the  misfor- 
tune of  a  gloomy  disposition,  that  our 
desires  are  unsettled,  our  views  confused, 
and  our  very  life  changed  to  accord 
with  this  sense  of  the  decadence  and 
vanity  of  the  days  of  man  ?  A  melan- 
choly temper  ought  not  to  give  the 
coloring  to  life.  Ask  not  of  the  son 
of  the  Incas  chained  in  the  mines  that 
supplied  the  gold  for  the  palace  of  his 
ancestors  and  the  temples  of  the  sun, 
or  of  the  hard-working  and  blameless 


OBERMANN       115 

commoner,  who,  infirm  and  despised 
in  his  old  age,  is  compelled  to  beg  his 
bread  —  ask  not  of  the  countless  un- 
fortunates the  value  of  human  hopes 
and  human  prosperity.  Ask  not  of 
Heraclitus  the  significance  of  the  things 
we  project,  or  of  Hegesias  I3  the  worth 
of  the  life  we  lead. 

It  is  Voltaire  laden  with  success,  the 
favorite  of  courts,  and  the  admiration 
of  all  Europe,  Voltaire  famous,  clever, 
witty,  and  generous ;  it  is  Seneca,  stand- 
ing beside  the  throne  of  the  Caesars 
and  not  far  from  mounting  it  himself, 
Seneca  filled  with  wisdom,  beguiled  by 
honors,  and  laden  with  riches  —  it  is 
Seneca,  useful  to  men,  and  Voltaire, 
mocking  at  their  fantasies,  who  will 
tell  you  of  the  soul's  joy  and  the  heart's 
repose,  who  will  disclose  the  value  and 
length  of  our  life  upon  the  earth. 

My  friend !  I  shall  linger  yet  a  few 
hours  in  the  world.  We  are  poor,  fool- 
ish creatures  when  we  live ;  but  we  are 
such  ciphers  if  we  do  not  live  ! 


• 


116*    OBERMANN 


i 


LETTER   LXXIX 

•*•»  *         •  **, 

July  77 'thy  $th  year. 

F  I  were  to  tell  you  that  the  possi- 
bility of  future  fame  has  no  power 
to  gratify  me,  you  would,  for  the  first 
time,  not  believe  me  ;  you  would  think 
that  I  was  at  least  deceiving  myself, 
and  you  would  not  be  far  wrong.  It 
•  is  almost  impossible  that  the  need  of 
self-esteem  should  be  entirely  separated 
from  the  no  less  natural  pleasure  of 
being  esteemed  by  *a  few  other  men 
and  knowing  that  they  say  of  you  :  he 
is  onie  of  us. 

.  But  the  desire  for  peace,  and  a  cer- 
tain natural  indolence  of  the  soul  which 
*  ft 

has  been  increased  by  a  constant  sense 

. 
of  life-weariness,  might  well  make  me 

forget  this  alluring  thought,  as  they 
have  made  me  forget  so  many  others. 
I  have  need  of  being  held  in  check 


•          *          •          *     *  • 

•        •     •    • 

.  ^  '    *  I  % 

O  B  E  R  M  A  N  N«  .   117, 

%  a      •  *^      •    ^p 

and  stimulated  by  the  fear  of  that  self- 
reproach  which  I  should  surely  feel,  /   t    . 
if  I  were  to  make  but  clumsy  use  of  t  , 
things  as  they  are,  without  any  attempt  t 

to  better  them,  and  thus  neglect  the  • 

**•••' 

only  field  for  activity  which  is  in  har- 
mony with  the  obscurity  of  my  life. 

Must  not  man    be  something,  and 
must  he  not  express  himself,  either  in 

one  way  or  in  another  ?   He  will,  other- 
* 

wise,  become  depressed,  and  will  lose  ^  t 

the  dignity  of  his  being ;  either  he  will' 

fail  to  recognize  his  own  abilities,  or 

if  he  does  appreciate  them,  this  very  ,  * 

consciousness  will  become  the  torment    .  * 

of  his  repressed  and  struggling  soul.   He 

ft  A  9 

will  have  no  listeners,  no  following,  no 
consideration.  He  will  no  longer  have 
the  power  to  produce  that  small  amount  •  •*• 
of  good  which  may  be  the  fruit  of  the 
most  insignificant  life.  Simplicity  is  a 
beautiful  and  useful  precept ;  but  it  has 
been  greatly  misunderstood.  The  mind 


• 


•  » 


»* 


• 


• 


- 


• 


u8      OBERMANN 

^       « 

g  question  perverts  the  best  maxims,  de- 
grades and  dishonors  frisdom  Ijerself 
by  depriving  her'  of  her  resources,  de- 
spoiling her*o/  her  «iches,  and  bringing 
upon* her  the  degeneracy  which  must 

*  surely  follow.   /.   .  « 

Every  man  who^  is  right-minded  and 
wishes  to  be  useful,  were  it  only  in  his 
private  life,  every  man,  in^act$  who  is 
worthy  of  respect,  seeks  that  respect. 
He  acts  so  as  to  win  it,  even  about 
things  in  which  the  opinion  ,of  other 
men  is  in  itself  of  rib  value,  unless  this 
solicitude  should  demand  something  in 
.  opposition  to  his  duties  and  to  the  essen- 
tial development*  of  his  character. ,,  If 
there  exist  one  rule  without  exception, 
I  believe  it  must  be  this  :  it  is  always 
from  some  vice  of  the  heart  or  01  the 
mind  that  a- man  disdains,  or  affects  to 
disdain,  public  esteem,  whenever  justice 
does  not  demand  the  sacrifice  of  that 
esteem.  *  • 

*  £     '     •  • 

A  man  may  win  respect  in  the  most 


*  . 


« 


*  »- 


&        ••  •  • 

t    •  *     ;     « 

O  B  E  R  M  A  N  N      fio          •    ,««• 

?     *    *•' 
ofcscure  life*  if  he  bring  order  and  dig-     . 

nity  into  his  ways  of  living.  He  may 
command  it  even  in  poverty,  if  he  is 
greater  than  his  destiny.  ,  ^ 

t  ,  <:-##*» 

?     •        «  *  «>.  «    :  •  * 

A  man  of  noble  character  is  never 

lost  in  the  throng.  » 

•  «^J%      »*  «f 

•<•    .    V»»-     •      ' 

A^ense  of  natural  fitness  leads  every 
man  to  assume  his  right  place  in  the 
world.  * 
ledge  it. 


« 

world.  *and  to  make  others  ac*know- 

' 


»  .  » 

"*•       m  '9 

•  *M 

*    •» 


*.  .  •; 

A  great  rftan  Tears  dishonor,  but  is 

'  W  J^     ,  •       • 

ft  ^undismayed  a^%  obscurity,    -k  does  not  *    ' 

trouble  him  that  he  has»not  been  given  »^ 

a  high  mission,  but  that  he  has*  been 


giveri  one  antipathetic  to  nis  nature. 

&&&  *    *         ***'**• 

'  *     '«**^ 

It  is  both  absurd  and  repellent  that 

an   author    should  ^vejiture  to  fcalk   to  *.  '•    • 

•  9  *" 

•     man  about  his  duties,  when  he  is^not 

*        .  "•*»     •  *»  V'      -* v 

•  *  *  *  •  *  •  ',* 

^  *  ••  *•  *  i  .  **  • 

<**.'*±     ;^'   *'v, 

t  *   ** 

•  ^ 

*  •     *    * 

•  •  •  •••.  ..*-.>... 

_  *  *  *  • . 


•••'  *  •  «  *« 

• 

no      OBERMANN 

/  <         himself  an  upright  man.    But  if  a  false 
•    B  mdralist"  win    only  contempt,  an    ob- 
scure moralist  remains  entirely  useless. 
.  .  .  All  that  should  be  held  most  sa- 
cred among  men  loses  its  power  when 
>»•       immortal  pages  and  books  of  wisdom 
are   hawked  in   the   market-place,  or 
given  over  to  the  most   contemptible 
*m     /     mses  of  trade. 
f      *«.,        Recognition    and  renown,   vain    in 

themselves,  must   be   neither  despised  • 

••**    *  -i  * 

,  ,        nor  neglected,  since  they  are  some  of 

the*  chief   means    towards    the    most 
praiseworthy  and  important  ends.    It 
%        is  extravagant  both  to  do  nothing  for 
their  sake  and  to  do  everything  for  their 
4  saKe.    The  great  things  that  we  accom- 
plish are  made  beautiful  by  their  own 
»'t          grandeua,  and  need  no  display  or  em- 
•^»  4  phasis ;  it  is  the  game  with  our.thdughts. 

/•  He  whb  steadfastly  meets  death*at%the 

bottom  of  the  sea  sets  a   useless  ex- 
*  *•  * 
'  •  t  ample.    In  the '  same*  way,    the  truest 

it          i  •  i      * 

thought  and  wisest  conception  are  lost 

•'•**.**  . »' 


.**•'. »       %  •  v  r         *  - 

f; :.  *.-:>.;•  '..*.••- 

=?  f       ..     >  ?     ..*          '       '  ••    '  * 

»••••••  • 

.  •  .    •*  • 


• 


OBERMANN       121 


unless  they  are  given  to  the  world  ; 
their  usefulness  depends  on  their  being 
expressed ;  their  renown  makes  them 
productive. 

Philosophic  writings  ought,  possibly, 
to  be  always  preceded  by  a  well-written 
book  of  a  more  attractive  character, 

*  * 

which  will  be  widely  disseminated,  read, 
and  enjoyed.  The  author  who  has  a 
name  speaks  with  greater  confidence ; 
he  accomplishes  more,  and  does  it  bet- 
ter, because  he  hopes  that  he  has  not 
worked  in  vain.  But  it  is  not  every  one, 
unfortunately,  who  has  either  the  cour- 
age or  the  resources  to  follow  such  de- 
vices. Writings,  like  many  other  things 
in  life,  are  the  slave  of  opportunity,  and 
even  of  unrecognized  opportunity;  they 
are  determined  by  an  impulse  which 
is  often  foreign  to  our*  plans  and  our  * 
projects. 

To  write  a  book  merely  for  the  pur- 
pose of  winning  a  name,*is  a  task ;  there 
is  something  in  it  which  is  repugnant 


* 


»  •   .   "  .      , 

•«  .  •' 


•  • 

*•       *• 

*  »  m 

*    *    •* 

132  •  OB  E*R  MANN 

and  servile,  and  although  I  see  reasons 
that^  urge-  me  to  do  it,  I  have  not  the 
coflrage  to  undertake,  such  It  task,  and 
shall  abandon  the  idea. 
*t  Still,  I  do  not  want  to  begin  with 
my  projected  work.  It  is  too  impor- 
tant and  too  difficult  ever  to  be  com- 
pleted. I  shall  consider  it  a  great  step 
in  aovance,  if  one  day  I  see  an  approach 
*  <ctwards  the  ideal  conception  that  I  have 
«  4jformed  o£,  it  in  my  nynd.14  But  this 
disfent  perspective  would  not  sustain 
me.  I  think  it  is  well  that  I  should 
become  an  %authof,  so  as  to  have  the 
courage  to  persevere  in  being  one.  It 
will  be  the  fulfillment  of  my  destiny. 


I 


LETTER    LXXX 

I  **  '  •  vf '•' 

41  August  2dy  gth  year. 

BELIEVE,  a?  you  do,  that  it  ought 
to  be  a  refinance,  a  true  romance 


*^such  as  has,  now  a'nd  then,  been  wrjt-     » 
/    *  *    *  • 


•*'•••  «  * 

»» 

*  •  • 

*         • 

•  '    v        *„  *  *  •  «<• 

X  •  •*  -*         ..»  -•    » 

••'•••  t          ••. 

• 


O  B  E  R  M  A  NN      123 

f        * 

ten ;  but  this  would  bj  a  gjeat  under- 
taking and  would  require  a  long  time. 
In  many  ways  I  •fcholild  be  little  fitted 
for  the  work,  ^ntf.  thg  cjesign  c£  it 
would  have  to  come  as  an  inspiration. 
I  think  I  shall  wrhe  a  book  of  travels. 
.  .  .  The  landscape  of  life  has  many 
beauties.  One  ought  to  assume  to- 
wards it  the  attitude  of  £  spectator,  and 
'be  interested  without  illusions,  or  pas- 
sions, but  also  without  indifference,  as 

.    .  v  * 

one  is  interested  in  the  vicissitudes,  the 

passions,  the  dangers  in  a  story..  ... 

The  course  of  the  world  is  a  drama 
of  sufficient  homogeneity  to  be  absorb- 
ing, of  sufficient  variety  to  excite  inter- 
est, of  sufficient  defmiteness,  symmetry, 
and  system  to  satisfy  and  please  the  rea- 
son, of  sufficient  uncertainty  to  awaken 
desire  and  nourish  passion.  .  .  . 

What  manner  shall  I  adopt  ?  None. 
I  shall  write  as  we>  talk,  without  re- 
flection ;  if  it  were  necessa/y  to  do 
otherwise  I  should  not  write.  ... 


- 


,  •    _•,-„/,  ••    • 


124      OBERMANN 

In  ancient  times,  poets  and  philo- 
sophers read  their  books  before  the 
assembly  of  the  people.  .  .  .  The  art 
of  reading  is  like  that  of  writing.  The 
grace  and  truth  of  expression  in  read- 
ing are  as  varied  as  the  modulations  of 
thought.  It  is  scarcely  conceivable  to 
me  that  a  man  who  reads  poorly  could 
wield  a  happy  pen,  or  have  a  broad  and 
just  mind.  To  feel  with  intensity  and 
be  incapable  of  expression  seems  as  in- 
congruous as  to  express  with  force  what 
one  does  not  feel.  « 

Whatever  point  of  view  be  taken,  as 
to  whether  everything  has  or  has  not 
been  said  on  the  subject  of  ethics,  it 
would  be  impossible  to  conclude  that 
there  remains  nothing  to  be  done  for 
this  science,  the  only  science  of  man. 
It  is  not  enough  that  a  thing  has  been 
said ;  it  must  bfe  published,  proved,  gen- 
erally accepted,  and  universally  recog- 
nized. Nothing  has  been  accomplished 
so  long  as  actual  law  is  not  made  sub- 


"*•  • 

>'.?  .  • 


;.'.:;•;•.•-.>.••:•/.'.  , 


'*    **     ' 
. .      •      *? 


OBERMANN       125 

ject  to  moral  law,  so  long  as  current 
opinion  does  not  see  things  in  their 
true  relations. 

We  must  rise  against  disorder  so  long 
as  disorder  exists.  Do  we  not  see,  every 
day,  acts  that  are  mistakes  of  judg- 
ment rather  than  sins  of  passion,  acts 
that  are  characterized  more  by  error 
than  by  perversity,  and  are  less  the 
crimes  of  an  individual  than  the  almost 
inevitable  results  of  the  heedlessness  or 
folly  of  the  public  ? 

Is  there  no  further  need  of  saying  to 
the  rich  :  "  By  what  fatality  do  you  live 
in  greater  poverty  and  anxiety  than  the 
day-laborers  who  till  your  ground  ? " 
Or  of  saying  to  children  whose  eyes 
are  still  blind  to  the  baseness  of  their 
deceit :  "  You  are  veritable  thieves,  and 
thieves  whom  the  law  ought  to  punish 
with  greater  severity  than  he  who  robs 
a  stranger.  To  the  manifest  theft,  you 
add  the  most  odious  perfidy."  The 
servant  who  steals  from  his  master  is 


126      OBERMANN 

punished  more  rigorously  than  a  stran- 
ger, because  he  abuses  the  confidence 
which  has  been  placed  in  him,  and  also 
because  it  is  imperative  that  one  should 
enjoy  security,  at  least  in  one's  own 
house.  These  reasons,  which  are  just 
when  applied  to  a  hireling,  are  they 
not  far  more  potent  when  applied  to 
the  son  of  the  house  ?  Who  could  de- 
ceive with  greater  impunity  ?  What 
more  sacred  duties  could  be  neglected  ? 
To  whom  could  it  be  sadder  not  to  give 
one's  confidence  ? 

And  is  there  no  need  of  saying  to 
women,  full  of  sensibility,  purity  of 
intention,  youth,  and  candor:  "Why 
throw  away  on  the  first  impostor  all 
these  priceless  gifts?  .  .  .  The  very 
name  '  woman '  is  to  man  a  word  full 
of  nobility  when  his  soul  is  pure.  The 
name  '  man,'  apparently,  can  also  hold 
sway  over  young  hearts,  but  however 
sweet  such  illusions  may  be,  do  not 
be  deceived  by  them.  If  man  is  the 


OBERMANN       127 

natural  friend  of  woman,  he  may  also 
be  one  of  her  worst  enemies.  All  men 
have  the  instincts  of  their  sex,  but  wait 
for  him  who  has  the  soul  of  his  sex." 


LETTER  LXXXI 

August  $th,  gth  year. 

YOU  admit  that  moral  philosophy 
is  the  only  subject  which  ought  to 
seriously  occupy  the  mind  of  a  writer 
who  wishes  to  devote  himself  to  a 
great  and  useful  object.  But  you  seem 
to  think  that  certain  opinions  on  the 
nature  of  beings,  towards  which  I  have, 
thus  far,  had  a  leaning,  are  not  in  ac- 
cord with  the  study  of  moral  law  and 
of  the  basis  of  duty. 

I  should  not  want  to  contradict  my- 
self, and  shall  strive  not  to  do  so ;  but 
I  cannot  attribute  to  weakness  changes 
caused  by  uncertainty.  I  have  exam- 
ined myself  with  thorough  impartiality 


128      OBERMANN 

and  even  with  severity,  and  fail  to  find 
any  real  contradictions.  Various  things 
that  I  have  said  might  have  seemed  con- 
tradictory, had  any  one  taken  them  as 
positive  assertions,  or  as  different  parts 
of  one  system,  one  body  of  principles 
laid  down  as  certain,  joined  to  and 
deduced  from  one  another.  But  iso- 
lated thoughts,  doubts  on  impenetrable 
things,  can  vary  without  being  contra- 
dictory. ...  I  even  acknowledge  that 
a  conjecture  on  the  course  of  nature 
which  at  times  appears  to  me  very  prob- 
able, seems,  at  other  times,  far  less  so, 
according  to  the  way  in  which  my  im- 
agination contemplates  it. 

Sometimes  I  think  that  all  things 
are  the  result  of  necessity,  and  that  if 
the  world  cannot  be  explained  by  this 
principle,  it  would  be  impossible  to 
account  for  it  by  any  other.  And  then, 
on  the  other  hand,  I  sometimes  feel 
that  as  so  many  things  are  the  work  of 
intelligence,  it  is  evident  that  many 


OBERMANN       129 

other  things  must  also  be  its  product. 
Perhaps  intelligence  chooses  among 
the  possibilities  that  are  the  result  of 
the  necessary  essence  of  things ;  and  the 
nature  of  these  possibilities,  which  are 
contained  within  a  limited  sphere,  is 
such,  that  although  the  world  cannot 
exist  excepting  in  accordance  with  cer- 
tain definite  modes,  each  thing  is  nev- 
ertheless susceptible  of  different  modi- 
fications. Intelligence  does  not  hold 
sovereign  power  over  matter,  but  makes 
use  of  it.  Intelligence  can  neither  cre- 
ate, nor  destroy  matter,  neither  can  it 
pervert  or  change  its  laws ;  but  it  can 
energize,  work,  and  fashion  it.  Intel- 
ligence is  not  omnipotent ;  it  is  a  vast 
industrial  force,  but  is  limited  by  the 
necessary  laws  of  the  essence  of  beings. 
It  is  a  sublime  alchemy,  which  man 
calls  supernatural  because  he  cannot 
conceive  it. 

You  will    say   that    these    are    two 
contrary  systems,  which  cannot  both 


» 

t 

> 


130      OBERMANN 

receive  credence  at  the  same  time.  I 
acknowledge  this,  but  still  it  is  not  a 
contradiction.  I  state  these  systems 
merely  as  hypotheses.  Not  only  I  do 
not  admit  that  both  are  true,  but  I  do 
not  positively  admit  that  either  one  is 
true,  and  I  do  not  pretend  to  know 
about  things  that  man  cannot  compre- 
hend. 

Every  general  system  on  the  nature 
of  being  and  the  laws  of  the  world  is 
never  more  than  a  hazarded  idea.  .  .  . 

But  it  is  entirely  different  when, 
abandoning  these  obscure  researches, 
we  devote  ourselves  to  the  only  human 
science,  that  of  ethics.  The  eye  of 
man,  which  is  blind  when  contemplat- 
ing the  essence  of  being,  can  see  with 
full  and  undimmed  power  when  study- 
ing human  relationships.  Here  we  find 
a  light  tempered  to  our  powers  of  vi- 
sion ;  here  we  can  discover,  reason, 
affirm.  Here  we  are  responsible  for  our 
ideas,  their  succession,  their  harmony, 


OBERMANN       131 

their  truth.  It  is  here  that  we  must 
look  for  definite  principles,  and  that 
contradictory  deductions  would  be  in- 
excusable. 

Only  one  objection  can  be  raised 
against  the  study  of  ethics  ;  it  is  un- 
questionably a  strong  one,  but  ought 
not  to  hold  us  back.  If  all  things  are 
the  result  of  necessity,  what  will  be  the 
fruit  of  our  researches,  our  precepts,  our 
virtues  ?  But  the  necessity  of  all  things 
has  not  yet  been  proved ;  the  opposite 
conviction  is  the  guide  of  man,  and 
it  is  enough  if  in  all  the  acts  of  life 
he  believes  himself  to  be  a  free  agent. 
The  stoic  had  faith  in  virtue,  in  spite 
of  destiny,  and  Orientals  who  hold  the 
dogma  of  fatality  act,  fear,  and  desire, 
like  other  men.  Even  if  I  were  to 
consider  the  universal  law  of  necessity 
as  probable,  it  would  not  prevent  me 
from  studying  the  principles  of  the  best 
human  institutions.  .  .  . 

I  understand  nothing  of  the  subtle- 


132      OBERMANN 

ties  by  which  it  is  supposed  that  one 
can  acknowledge  both  free  will  and 
predestination,  the  choice  of  man  and 
the  absolute  power  of  God  ;  that  one 
can  harmonize  the  infinite  abhorrence 
which  the  author  of  all  justice  must 
necessarily  feel  toward  sin,  and  the 
inscrutable  means  he  has  employed  for 
its  prevention  and  redemption,  with 
the  continual  sway  of  injustice,  and  our 
power  to  commit  as  many  crimes  as 
we  will.  I  find  it  difficult  to  reconcile 
the  infinite  goodness  which  voluntarily 
created  man,  and  the  absolute  know- 
•  lede  of  what  would  result  from  this 


*  '£•  leage  or  wnat  wouia  result  rrom  tnis 

creation,  with   the  eternity  of  fearful 

p  torment  reserved  for  ninety-nine  hun- 

dredths  of  these  well-beloved  creatures. 

I   .        ".'•Jr*  V    *«  i 

I   might,  like  any   other,  talk  wisely, 

•        *  "  •    *  '  V 

cleverly,  and  at  length,  upon  these 
incomprehensible  questions ;  but  if  I 
should  ever  write,  I  should  choose  to 
devote  myself  to  what  concerns  man, 
in  his  temporal  life,  and  as  a  social 
•'  •  v.-  •-.-.'• 


>.*% 


OBERMANN      133 

being,  because  it  seems  to  me  that  by 
observing  merely  phenomena  for  which 
we  have  definite  data,  I  might  think 
true  thoughts  and  say  useful  things. 

I  can  learn  something  about  man, 
but  I  cannot  divine  nature.  I  find  it 
impossible  to  understand  two  contrary 
principles,  coeternally  doing  and  undo- 
ing. I  cannot  comprehend  a  universe, 
created  so  late,  where  before  there  had 
been  nothing,  subsisting  only  for  a  time, 
and  thus  severing  into  three  parts  indi- 
visible eternity.  I  do  not  like  to  speak 
seriously  of  things  about  which  I  am 
ignorant ;  animalis  homo  non  percipit  ea 
qua  sunt  spiritus  Dei.ls  .  .  . 

But  there  is  a  still  more  serious 
objection.  Since  there  exist  religions 
established  from  early  times,  since  they 
form  part  of  human  institutions,  seem 
essential  to  our  weakness,  and  are  the 
curb  or  the  consolation  of  many,  it  is 
well  to  practice  and  uphold  the  religion 
of  the  country  in  which  we  live.  If 


i34      O  3  E  R  M  A'N  N 

we  allow  ourselves  not  to  believe  in  it, 
we  •  must,  at  least,  as  authors,  say  no- 
thing o£  our  unbelief,  and  must  not 
strive  to  wean  men  from  a  faith  which 
they  love.  This  is  your  advice ;  and 
now  I  shall  tell  you  why  I  cannot  fol- 
low it. 

I  should  not  attempt  to  weaken 
religious  faith  in  the  valleys  of  the 
Cevennes  or  the  Apennines,  or  even 
among  my  own  surroundings,  in  the 
Maurienne  or  the  Schweitzerland ;  but 
when  one  speaks  of  morality,  how  is 
it  possible  to  say  nothing  of  religion  ? 
Such  an  omission  would  be  a  misplaced 
affectation  ;  it  would  deceive  no  one  ; 
it  would  merely  hamper  what  I  should 
wish  to  say,  and  deprive  it  of  its  unity, 

which  alone  could  make  it  useful.  '  * 

•  » ' 

It  is  said  that  one  must  respect  opin- 
ions on  which  are  founded  the  hope 
of  "many,  and  the  entire  morality  of 
others.  •  I  believe  this  reservation  to  be 
wise  and  suitable  for  those  who  treat 


OBERMANN      135 

merely  incidentally  of  moral  questions, 
or  who  write  .with  other  ends  in  view 
than  those  that  must  necessarily  be 
mine.  But  if,  in  writing  of  human  in- 
stitutions, I  should  refrain  from  speak- 
ing of  religious  systems,  the  world  would 
see,  in  this  forbearance,  nothing  more 
than  a  desire  to  curry  favor  with  some 
powerful  party.  It  would  be  a  blame- 
worthy weakness.  In  daring  to  assume 
such  an  obligation,  I  must,  above  all, 
impose  upon  myself  certain  duties.  I 
cannot  answer  for  my  resources,  and 
they  will  be  more  or  less  inadequate ; 
but  my  intentions  depend  upon  myself; 
if  they  are  not  invariably  pure  and 
strong,  I  shall  be  unworthy  of  so  great 
a  ministry. 

I  shall  have  no  personal  enemy  in 
literature  any  more  than  I  have  in  my 
private  life ;  but  when  it  is  a  question 
of  telling  men  what  I  consider  to  be 
the  truth,  I  must  not  fear  the  displeasure 
of  any  sect  or  party.  I  have  nothing 


•      •'        .         •'*' 

o  ;  •„•••. 

»*•-•• 


136      OBERMANN 

against  them,  but  I  do  not  acknow- 
ledge their  laws.  I  shall  attack  things 
and  not  men.  .  .  . 

In  writing  of  the  affections  of  man, 
and  of  the  general  system  of  ethics,  I 
shall  therefore  speak  of  religion ;  and 
surely,  in  speaking  of  it,  I  cannot  say 
other  than  what  I  believe.  .  .  . 

I  should  not  wish  to  increase  the 
emptyheadedness  of  those  who  say : 
"  If  there  were  no  hell,  it  would  not 
pay  to  be  virtuous."  It  may  happen 
that  I  shall  be  read  by  one  of  these 
men.  I  do  not  flatter  myself  that  no 
harm  will  come  from  what  I  shall  say 
in  the  hope  of  doing  good ;  but  pos- 
sibly I  may  also  diminish  the  number 
of  these  good  souls,  who  believe  in 
duty  only  because  they  believe  in 
hell. 


OBERMANN       137 


LETTER  LXXXIII 

September  24th,  gth  year. 

I  HAVE  been  impatiently  waiting  for 
you  to  return  from  your  travels ;  I 
have  some  new  things  to  tell  you. 

M.  de  Fonsalbe  has  arrived.  He  has 
been  here  for  five  weeks,  and  will  re- 
main ;  his  wife  has  been  here  also. 
Although  he  has  spent  years  on  the  sea, 
he  is  a  man  of  a  calm  and  even  disposi- 
tion. He  neither  plays,  nor  hunts,  nor 
smokes ;  he  does  not  drink,  has  never 
danced,  and  never  sings.  He  is  not  sad, 
but  I  think  he  has  been  profoundly  so 
in  the  past.  His  face  unites  the  happy 
lines  traced  by  peace  of  the  soul,  and 
the  deep  furrows  drawn  by  sorrow. 

His  eye,  which  usually  expresses  only 
repose  and  melancholy,  has  the  power 
of  expressing  all  things.  The  shape  of 
his  head  is  remarkable,  and  if,  in  the 


138      OBERMANN 

midst  of  his  habitual  calm,  a  great  idea, 
a  stirring  sentiment  comes  to  awaken 
him,  he  takes  unconsciously  the  silent 
attitude  of  command.  I  have  seen  an 
actor  applauded  for  his  fine  rendering 
of  Nero's16  "  "Je  le  veux,je  Vordonne  ;  " 
but  Fonsalbe  could  do  it  better. 

I  am  impartial.  Fonsalbe  is  not  as 
calm  internally  as  he  is  externally  ;  but 
if  he  has  the  misfortune  or  the  fault 
not  to  be  able  to  be  happy,  he  has  too 
much  sense  to  be  discontented.  He  it 
is  who  will  effectually  cure  me  of  my 
impatience.  He  has  shaped  his  own 
course,  and  has,  moreover,  proved  to 
me  conclusively  that  I  ought  to  shape 
mine.  He  declares  that  when  a  man  in 
good  health  leads  an  independent  life 
and  nothing  more,  he  must  be  a  fool 
to  be  happy,  or  a  madman  to  be  un- 
happy. After  this  remark,  there  was 
nothing  left  for  me  to  say,  as  you  can 
fancy,  excepting  that  I  was  neither 
happy  nor  unhappy.  I  said  it ;  and  now 


OBERMANN      139 

it  remains  for  me  to  show  that  I  told 
the  truth. 

But  I  am  beginning  to  find  some- 
thing more  than  health  and  an  inde- 
pendent life.  Fonsalbe  will  be  a  friend, 
and  a  friend 'in  my  solitude.  I  do  not 
say  a  friend  such  as  we  dreamed  of  in 
other  days.  We  live*  no  longer  in  an 
heroic  age.  *  My  aim  is  to  assure  the 
peaceful  flow  of  my  days  ;  great  things 
do  not  concern  me.  I  am  intent  upon 
seeing  good  in  all  that  my  destiny  sends 
me.  What  a  way  for  its  accomplish- 
ment to  dream  of  the  friendship  of 
the  ancients  !  Let  us  leave  the  friend- 
ship of  antiquity,  and  the  friendship 
of  modern  social  life.  Picture  to  your- 
self a  middle  course.  What  does  that 
amount  to  ?  you  will  ask.  And  I  tell 
you  that  it  means  a  great  deal.  .  .  . 


140      OBERMANN 


LETTER  LXXXIV 

Saint-Maurice,  October  yth,  gth  year. 

AN  American  friend  of  Fonsalbe 
has  just  been  here  on  his  way  to 
Italy.  They  went  together  as  far  as 
Saint-Branchier,  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountains.  I  accompanied  them,  and 
expected  to  stop  at  Saint-Maurice,  but 
went  on  to  the  falls  of  Pissevache, 
which  are  between  Saint-Maurice  and 
Martigni,  and  which  I  had  seen  before 
only  from  the  road. 

There  I  waited  for  the  return  of  the 
carriage.  The  weather  was  pleasant ; 
the  air  calm  and  soft.  The  great  vol- 
ume of  water  fell  from  a  height  of 
about  three  hundred  feet.  I  crept  as 
close  to  it  as  possible,  and  in  a  moment 
was  drenched  as  though  I  had  been 
plunged  into  water. 

But  I  felt  a  return  of  my  early  emo- 


OBERMANN       141 

tions,  as  I  was  bathed  in  the  leaping 
spray  which  flings  its  foam  toward  the 
clouds,  as  I  heard  the  raging  howl  of 
the  cataract  whose  waters  have  their 
birth  in  the  silent  ice,  flow  unceasingly 
from  a  moveless  element,  are  lost,  and 
unendingly  lost,  with  tumultuous  roar. 
They  plunge  into  chasms  of  their  own 
hewing,  and  are  forever  falling  in  their 
eternal  fall.  Even  such  is  the  down- 
ward flow  of  the  years  and  the  centu- 
ries of  man.  Our  days  glide  out  of 
silentness,  fate  guides  them,  and  they 
pass  into  oblivion.  The  course  of  their 
hurried  phantoms  rolls  onward  with 
unchanging  clamor,  and  is  lost  in  end- 
less sequence.  In  its  train  there  ever 
floats  a  vapor  which  lifts  and  falls  in 
circling  eddies,  and  whose  shadows, 
already  gone  before,  have  enwrapped 
that  unfathomable  and  unavailing  chain 
of  days  —  the  perpetual  emblem  of 
invisible  force,  the  singular  and  myste- 
rious expression  of  world-energy. 


i42      OBERMANN 

I  confess  that  Imenstrom,  and  my 
memories,  my  habits,  my  childish  pro- 
jects, my  trees,  my  study,  all  the  things 
that  had  provided  amusement  for  my 
affections,  seemed  at  that  moment  piti- 
fully small  and  miserable  in  my  eyes. 
That  water,  restless,  all-invading,  filled 
with  the  spirit  of  motion,  that  majestic 
tumult  of  a  leaping  torrent,  that  mist 
forever  flinging  its  billows  into  the  air, 
swept  away  the  forgetf  ulness  into  which 
years  of  stress  and  struggle  had  plunged 
me. 

Separated  from  the  world  by  the 
encompassing  waters  and  the  chainless 
turmoil,  I  saw  all  places  pass  before  my 
eyes,  yet  I  was  nowhere.  Although  I 
was  fixed  and  motionless,  my  very  be- 
ing was  stirred  with  unwonted  activity. 
Secure  in  the  midst  of  menacing  ruin, 
I  seemed  engulfed  by  the  waters  and 
living  in  the  abyss.  I  had  left  the  earth  ; 
I  looked  back  upon  my  life  and  it 
seemed  ridiculous  in  my  eyes ;  it  filled 


OBERMANN      143 

me  with  pity.  A  vision  turned  those 
paltry  days  into  days  of  productiveness. 
I  saw  more  clearly  than  I  had  ever  seen 
before,  those  happy  and  far-distant  pages 
of  the  book  of  time.  A  Moses,  a  Ly- 
curgus  proved  to  the  world  their  latent 
possibilities  ;  but  their  future  existence 
was  proved  to  me  among  the  Alps. 

In  times  when  originality  was  not 
made  the  butt  of  ridicule,  men  sought 
the  seclusion  of  deep  solitude,  or  re- 
treated for  a  time  into  mountain  fast- 
nesses, not  merely  in  order  to  meditate 
over  the  framing  of  new  laws  —  men 
can  think  at  home,  and  silence  may  be 
found  even  in  the  heart  of  cities.  Nei- 
ther was  it  merely  to  gain  influence 
over  the  people  —  a  simple  wonder  of 
magic  would  have  accomplished  this 
more  easily,  and  have  held  no  less  sway 
over  the  imagination.  But  even  the 
soul  that  is  held  least  in  bondage  can- 
not wholly  escape  from  the  control  of 
habit ;  for  the  conclusions  drawn  from 


\.  , 


144      OBERMANN 

habit  have  always  had  great  persuasive 
power  for  the  multitude,  and  specious 
force  for  genius  itself;  and  the  argu- 
ments based  on  custom,  on  the  most 
ordinary  condition  of  man,  seem  to 
hold  an  obvious  proof  of  man's  limited 
sphere  of  action.  Separation  from  all 
human  surroundings  is  necessary,  not 
so  as  to  be  given  the  power  to  see  that 
reforms  might  be  made,  but  rather  to 
find  the  courage  to  think  them  possible. 
This  isolation  is  not  needed  in  order 
to  conceive  the  required  means,  but  to 
hope  for  their  success.  When  men 
retire  from  the  world  and  live  in  soli- 
tude, the  force  of  habit  is  weakened, 
and  the  unusual,  no  longer  clothed  in 
the  garb  of  romance,  is  viewed  and 
judged  with  impartiality  ;  men  believe 
in  it,  return  to  the  world,  and  succeed. 
I  went  back  to  the  road  before  the 
return  of  Fonsalbe  .  .  .  and  led  him 
to  the  spot  where  I  had  been  sitting ; 
but  we  lingered  only  for  a  moment. 


OBERMANN      145 

I  tried  in  vain  to  make  myself  under- 
stood excepting  by  signs,  but  when  we 
reached  a  distance  of  several  yards  I 
asked  him,  while  he  was  yet  filled  with 
wonder,  what  became,  among  such 
surroundings,  of  the  habits  of  man,  or 
even  of  his  strongest  affections,  and 
the  passions  which  he  believes  to  be 
indomitable. 

We  walked  to  and  fro  between 
the  cataract  and  the  road.  We  agreed 
that  a  man  of  strong  organization  may 
have  no  actual  passion,  although  he  is 
susceptible  of  all  passions,  and  that 
men  thus  organized  have  often  existed, 
sometimes  among  rulers  of  the  people, 
or  among  magi  and  gymnosophists, 
sometimes  among  true  and  faithful 
believers  in  certain  religions,  such  as 
Christianity,  Islamism,  and  Buddhism. 

A  great  man  possesses  all  the  facul- 
ties that  belong  to  man,  and  is  capable 
of  experiencing  all  human  affections, 
but  he  limits  himself  to  the  highest 


146      OBERMANN 

among  the  gifts  of  destiny.  He  who 
renounces  his  noblest  thoughts  for  triv- 
ial or  selfish  views,  who  is  moved  by 
petty  affections  and  paltry  interests,  is 
not  a  great  man. 

A  great  man  always   looks  beyond 
the   horizon   of  his  actual    existence, 

9 

beyond  what  he  is  and  what  he  does ; 
he  does  not  loiter  behind  his  destiny, 
but  rather  outstrips  the  bounds  which 
destiny  has  marked  out  for  him,  and 
this  natural  onward  impulse  of  his  soul 
is  not  the  passion  for  power  or  glory. 
He  is  above  glory  and  power.  He  loves 
what  is  noble,  just,  and  useful ;  he  loves 
what  is  beautiful.  He  accepts  power 
because  it  is  needful  in  the  reestablish- 
ment  of  the  useful  and  the  beautiful ; 
but  he  would  love  a  simple  life,  be- 
cause a  simple  life  can  be  pure  and 
beautiful.  His  deeds  are  sometimes  like 
those  that  are  born  of  passion,  but  it  is 
essentially  impossible  that  he  should  act 
at  the  dictates  of  passion.  A  great  man 


OBERMANN       147 

not  only  has  not  a  passion  for  women, 
for  play,  for  wine,  but  I  hold  that  he 
is  not  even  ambitious.  His  motives  are 
not  those  that  govern  the  multitude 
born  to  wonder  at  such  men  as  he, 
even  when  his  acts  resemble  theirs. 
He  is  neither  distrustful  nor  confident, 
neither  dissembling  nor  frank,  neither 
grateful  nor  ingrate  ;  he  has  no  quali- 
ties of  this  nature.  His  heart  waits,  his 
intelligence  leads.  When  at  his  post  he 
presses  forward  to  the  end  he  has  in 
view,  which  is  far-reaching  order,  and 
the  bettering  of  the  condition  of  men. 
He  sees,  he  wills,  he  acts.  A  man  of 
whom  it  can  be  said  that  he  has  a  cer- 
tain weakness,  or  a  certain  propensity, 
is  a  man  like  any  other.  But  the  man 
born  to  govern  is  just  and  supreme. 
Disillusioned,  he  would  be  something 
still  higher  ;  he  would  not  be  sover- 
eign, he  would  not  be  a  ruler ;  he  would 
become  a  sage. 


148      OBERMANN 


LETTER  LXXXV 

Imenstrom,  October  I2thy  gth  year. 

LIKE  you,  I  feared  the  result.  It 
was  natural  to  suppose  that  this 
kind  of  indolence,  into  which  I  have 
been  plunged  by  melancholy,  would 
soon  become  a  habit  almost  beyond 
control ;  but  .  .  .  the  way  in  which 
I  am  vegetating  amid  my  present  sur- 
roundings will  have  no  influence  over 
my  manner  of  life  in  case  circum- 
stances should  require  of  me  as  much 
activity  as  they  now  demand  apathy. 

Of  what  avail  would  it  be  to  remain 
standing  at  the  hour  of  rest  or  to  be 
alive  within  my  tomb  ?  Must  a  laborer, 
who  does  not  wish  to  lose  the  day,  re- 
fuse, for  that  reason,  to  sleep  at  night  ? 
My  night  is  long  indeed ;  but  is  it  my 
fault  if  the  days  were  short,  if  the  nights 
were  dark  at  the  season  of  my  birth  ? 


OBERMANN       149 

Like  others,  I  desire  to  leave  my  retreat 
at  the  coming  of  summer  ;  meanwhile 
I  dream  beside  the  fire  during  the  days 
of  frost.  .  .  . 

In  the  early  morning,  when  I  am 
not  asleep,  nor  yet  awake,  I  dream  in 
peace.  In  those  moments  of  calm,  I 
like  to  look  at  life ;  I  seem  a  stranger 
to  it  then,  and  have  no  part  to  play. 
What  my  mind  especially  dwells  upon 
in  these  days  is  the  din  of  the  machin- 
ery, and  the  nullity  of  the  products 
—  the  vast  labor  of  human  beings, 
and  the  doubtful,  fruitless,  perhaps 
inconsistent  aim,  or,  rather,  vain  and 
opposite  aims.  The  moss  flowers  on 
the  rock  beaten  by  the  waves ;  but  its 
blossom  will  perish.  The  violet  wastes 
its  bloom  in  the  hidden  covers  of  the 
desert.  Even  thus  man  desires,  and 
dies.  He  is  born  by  chance,  he  gropes 
his  way  without  aim,  struggles  without 
object,  feels  and  thinks  in  vain,  perishes 
before  he  has  lived,  and  even  if  to  live 


150      OBERMANN 

has  been  vouchsafed  him,  he  must  like- 
wise pass  away.  Caesar  won  fifty  battles, 
he  conquered  the  West ;  he  is  dead. 
Mahomet,  Pythagoras  are  dead.  The 
cedar-tree,  which  gave  shade  to  the 
flocks  and  the  herds,  has  perished  even 
as  the  grass  on  which  they  trod. 

The  more  clearly  we  strive  to  see, 
the  more  deeply  we  are  plunged  in 
darkness.  All  things  work  for  self- 
preservation  and  self-reproduction ;  the 
aim  of  their  travail  is  manifest ;  how 
is  it  that  the  end  of  their  being  is  im- 
penetrable ?  The  animal  possesses  the 
organs,  the  powers,  the  energy  to  sub- 
sist and  perpetuate  itself.  He  struggles 
to-  exist,  and  he  exists  ;  he  labors  to 
reproduce  himself,  and  he  is  self-repro- 
ductive. But  wherefore  live  ?  Why  per- 
petuate himself?  All  this  is  a  mystery. 

I  have  replaced  De  I*  Esprit  des 
C hoses11  on  my  table,  and  have  read 
almost  the  whole  of  one  volume. 

I  confess  that  this  theory  of  the  re- 


OBERMANN       151 

demption  of  the  world  does  not  antag- 
onize me.  It  is  not  new,  but  this  fact 
gives  it  all  the  greater  authority.  It  is 
broad  and  credible.  ...  I  would  will- 
ingly believe  that  this  hypothesis  of  a 
fortuitous  degradation,  and  a  gradual 
regeneration  ;  of  a  force  which  vivifies, 
uplifts,  refines,  and  another  which  cor- 
rupts and  degrades,  is  not  the  least  plau- 
sible of  our  conjectures  on  the  nature 
of  things.  I  only  wish  that  we  could 
be  told  how  this  revolution  took  place, 
or,  at  least,  how  it  must  have  taken 
place ;  how  the  world  thus  escaped 
from  the  control  of  the  Eternal ;  how 
it  was  that  the  Eternal  should  have 
allowed  it,  or  could  not  have  prevented 
it ;  and  what  force,  alien  to  universal 
power,  has  produced  the  universal  cat- 
aclysm ?  This  theory  explains  every- 
thing excepting  the  chief  difficulty ; 
but  the  Oriental  dogma  of  two  princi- 
ples was  more  comprehensible. 

Whatever  may  be  said  on  a  question 


i52      OBERMANN 

which  is  undoubtedly  little  suited  to 
a  dweller  upon  the  earth,  I  know  of 
nothing  which  accounts  for  the  perpet- 
ual phenomena,  all  the  evils  of  which 
overwhelm  our  intelligence  and  baffle 
our  eager  curiosity.  We  see  individ- 
uals congregate  and  propagate  accord- 
ing to  their  kind,  and  press  onward 
with  uninterrupted  and  ever-increasing 
force  toward  I  know  not  what  goal, 
from  which  they  are  perpetually  re- 
pelled. A  celestial  industry  produces 
without  ceasing  and  by  infinite  means. 
A  principle  of  inertia,  a  lifeless  force 
stands  in  unrelenting  opposition ;  it 
exterminates  and  destroys  all  things  in 
one  dead,  immeasurable  mass.  All  the 
individual  agents  are  passive ;  but  they 
drift  willingly  onward  to  an  end  which 
they  cannot  divine,  and  the  goal  of  this 
general  tendency,  unknown  to  them, 
seems  to  be  also  unrevealed  to  all  things 
that  exist.  Not  only  does  the  entire 
order  of  beings  appear  to  be  full  of 


OBERMANN      153 

contrasts  in  its  mechanism,  and  of  op- 
position in  its  products  ;  but  the  force 
which  moves  it  seems  indeterminate, 
apprehensive,  and  paralyzed,  or  coun- 
terbalanced by  another  mysterious  force. 
Nature  seems  hindered  in  her  progress, 
baffled  and  perplexed. 

We  shall  think  to  discern  a  gleam  in 
the  abyss,  if  we  preconceive  the  worlds 
as  spheres  of  activity,  as  workshops  of 
regeneration,  in  which  matter,  gradu- 
ally worked  and  refined  by  a  principle 
of  life,  will  pass  from  its  passive  and 
crude  state  to  that  point  of  advance- 
ment and  of  rarefaction  when  it  will 
at  last  be  susceptible  of  being  impreg- 
nated by  fire  and  infused  with  light.  It 
will  be  used  by  intelligence,  no  longer 
as  formless  material,  but  as  a  perfected 
instrument ;  later  as  a  direct  agent ;  and 
finally  as  an  essential  part  of  the  one 
being,  which  will  then  become  truly 
universal  and  truly  one. 

The  ox  is  strong  and  powerful ;   he 


154      OBERMANN 

does  not  even  know  it.  He  eats  vora- 
ciously, he  devours  a  whole  field.  What 
will  he  gain  by  it  ?  He  ruminates,  he 
vegetates  dully  in  a  barn  into  which 
he  has  been  led  by  a  man  sad,  dull,  and 
useless  like  himself.  The  man  will  slay 
and  eat  him  ;  but  he  will  be  none  the 
better  for  it.  And  after  the  ox  has  died, 
the  man  will  die.  What  will  remain 
of  them  both  ?  A  little  something  to 
fertilize  and  produce  fresh  grass,  and  a 
little  grass  to  nourish  new  flesh.  What 
vain  and  mute  vicissitudes  of  life  and 
death !  What  a  relentless  universe ! 
And  how  is  it  good  that  it  is,  rather 
than  that  it  is  not  ? 

But  if  this  silent  and  terrible  fer- 
mentation, which  seems  to  produce 
only  to  immolate,  to  create  only  for  the 
sake  of  having  been,  to  develop  germs 
simply  to  scatter  them  to  the  winds, 
or  grant  the  sentiment  of  life  merely 
to  give  the  shudder  of  death  ;  if  this 
force  which  moves  eternal  matter  in 


OBERMANN      155 

the  darkness,  sheds  a  few  rays  to  try 
the  light ;  if  this  power  which  battles 
against  repose  and  promises  life,  crushes 
and  pulverizes  its  work  so  as  to  prepare 
it  for  a  great  purpose  ;  if  this  world  in 
which  we  figure  is  only  the  experiment 
of  a  world  ;  if  what  is,  merely  fore- 
shadows what  is  to  be ;  would  not  the 
wonder  which  visible  evil  excites  in  us 
be  answered  ? 

The  present  labors  for  the  future, 
and  the  scheme  of  the  universe  is  that 
the  actual  world  shall  be  consumed  ; 
this  great  sacrifice  was  necessary,  and 
is  great  only  in  our  eyes.  We  shall 
perish  in  the  hour  of  the  catastrophe ; 
but  it  had  to  be,  and  the  history  of  the 
beings  of  to-day  is  all  contained  in 
the  words :  they  have  lived.  Fruitful  and 
changeless  order  will  be  the  product  of 
the  laborious  crisis  which  will  annihi- 
late us.  The  work  has  already  begun, 
and  centuries  of  life  will  subsist  when 
we,  our  lamentations,  our  hopes,  and 


156      OBERMANN 

our  systems  shall  have  forever  passed 
away. 


LETTER   LXXXVII 

November  2Othy  Qth  year. 

WHAT  a  tangled  skein  is  life ! 
How  difficult  is  the  art  of 
conduct !  How  many  afflictions  walk 
jn  the  train  of  right-doing  !  What  con- 
fusion follows  in  the  wake  of  a  whole- 
souled  sacrifice  to  order  !  How  many 
misunderstandings  are  the  result  of  a 
desire  to  regulate  all  the  circumstances 
of  life,  when  our  destiny  did  not  ask 
for  rules ! 

This  preamble  is  probably  a  mystery 
to  you.  But,  filled  as  my  mind  is  with 
Fonsalbe,18  with  the  thought  of  his 
despondency,  with  what  has  come  to 
him,  what  must  necessarily  have  come 
to  him,  and  knowing  what  I  know, 
what  he  has  told  me,  I  see  a  whole 


OBERMANN       157 

abyss  of  injustice,  antipathy,  and  regret. 
And,  most  lamentable  of  all,  in  this 
long  chain  of  wretchedness,  I  see  no- 
thing surprising  or  unusual,  nothing 
which  is  limited  to  him  alone. 

If  all  the  shrouded  secrets  were  un- 
veiled, if  we  could  look  into  the  hidden 
places  of  the  heart  and  see  the  bitter- 
ness to  which  it  is  a  prey,  then  all  these 
contented  men,  these  pleasant  homes, 
these  mirthful  gatherings,  would  be- 
come a  host  of  miserable  human  be- 
ings gnawing  at  the  curb  which  holds 
them,  and  devouring  the  thick  dregs 
in  the  cup  of  sorrow,  the  bottom  of 
which  they  will  never  reach.  They 
cloak  their  sufferings,  they  call  up  false 
joys,  and  wave  them  aloft  that  they 
may  glitter  and  shine  before  the  jeal- 
ous and  watchful  eyes  of  other  men. 
They  stand  in  the  fairest  light  so  that 
the  tear  which  glistens  in  their  eye 
may  shed  a  seeming  lustre  and  be 
envied  from  afar  as  a  signal  of  delight. 


158      OBERMANN 

Social  vanity  consists  in  appearing 
happy.  .  .  .  This  vain  display,  this 
mania  for  appearances,  is  ignored  only 
by  fools,  and  yet  almost  all  men  are 
its  dupes.  —  "  Others  have  a  thousand 
things  to  enjoy,"  you  say.  —  Have  you 
not  those  same  things  to  delight  you, 
and  many  more,  perhaps  ?  —  "  They 
seem  to  give  me  pleasure,  but  .  .  ." 
—  Deluded  man,  these  huts,  are  they 
not  also  for  thy  fellows  ?  All  these 
happy  men  show  themselves  with  their 
holiday  faces,  even  as  people  walk  out 
with  their  Sunday  clothes.  Sorrow 
stays  behind  in  the  garret  and  the 
drawing-room.  Joy  or  patience  are 
upon  the  lips  that  we  see;  discourage- 
ment, grief,  the  frenzy  of  passion  or 
despondency,  are  in  the  depths  of  the 
cankered  heart.  In  this  great  multi- 
tude of  people,  the  outside  is  carefully 
apparelled ;  it  is  either  dazzling  or 
bearable,  but  the  inside  is  ghastly.  On 
these  conditions  has  it  been  given  us 


OBERMANN       159 

to  hope.  Did  we  not  believe  that 
others  were  happier  than  ourselves,  and 
that  therefore  we  might  ourselves  be 
happier,  who  of  us  would  drag  out  to 
the  end  our  imbecile  days  ? 

Full  of  an  interesting,  rational, 
though  somewhat  romantic  project, 
Fonsalbe  started  for  Spanish  America. 
He  was  detained  at  Martinique  by  a 
rather  singular  incident,  which  pro- 
mised to  be  of  short  duration,  but 
which  had  a  long  sequel.  Forced  at 
last  to  renounce  his  scheme,  he  was  on 
the  point  of  recrossing  the  ocean,  and 
was  only  waiting  for  an  opportunity, 
when  the  relative  with  whom  he  had 
been  living  during  his  entire  stay  at 
the  Antilles  fell  ill  and  died  at  the  end 
of  a  few  days.  Before  dying,  he  told 
Fonsalbe  that  his  sole  consolation  would 
be  to  leave  him  his  daughter,  feeling 
that  in  so  doing  he  would  assure  her 
happiness.  Fonsalbe,  who  had  never 
even  thought  of  her  in  the  light  of 


160      OBERMANN 

marriage,  objected  that,  as  they  had 
lived  for  more  than  six  months  in  the 
same  house  and  had  not  formed  any 
special  attachment,  they  were  and 
doubtless  would  remain  indifferent  to 
each  other.  The  father  insisted,  de- 
claring that  his  daughter  loved  Fon- 
salbe,  and  had  confessed  her  love  for 
him  when  refusing  to  contract  another 
marriage. 

Fonsalbe  now  made  no  further  ob- 
jection, but  still  he  hesitated.  In  place 
of  his  ruined  plans,  he  pictured  himself 
as  filling  with  gentleness  and  fidelity 
the  part  of  an  obscure  life,  making  one 
woman  happy,  and  having,  while  still 
young,  children  whom  he  could  form 
and  develop.  He  reflected  that  the 
faults  of  the  woman  whom  it  was  pro- 
posed that  he  should  marry  were  those 
of  education  and  environment,  and  that 
she  possessed  simple  and  natural  quali- 
ties of  the  heart.  He  chose  his  course, 
and  gave  his  promise.  The  father  died; 


OBERMANN       161 

several  months  passed,  and  the  son  and 
daughter  made  arrangements  to  divide 
his  property  between  them.  But  it  so 
happened  that  their  island  was,  at  that 
time,  at  war  with  a  foreign  power  ;  the 
enemy's  ships  hove  suddenly  in  sight, 
and  prepared  to  disembark  troops. 
Under  pretext  of  danger,  the  future 
brother-in-law  of  Fonsalbe  disposed  of 
all  the  salable  property,  so  that  he  and 
his  sister  might  take  flight  at  short  no- 
tice and  seek  refuge  in  a  place  of  safety. 
But,  under  cover  of  the  night,  he  made 
his  own  escape  to  the  enemy's  fleet, 
carrying  with  him  all  their  available 
possessions,  besides  every  negro  on  the 
plantation.  It  was  afterwards  known 
that  he  established  himself  on  one  of 
the  islands  under  British  rule,  where  his 
life  was  not  a  happy  one. 

The  sister,  thus  left  penniless,  seemed 
to  fear  that  Fonsalbe  would  now  desert 
her,  in  spite  of  his  promise.  This  led 
him  to  hasten  his  marriage,  which  he 


162      OBERMANN 

had  thus  far  delayed  only  that  he  might 
receive  the  consent  of  his  family.  These 
hurried  preparations  for  the  wedding 
were,  in  fact,  the  only  answer  he 
deigned  to  make  to  the  girl's  surmise, 
—  a  suspicion  which  was  not  likely  to 
increase  his  esteem  for  a  woman  for 
whom  he  felt  no  attachment  other  than 
that  of  the  most  ordinary  friendship, 
and  of  whom  he  had  formed  no  par- 
ticular opinion,  either  good  or  bad. 

A  loveless  union  may  often  be  happy. 
But  in  this  case  the  characters  of  hus- 
band and  wife  were  little  suited  to  each 
other.  Still,  in  some  ways  they  were 
congenial,  and  it  is  precisely  under  such 
circumstances  that  love  seems  to  me  a 
necessity,  in  order  to  cement  a  perfect 
union.  .  .  . 

Nj,We  live  only  once.  ...  I  do  not 
know  whether  you  look  at  things  in 
the  same  way  that  I  do  ;  but  I  feel  that 
Fonsalbe  did  right.  He  has  been  pun- 
ished, and  he  ought  to  have  been ;  but 

«  * 


OBERMANN       163 

is  that  any  reason  for  saying  that  he 
acted  wrongly  ?  We  live  only  once.  .  .  . 
Fonsalbe  has  not  neglected  the  laws 
of  true  duty,  of  final  consolation  to  a 
dying  soul,  of  holy  morality,  of  the 
wisdom  that  is  hid  in  the  heart  of  man. 
He  sacrificed  the  plans  of  the  moment, 
he  forgot  our  petty  rules  of  life.  The 
professional  lounger,  the  ward  law- 
giver would  have  condemned  him.  But 
the  men  of  olden  time,  venerated  for 
thirty  centuries,  great  men  and  just, 
would  have  acted,  and  did  act,  as 
Fonsalbe  has  done.  .  .  . 

The  better  I  know  Fonsalbe,  the 
more  I  am  convinced  that  we  shall 
always  live  together.  We  have  already 
decided  on  this,  and  the  nature  of 
things  had  predetermined  it.  He  will 
fill  your  place  in  so  far  as  a  new  friend 
can  fill  the  place  of  a  friend  of  twenty 
years'  standing,  and  as  I  can  find  in  my 
allotted  life  a  faint  shadow  of  our  early 
dreams. 


164      OBERMANN 

The  intimacy  between  Fonsalbe  and 
myself  outstrips  the  course  of  time,  and 
already  possesses  the  venerable  quality 
of  antiquity.  His  confidence  has  no 
limits  ;  and,  as  he  is  a  man  of  great 
natural  discretion  and  reserve,  you  can 
understand  how  deeply  I  value  its 
worth.  I  owe  much  to  him  ;  my  life  is 
a  little  less  useless,  and  will  grow  to  be 
tranquil  in  spite  of  that  internal  weight 
which  at  times  he  can  help  me  to  for- 
get, but  which  he  can  never  lift.  He 
has  reclothed  my  desert  places  with 
something  of  their  happy  beauty,  and 
with  the  romanticness  of  their  Alpine 
scenery ;  I,  a  man  of  misfortune  and 
his  friend,  have  found  in  their  midst 
hours  filled  with  a  sweetness  which  I 
had  not  known  before.  We  walk,  we 
talk,  we  wander  at  random ;  we  are 
satisfied  when  we  are  together.  Each 
day  I  realize  more  clearly  what  noble 
hearts  may,  through  adverse  destiny,  be 
doomed  to  live  solitary  and  unknown 


OBERMANN       165 

to  one  another,  lost  in  the  throng,  and 
so  out  of  touch  with  the  surrounding 
world  that  nature  ought  to  have  linked 
them  closely  together. 

Fonsalbe  has  lived  sadly  amid  end- 
less vexations,  and  without  enjoyment. 
He  is  two  or  three  years  older  than  I, 
and  he  feels  that  his  life  is  gradually 
gliding  away.  I  say  to  him  :  "  Our 
past  is  more  alien  to  us  than  the  life  of 
a  stranger ;  it  has  no  touch  of  reality. 
The  memories  it  leaves  behind  are  too 
vain  to  be  accounted  good  or  evil  by  a 
wise  man.  On  what  ground  can  rest 
our  lamentations,  or  our  regrets  for 
what  has  passed  away?  Because  you 
were  once  the  happiest  of  men,  would 
the  present,  for  that  reason,  be  any  more 
endurable  ?  Because  you  once  suffered 
terrible  wrongs  ..."  Fonsalbe  had 
allowed  me  to  talk  on,  but  of  my  own 
accord  I  stopped.  I  felt  that  as  ten 
years  passed  in  a  dungeon  would  leave 
its  impress  on  the  body,  even  so  moral 


i66      OBERMANN 

suffering  must  leave  deep  imprints  on 
the  heart ;  and  when  a  reasonable  man 
complains  of  misfortunes  which  he 
seems^no  longer  to  suffer,  it  is  their 
results  and  their  effects  that  he  mourns. 
When  we  have  voluntarily  allowed 
an  opportunity  for  well-doing  to  escape 
our  grasp,  that  opportunity  is  usually 
forever  lost ;  this  is  the  punishment 
for  neglect  in  those  whose  nature  it  is 
to  do  good,  but  who  are  held  back  by 
considerations  of  the  moment,  or  by 
interests  of  passion.  There  are  those 
who  unite  to  this  natural  disposition  a 
rational  willingness  to  follow  it,  and  a 
habit  of  silencing  every  contrary  pas- 
sion. Their  sole  purpose,  their  chief 
desire,  is  to  fill  nobly,  in  every  way,  the 
part  of  a  man,  and  to  carry  out  what 
their  judgment  tells  them  is  good.  Can 
such  men  see  without  regret  the  van- 
ishing of  every  possibility  to  dp  well 
those  things  which,  though  they  be- 
long only  to  private  life,  are  important 


O  B  E  R  M  A  N  N«     167 

because  very  few  men  really  think  of 
doing  them  well? 

It  is  not  such  a  very  narrow  and  sec- 
ondary part  in  life,  to  do  for  one's  wife, 
not  only  what  duty  prescribes,  but  what 
an  enlightened  mind  counsels,  and  even 
all  that  it  may  allow.  Many  men  who 
fill  with  honor  great  public  offices,  do 
not  know  how  to  conduct  themselves 
in  their  own  homes,  as  Fonsalbe  would 
have  known  had  he  been  given  a  wife 
who  was  right-minded  and  trustworthy. 

The  delights  of  confidence  and  in- 
timacy between  friends  are  intense ; 
but  quickened  and  increased  by  all  the 
little  trifles  born  of  the  sentiment  of 
love  between  man  and  woman,  these 
exquisite  delights  become  immeasur- 
able. Can  anything  be  sweeter  in  the 
wonted  domestic  life  than  to  be  good 
and  upright  in  the  eyes  of  a  well-be- 
loved wife ;  to  do  everything  for  her 
and  require  nothing  in  return ;  to  ex- 
pect from  her  whatsoever  is  natural 


• 


i68      X)  B  E  R  M  A  N  N 

and  seemly,  and  to  claim  nothing  that 
is  exceptional ;  to  make  her  above  re- 
proach, and  leave  her  unfettered ;  to 
sustain,  counsel,  and  protect  her,  but 
neither  rule  nor  compel  her ;  to  make 
of  her  a  friend  who  conceals  nothing 
and  has  nothing  to  conceal ;  who  needs 
not  to  be  denied  things  that  by  this 
very  openness  become  insignificant,  but 
when  done  by  stealth  must  be  forbid- 
den ;  to  make  her  as  perfect,  but  as 
free,  as  possible  ;  to  have  over  her  every 
right,  in  order  to  give  her  every  liberty 
that  an  upright  soul  can  accept ;  and 
thus  to  make,  at  least  in  the  obscurity 
of  private  life,  the  happiness  of  one 
human  being  who  is  worthy  of  receiv- 
ing joy  without  corrupting  it,  and  free- 
dom of  mind  without  being  corrupted 
by  it? 


OBERMANN       169 


LETTER    LXXXIX 

Imenstrom,  December  6th>  ^th  year. 

LET  us  confess  that  it  is  well  with 
us  in  this  world  when  we  have 
power  and  knowledge.  Power  without 
knowledge  is  dangerous ;  knowledge 
without  power  is  melancholy  and  use- 
less. 

As  for  myself  who  do  not  pretend  to 
live,  but  merely  to  contemplate  life,  it 
would  be  well  for  me  to  at  least  con- 
ceive the  part  that  a  man  ought  to  play 
in  the  world.  I  intend  to  spend  four 
hours  every  day  in  my  study.  This  I 
should  call  work ;  but  apparently  it  is 
not  work,  for  while  it  is  accounted 
wrong  to  forge  a  lock  or  hem  a  hand- 
kerchief on  the  day  of  rest,  one  is  free 
to  write  a  chapter  of  the  Monde  primitif. 
Since  I  have  determined  to  write,  it 
would  be  unpardonable  were  I  not  to 


170      OBERMANN 

begin  now.  I  am  surrounded  by  every- 
thing needful :  leisure,  quiet,  a  small 
but  adequate  library,  and,  in  place  of 
a  secretary,  a  friend  who  will  urge  me 
on,  and  who  believes  that  by  writing 
one  can,  sooner  or  later,  accomplish 
some  good. 

But  before  taking  up  the  weaknesses 
of  men,  I  must,  for  the  last  time,  speak 
to  you  of  my  own.  Fonsalbe,  from 
whom  I  shall  conceal  nothing  else,  but 
who  does  not  suspect  this  secret,  makes 
me  realize  every  day  by  his  presence, 
and  by  our  talks  in  which  the  name  of 
his  sister  constantly  recurs,  how  far  dis- 
tant I  am  from  that  forgetfulness  which 
had  grown  to  be  my  only  refuge. 

In  his  letters  to  Madame  Del , 

he  has  spoken  of  me,  and  has  appeared 
to  do  so  at  my  instigation.  I  did  not 
know  how  to  prevent  this,  as  I  could 
give  Fonsalbe  no  reason  for  my  objec- 
tion. But  I  regretted  it  all  the  more  that 
she  must  have  thought  it  contradictory 


OBERMANN      171 

in  me  not  to  have  followed  out  the 
course  that  I  had  laid  down  for  myself. 

Do  not  think  it  strange  that  I  seek 
bitterness  in  these  memories,  and  use  a 
thousand  subterfuges  to  keep  them  far 
from  me,  as  though  I  were  uncertain 
of  myself.  I  am  neither  fanatical  nor 
vacillating  in  my  rectitude.  My  inten- 
tions are  under  my  control,  but  my 
thoughts  are  not ;  and  while  I  possess 
all  the  assurance  of  a  man  who  desires 
what  his  duty  dictates,  I  have  all  the 
weakness  of  one  whom  nothing  has  as 
yet  anchored.  Still,  I  am  not  in  love ; 
I  am  too  unhappy  for  that.  How  is  it 
then  ?  .  .  .  You  would  not  understand 
me  when  I  do  not  understand  myself. 

Many  years  have  passed  since  I  saw 
her,  but  as  my  destiny  was  to  grant  me 
only  a  dream  of  my  life,  the  solitary 
thing  that  was  left  to  me  was  her  mem- 
ory, linked  to  my  very  being  as  long  as 
life  was  to  endure.  This  much  for  the 
times  that  are  forever  lost. 


172      OBERMANN 

The  need  of  loving  had  become  life 
itself,  and  the  whole  consciousness  of 
existence  was  limited  to  the  anticipa- 
tion and  the  foreshadowing  of  that 
hour  which  heralds  the  dawn  of  life. 
But  while,  in  the  savorless  course  of 
my  days,  there  flashed  one  moment  that 
seemed  to  promise  to  my  heart  the  only 
good  which  it  was  then  in  nature's 
power  to  give  me,  her  memory  had 
apparently  been  sent  to  keep  that  good 
afar.  Although  I  had  not  loved,  I  found 
myself  thenceforth  powerless  to  love, 
like  those  men  in  whom  a  deep  passion 
has  destroyed  the  power  to  love  anew. 

This  memory  was  not  love,  since  I 
found  in  it  neither  food  nor  consola- 
tion. It  left  me  in  the  void,  and  held 
me  there ;  it  gave  me  nothing,  and  pre- 
vented me  from  receiving  anything. 
Thus  I  lived,  possessing  neither  the 
happy  intoxication  which  is  fed  by  love, 
nor  the  bitter  and  rapturous  melan- 
choly by  which  our  hearts,  still  rilled 


\  (   • 

t. 


OBERMANN       173 

with  an  unhappy  passion,  delight  to  be 
consumed. 

I  do  not  wish  to  recount  to  you  the 
tiresome  history  of  my  sorrows.  I  have 
hidden  my  untoward  fate  in  these  my 
desert  places ;  it  would  drag  down  in  its 
wake  whatsoever  surrounded  it,  and  it 
well-nigh  submerged  you.  You  wanted 
to  abandon  everything  in  life  in  order 
to  become  sad  and  useless  like  myself, 
but  I  forced  you  to  return  to  your  plea- 
sures. You  even  believed  that  I  too  had 
found  diversion,  and  I  gently  fostered 
your  mistake.  You  came  to  know  that 
my  calm  was  like  the  smile  of  despair, 
but  I  wish  that  you  had  been  longer 
deceived.  When  I  wrote  you,  I  chose 
the  moment  when  a  laugh  was  on  my 
lips  .  .  .  when  I  laughed  with  pity  at 
myself,  at  my  destiny,  at  all  the  many 
things  that  men  lament  while  they  are 
continually  saying  to  themselves  that 
these  things  will  one  day  cease. 

I  am  telling  you  too  much ;  but  the 


•  * 


*  . 9 

•  * 

t  «  • 


-,  .••*•; 


i74      OBERMANN 

consciousness  of  my  destiny  exalts  and 
overpowers  me.  I  cannot  look  within, 
without  seeing  the  spectre  of  what  will 
never  be  granted  me. 

It  is  inevitable  that  in  speaking  to 
you  of  her  I  should  be  wholly  myself. 
I  cannot  comprehend  what  reserve  I 
could  enforce  upon  myself.  She  felt  as 
I  did  ;  we  both  spoke  the  same  lan- 
guage. Are  there  many  who  thus  un- 
derstand each  other  ?  But  I  did  not 
indulge  in  such  illusions.  I  repeat  it,  I 
do  not  wish  to  dwell  upon  those  days 
which  forgetfulness  ought  to  efface,  and 
which  are  already  lost  in  the  abyss ; 
my  dream  of  happiness  has  passed  away 
with  the  shadows  of  those  days,  even  as 
men  and  the  ages  perish. 

Why  these  memories  which  rise  like 
vapor  from  a  lingering  death  ?  They 
come  to  enshroud  the  living  remains 
of  man  in  the  bitterness  of  the  uni- 
versal grave  to  which  he  will  descend. 
I  seek  not  to  justify  this  broken  heart 


OBERMANN       175 

which  you  know  too  well,  and  which 
holds  within  its  ruins  only  the  restless- 
ness of  life.  You  alone  know  its  lost 
hopes,  its  unfathomable  desires,  its  im- 
measurable needs.  Do  not  excuse  it, 
but  rather  sustain  it,  and  raise  its  wrecks 
from  destruction ;  give  back  to  it,  if 
within  your  power,  the  fire  of  life, 
and  the  calm  of  reason,  the  activity 
of  genius,  and  the  impassiveness  of  the 
sage.  I  do  not  wish  to  make  you  pity 
its  deep  follies. 

At  last  the  most  unexpected  chance 
led  me  to  meet  her  near  the  Sa6ne,19 
on  a  day  of  sadness.  ...  It  was  sweet 
to  see  her  now  and  again.  A  soul  ar- 
dent, tranquil,  weary,  disillusioned, 
great,  would  have  the  power  to  still 
the  restlessness  and  the  unceasing  tor- 
ture of  my  heart.  That  grace  of  her 
entire  being,  that  indescribable  per- 
fection of  every  movement,  of  her 
voice !  .  .  . 

But  my  sadness  became  more  con- 


176      OBERMANN 

stant,  more  bitter.  Had  Madame 

Del been  free,  I  should  have  found 

pleasure  in  at  last  being  unhappy  in 
my  own  way  ;  but  she  was  not,  and  I 
left,  before  it  had  become  impossible 
for  me  to  endure  elsewhere  the  burden 
of  time.  All  things  discouraged  me 
then,  but  now  I  look  at  all  things  with 
indifference.  It  even  chances  that  at 
times  I  am  amused ;  and  thus  it  has 
become  possible  for  me  to  speak  to  you 
of  all  this.  I  am  no  longer  capable  of 
loving ;  I  am  benumbed.  .  .  .  How 
the  affections  change,  how  the  heart 
decays,  how  life  passes  away,  before  it 
is  ended  !  #  f 

I  was  telling  you  that  it  was  my  joy 
to  be  in  full  accord  with  her  in  her 
aversion  to  all  the  things  that  make  up 
the  pleasures  of  life ;  and  I  took  de- 
light still  more  in  the  quiet  evenings. 
This  could  riot  last. 

It  has  at  times,  though  rarely,  been 
given  me  to  forget  that  I  am  like  a 


-v  :*;•/•:    •;  <•/  ,*  ...  ; 

!.*;•',     f         •„      ^*  •%.•*•  J% , 
;>.  V  *  •*»*/:'  •  V  • 

>.>  *  * 

,-lf*  *>'r%.^       •?  *JJ  .-•  *«         »    ^     •  •          • 

Nb.  .  -7*  »**L    .  ••   •*  .*«'*   «.  .  •  • 


OBERMANN       177 

wandering    shadow    upon    the    earth, 

which   sees   life  but.  cannot  grasp   it. 

This  is  the  law  of  my  existence.    When       "^ 

I  have  wished  to  escape  from  it,  I  have 

been  punished.    If  an  illusion  comes  to 

me,   my   misfortunes    increase.    I   felt 

that  happiness  was  near  me,  and  I  was  *  ' 

terrified.    The  ashes  that  I  believed  to 

^ 

be  dead,  would  they,  perhaps,  be  called 

to  life  again  ?    It  was  time  to  flee.  • 

Now  I  am  in  a  sequestered  valley.  I 
strive  to  forget  life.  ...  I  build,  I 
cultivate,  I  amuse  myself  with  all  these 
things.  ...  I  devour  my  impassive  «  « 

days,  and  am  eager  to  see  them  lost  in 
the  past.  * 

Fonsalbe  is  her  brother.  We  speak 
of  her  ;  I  cannot  prevent  it,  for  he 
truly  loves  her.  He  will  be  my  friend. 
I  desire  it  because  he  is  solitary,  and 
also  for  my  own  sake  ;  without  him 
what  would  become  of  me  ?  But  he 
will  never  know  how  the  image  of  his 
sister  is  ever  present  in  these  solitudes. 


••••••••••. 


.• 


* 

•  t*       •  • 

'.•V       •;  •• 

•  •*  »  •• 


1 78 

These  sombre  gorges,  these  romantic 
waters !  they  were  voiceless,  they  will 
be  forever  mute!  Her  image  does  not 
bring  the  peace  given  by  forgetfulness 
of  the  world,  but  rather  the  peace  born 
of  the  abandonment  of  the  desert.  One 
evening  we  were  under  the  pines ;  their 
topmost  branches,  restless  in  the  wind, 
were  filled  with  the  sounds  of  the 
mountain.  We  talked  together,  he 
wept  for  her.  A  brother  has  tears. 

I  take  no  oaths,  I  make  no  vows. 
»  I  despise  these  vain  protestations,  this 
eternity  with  which  man  thinks  to 
lengthen  out  the  passions  of  a  day.  I 
promise  nothing ;  I  know  nothing.  All 
things  pass,  all  men  change  ;  but  unless 
I  am  greatly  deceived,  I  shall  never 
love.  When  a  devout  man  has  dreamed 
of  his  future  blessedness,  he  no  longer 
seeks  happiness  in  earthly  life ;  and  if 
ever  his  beatic  illusion  fades  away,  he 
finds  no  charm  in  things  that  are  too 
far  beneath  his  early  dreams. 

And  she  will  drag  along  the  fetters 


,*V 


OBERMANN       179 

of  her  days  with  that  disillusioned 
strength,  with  that  sorrowful  calm, 
which  become  her  so  well.  Some  of 
us  would  perhaps  lose  our  rightful 
place  in  the  world  if  happiness  were 
not  withheld  from  us.  A  life  passed  in 
indifference  and  in  despondency  amid 

all  the  fascinations  of  the  world,  and 

1   « 

in  the  bloom  and  vigor  of  health  ;  a 
discontent  free  from  capriciousness,  a 
melancholy  untouched  by  bitterness,  a  »  * 
smile  born  of  secret  grief,  a  simplicity 
of  heart  which  renounces  all  things, 
while  all  things  might  be  rightly 
claimed,  regrets  that  are  never  voiced, 
a  passive  resignation,  a  discouragement 
felt  but  scorned  ;  so  many  riches  neg- 
lected, so  many  losses  forgotten,  so 
many  faculties  with  no  desire  to  use 
them  —  all  this  is  in  exquisite  har- 
mony, and  belongs  to  her  and  to  her 
alone.  Had  she  been  contented,  happy, 
possessing  all  that  seemed  to  be  her  due, 
she  might  have  been  less  herself.  Ad- 
versity is  good  for  those  who  bear  it  as 


** 


%    *,* .     >** 


^  V  • 

180      OBERMANN 

she   does ;  and   if  happiness  were  to 
come  to  her  now,  of  what  avail  would 
*  it  be  ?    It  is  too  late. 

What  is  left  to  her  ?   What  will  be 

left  to  us  in  that  relinquishment  of  life, 

•   •  the  only  destiny  which  is  common  to 

us  all  ?   When  all  has  fled,  to  the  very 

dreams  of  our  desires ;  when  even  the 

vision  of  loveliness  pales  in  our  unset- 

^  tied  thoughts  ;  when  harmony,  clothed 

in  her  ideal  grace,  descends  from  the 

celestial  spheres,  approaches  the  earth, 

and  finds  herself  enveloped  in  darkness 

and  mist;  when  nothing:  remains  of 

«•  '  &. 

••  •  *  our  needs,  of  our  affections,  of  our 

hopes;  when  we  ourselves  pass  away 
with  the  unalterable  flight  of  things, 
and  in  the  inevitable  mutability  of  the 
world !  niy  friends,  my  only  friends, 
^ . V**  4  she  whom  I  have  lost,  you  who  live 

J  %  far  from  me,  you  who  alone  still  fill 

r  •    •  •  •  '     »  '       . 

me   with    the    consciousness    of  life ! 
J*.^*%»  what  will  be  left  to  us,  and  what  are 

*.*~*"V*  %«* '*  •***«**  •       V     *•      •  ***  *•      ^ 
J^vA*      :*£*  ^       '*jt*    *        **i    «*• 

^i^-^'*;*\>     •  .*    •'•**1    ^ 

>  v^    ^  -V-.»    '      '»   •  '•        •••  .% 

.N;4    ;%J,    ^^V-/.*%A       * 

Kft^jfi  r^:^Vj?;  *'•  •'   *•  •• %  '*.*  > 

I  «     A  ^  *        ^          ^  ^v          *    *       •      %  "^fc.  J?  ^      "^      *  4  '        *    ^*  ^  ^^* 

II  »^  *i  •         *  .     •  .«          *_  %  *^P»«  •     ^  A  fc.«  ^         ™  *      »  ^  * 


SUPPLEMENT 


LETTER  XG 

Imenstrom,  June  28thy  loth  year.™ 

THE  sister  of  Fonsajoe  is  here. 
She  came  unexpectedly,  and  in- 
tended to  stay  only  a  few  days  with  hen 
brother. 

You  would  find  4ier4  now  as  charm* 
ing,  as  rare  as  she  ever  was,  and  per- 
haps even  more  rare  and  charming  than 
before.  This  unlooked-for  arrival,  the 
changes  in  life  and  things,  memories 
never  to  be  effaced,  the  place^the  time, 
all  these  seemed  to  be  in  perfect  accord. 
And  I  must  acknowledge  that  while 
there  may  exist  a  more  faultless  beauty 
in  the  eyes  of  an  artist,  no  one  else 
unites  more  completely  all  that  to  me 
forms  the  charm  of  woman.  .  •«  •*•*** 


» 

* 


«. 


*f        *^*  ^  ^ 

•••  **•••««"' 


"      *'.!    •..••'     •>'•"'' VV-'-VH.'!''' 

••:•';  •••'?.A^?^A| 

<  ••  -••  \- :  •'•'••&$&•  K-:^& 
••  •    •  ••••  ••'•?'"^'»-j-i-;---:;*'*' 

*  »  •  •-*'-•»••    '•« *•     .     *!>•.».:     /T    j. 


182      OBERMANN 

We  were  not  able  to  receive  her  here 
as  you  would  have  done  at  Bordeaux  ; 
at  the  foot  of  our  mountains,  all  we 
could  do  was  to  adapt  ourselves  to  cir- 
cumstances. Late  that  evening,  and  at 
early  dawn  on  the  following  morning, 
two  of  our  meadows  were  to  be  mowed, 
so  as  to  escape  the  heat  of  the  day,  and 
I  had  already  planned  a  little  fete  for 
my  workmen,  on  this  occasion.  Some 
musicians  from  Vevay  had  been  en- 
gaged ;  and  a  rustic  breakfast,  or  supper 
if  you  prefer  to  call  it  so,  beginning 
at  midnight  and  suited  to  the  tastes  of 
the  hay-makers,  was  to  fill  the  interval 
between  the  evening  and  the  morning 
work. 

It  chanced  that  toward  the  close  of 
day  I  passed  before  a  low  flight  of  steps. 
She  was  standing  above  ;  she  spoke  my 
name.  It  was  her  voice,  but  with  an 
unexpected,  unfamiliar,  inimitable  ac- 
cent. I  looked  at  her  without  answer- 
ing, without  knowing  that  I  did  not 


OBERMANN      183 

answer.  A  mystic  half-light,  an  ethe- 
real veil,  a  mist  enwrapped  her,  and  in 
this  shadowy  haze  her  form  grew  vague 
and  undefined.  She  seemed  a  fragrance 
of  ideal  beauty,  a  rapturous  illusion, 
stamped  for  a  moment  with  inconceiv- 
able reality.  So  this  was  the  end  of  my 
delusion,  now  at  last  made  clear.  It 
is  then  true,  I  said  to  myself,  that  this 
attachment  was  of  the  nature  of  love. 
Its  fetters  had  been  upon  me.  Out  of 
this  weakness  had  arisen  other  doubts. 
Those  years  are  irrevocable ;  but  to- 
day is  free,  to-day  is  still  mine. 

I  wandered  towards  the  upper  end 
of  the  valley,  walking  noiselessly  in  my 
intent  abstraction.  I  had  been  given  a 
sharp  warning,  but  the  spell  followed 
me,  and  the  power  of  the  past  seemed 
invincible.  My  soul  was  overflowing 
with  thoughts  of  love,  of  companion- 
ship, in  the  tranquil  shadows  of  those 
solitary  places.  There  was  one  moment 
when  I  could  have  exclaimed,  like  those 


184      O  BE  KM  AN  N 

whose  weakness  I  have  more  than 
once  condemned :  "  To  possess  her  and 
die!" 

But  when,  amid  the  silence,  we 
remember  that  to-morrow  all  things 
may  cease  upon  the  earth,  we  see  with 
clearer  vision  what  we  have  done  and 
what  we  ought  to  do  with  the  gifts  of 
life.  What  I  have  done  !  Still  young, 
I  now  stay  myself  at  the  fatal  mo- 
ment. She  and  solitude  would  be  the 
triumph  of  the  heart.  No  ;  forgetful- 
ness  of  the  world  without  her,  this  is 
my  law.  Austere  work,  and  the  future  ! 

I  had  reached  the  bend  in  the  valley, 
and  stood  midway  between  the  leaping 
torrent  whose  waters  swept  from  the 
rocks  above,  and  the  songs  of  the  coun- 
try ftte  which  came  to  me  from  afar. 
Those  distant  sounds  of  merry-making, 
wafted  on  the  moving  airs,  were  caught 
up  and  scattered,  ever  and  anon,  by 
swift  eddies  of  the  wind,  and  I  knew 
the  appointed  hour  when  they  would 


OBERMANN      185 

cease  and  be  heard  no  more.  But  the 
torrent  endured  in  its  full  strength, 
flowing,  and  forever  flowing,  even  as 
the  centuries  pass  away.  The  current 
of  the  waters  is  like  the  flight  of  our 
years.  Many  times  has  this  been  said, 
but  in  a  thousand  years  it  will  be  said 
again.  The  course  of  the  waters  will 
always  be  for  us  the  most  striking  im- 
age of  the  inexorable  flow  of  time. 
Voice  of  the  torrent  amid  the  darkness, 
thy  voice  alone  is  solemn  under  the 
peace  of  the  heavens,  and  to  thy  voice 
alone  ought  we  to  listen  ! 

Nothing  is  serious  if  it  be  not  last- 
ing. Looked  at  from  a  higher  plane, 
what  are  the  things  from  which  our  last 
breath  will  separate  us  ?  Shall  I  hesi- 
tate between  a  meeting  which  was  born 
of  chance,  and  the  true  ends  of  my 
destiny ;  between  a  seductive  phantasy, 
and  the  just,  the  generous  use  of  the 
powers  of  the  mind  ?  I  should  be  yield- 
ing to  the  thought  of  an  imperfect  tie, 


186      OBERMANN 

of  an  aimless  love,  of  a  blind  passion  ! 
Do  I  not  know  the  promise  which  she 
made  to  her  family  when  she  became 
a  widow  ?  Thus  the  complete  union 
is  forbidden ;  the  question  is  a  simple 
one,  and  ought  no  longer  to  interest 
me.  Can  the  deceptive  allurement  of 
a  fruitless  love  be  worthy  of  man  ?  By 
devoting  the  faculties  of  our  being  to 
pleasure  alone,  we  abandon  ourselves 
to  eternal  death.  However  weak  these 
faculties  may  be,  I  am  responsible  for 
them  ;  they  must  bear  their  fruit.  I 
shall  cherish  and  honor  these  gifts  of 
life.  .  .  .  Profundity  of  space,  shall  it  be 
in  vain  that  we  have  been  given  eyes 
to  behold  thee  ?  The  majesty  of  night 
repeats  from  age  to  age :  "  Woe  to  every 
soul  who  takes  delight  in  servitude ! " 

Are  we  made  to  enjoy  in  this  life 
the  allurements  of  our  passions  ?  After 
the  gratification  of  our  desires  what 
boast  could  we  make  of  the  pleasures 
of  a  day  ?  If  that  is  life,  then  life  is 


OBERMANN       187 

nought.  One  year,  ten  years  of  indul- 
gence is  a  profitless  amusement,  and  a 
too  swift-coming  bitterness.  What  will 
remain  of  these  desires,  when  genera- 
tions of  suffering  or  of  madly  heedless 
humanity  shall  have  passed  over  our 
ashes  ?  Let  us  value  lightly  that  which 
perishes  quickly.  In  the  midst  of  the 
great  drama  of  the  world,  let  us  strive 
to  play  a  different  part.  It  is  the  fruit 
of  our  strong  resolves  that  will  perhaps 
live  through  the  future.  —  Man  perish- 
eth.  —  That  may  be,  but  let  us  strug- 
gle even  though  we  perish  ;  and  if  the 
nothing  is  to  be  our  portion,  let  it  not 
come  to  us  as  a  just  reward. 

#  #  # 

Let  us  not  descend  below  the  level 
of  our  souls. 

#  #  # 

June  3Oth. 

Nothing  occupies  me,  nothing  inter- 
ests me;  I  still  feel  as  though  I  were 
suspended  in  the  void.  I  need  one  more 


i88      OBERMANN 

day,  I  think  ;  but  only  one.  Then  all 
this  will  end,  since  I  have  resolved  that 
it  shall ;  but  now  all  things  seem  to  me 
clothed  in  melancholy.  I  am  not  un- 
decided, but  moved  to  the  point  of 
stupor,  as  it  were,  and  of  exhaustion.  I 
continue  my  letter  so  as  to  lean  on  you 
for  support. 

*  *  • 

I  was  alone  for  some  time  longer, 
and  already  felt  less  alien  to  the  tran- 
quil harmony  of  nature.  But  while  the 
supper  was  still  in  progress,  and  before 
the  songs  had  ceased,  I  returned. 

Henceforth  do  not  expect  from  me 
either  unpardonable  sloth  or  the  old 
irresoluteness.  Health  and  ease  are  gifts 
that  cannot  always  be  combined.  I 
possess  them  now,  and  shall  make  use 
of  them.  May  this  resolve  be  hence- 
forth my  rule  of  life.  If  I  speak  to 
men  of  their  willful  weaknesses,  is  it 
not  meet  that  I  should  deny  such  weak- 
nesses to  myself? 


OBERMANN       189 

I  firmly  believe  that  my  only  sphere 
is  that  of  an  author.  —  On  what  sub- 
jects shall  I  write  ?  —  You  already 
know  approximately  what  they  will 
be.  —  But  based  on  what  model  ?  — 
Surely,  I  shall  imitate  no  one,  unless  it 
were  by  caprice,  and  in  a  short  passage. 
It  seems  to  me  entirely  incongruous  to 
assume  the  manner  of  another  writer 
if  one  can  have  a  manner  of  one's  own. 
As  for  the  author  who  has  no  individ- 
ual manner,  who  is  never  carried  away, 
never  inspired,  of  what  use  is  it  for  him 
to  write  ?  —  But  what  will  your  style 
be  ?  —  Neither  rigorously  classic  nor 
heedlessly  free.  In  order  to  make  our- 
selves worthy  of  being  read  we  must 
recognize  the  true  fitness  of  things.  — 
But  who  will  be  judge  of  this? —  My- 
self, apparently.  Have  I  not  read  au- 
thors who  were  cautious  in  their  work, 
as  well  as  those  who  wrote  with  greater 
independence  ?  It  is  for  me  to  choose, 
according  to  my  abilities,  a  form  of  ex- 


i9o      OBERMANN 

pression  that  will  suit,  on  the  one  hand, 
my  subject  or  my  century,  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  my  character,  without 
willfully  neglecting  any  acknowledged 
rules,  but  without  expressly  studying 
them.  —  What  will  be  your  guaranty 
of  success  ?  —  The  only  natural  one. 
If  it  is  not  sufficient  to  say  things  that 
are  true,  and  to  strive  to  express  them 
in  persuasive  language,  I  shall  not  have 
success  ;  that  is  the  whole  question.  I 
do  not  consider  it  imperative  to  win 
approbation  during  one's  lifetime,  un- 
less one  is  doomed  to  the  misfortune 
of  earning  one's  living  by  the  pen. 

Pass  on  before,  you  who  clamor  for 
the  glory  of  the  drawing-room.  Pass 
on,  men  of  the  world,  men  of  eminence 
where  all  things  are  dependent  upon 
personal  influence,  you  who  are  fertile 
in  ideas  of  the  day,  in  books  of  the 
party,  in  expedients  to  produce  an 
effect,  and  who,  even  after  having 
adopted  everything,  renounced  every- 


OBERMANN      191 

thing,  returned  to  everything,  used 
everything,  are  still  able  to  dash  off  a 
few  irresolute  pamphlets,  in  order  that 
it  may  be  said :  "  Here  he  comes  with 
his  expressive  words,  cleverly  put  to- 
gether, but  beaten  out  rather  thin ! " 
Pass  on  before,  men  seductive  and 
seduced ;  for  in  any  case  you  will  pass 
quickly,  and  it  is  well  that  you  should 
have  your  day.  So  display  yourselves 
now,  in  all  your  cleverness  and  pro- 
sperity. 

Is  not  an  author  almost  sure  of  mak- 
ing his  work  useful,  without  degrading 
it  by  intrigues  which  have  no  other  pur- 
pose than  to  hasten  his  own  celebrity  ? 
It  matters  not,  therefore,  whether  he 
bury  himself  as  a  recluse  or  whether  he 
live  quietly  in  the  city,  for  his  name  is, 
after  all,  not  unknown,  and  his  book 
sells.  ...  It  is  probable  that  his  work 
will,  sooner  or  later,  take  its  right  place 
in  literature  with  as  much  certainty  as 
though  he  had  begged  for  approbation. 


i92      OBERMANN 

Thus  my  task  is  clearly  marked  out. 
It  only  remains  for  me  to  carry  it  into 
execution,  if  not  happily  and  brilliantly, 
at  least  with  a  certain  degree  of  zeal 
and  dignity.21  I  renounce  many  things, 
limiting  myself  almost  entirely  to  the 
avoidance  of  sorrow.  Am  I  to  be 
pitied  in  my  retreat  when  I  possess 
activity,  hope,  and  friendship  ?  To  be 
occupied,  without  being  hard-worked, 
contributes  essentially  to  the  peace  of 
the  soul,  which  is  the  least  deceptive 
of  any  good.  We  no  longer  have  need 
of  pleasures  when  the  simplest  gifts 
bring  us  enjoyment.  Who  does  not 
see  that  hope  is  better  than  memories  ? 
In  our  life,  which  moves  onward  in  a 
ceaseless  current,  the  future  alone  is 
important.  The  past  vanishes,  and  even 
the  present  escapes  our  grasp,  unless  we 
use  it  as  a  means  to  an  end.  Pleasant 
memories  of  days  that  are  gone,  are  not, 
in  my  eyes,  a  boon  to  be  desired,  ex- 
cepting by  those  whose  imaginations 


OBERMANN      193 

are  weak,  and  although  once  vivid,  have 
become  impotent.  Such  men,  having 
pictured  things  in  other  than  the  garb 
of  reality,  become  enthusiastic,  but  the 
test  of  experience  disillusions  them ; 
and  having  forfeited  their  exaggerated 
conceits,  their  imagination  becomes 
powerless.  True  fiction,  so  to  speak, 
being  denied  them,  they  have  need  of 
cheering  memories,  for  otherwise  no 
thought  delights  them.  But  the  man 
of  strong  and  sound  imagination  can 
always  form  an  adequately  clear  picture 
of  life's  different  gifts,  at  least  when  his 
lot  in  the  world  grants  him  sufficient 
calmness  of  spirit ;  he  is  not  of  those 
who,  in  this  regard,  win  knowledge 
from  experience. 

For  the  daily  sweetness  of  life,  I  shall 
have  our  correspondence,  and  Fonsalbe ; 
these  two  ties  will  satisfy  me. 

&  #  # 

How  many  unhappy  men  have  said, 
from  century  to  century,  that  the  flow- 


i94      OBERMANN 

ers  have  been  given  us  to  adorn  our 
fetters,  to  delude  us  at  the  beginning 
of  life,  and  even  to  aid  in  keeping  us 
enthralled  until  the  end !  But  they  do 
still  more,  and  perhaps  as  vainly.  They 
seem  to  typify  a  mystery  which  the 
mind  of  man  will  never  fathom. 

If  flowers  were  only  beautiful  to  our 
eyes,  they  would  still  have  the  power 
to  charm  us ;  but,  ever  and  anon,  their 
fragrance  stirs  our  soul  as  though  we 
had  beheld  a  vision  of  a  happier  world, 
had  heard  an  unexpected  voice,  or  had 
found  again  the  way  to  the  hidden  life. 
Whether  I  seek  this  mystic  breath,  or 
whether  it  steals  upon  me  swiftly  and 
unforeseen,  I  accept  it  as  the  strong 
but  evanescent  expression  of  a  thought 
whose  secret  the  material  world  holds 
concealed. 

Colors  must  also  have  their  elo- 
quence ;  all  things  may  be  symbols. 
But  perfumes  are  more  penetrating  be- 
cause they  are  more  mysterious,  and 


OBERMANN       195 

while  in  our  daily  experience  we  re- 
quire tangible  truths,  the  great  activi- 
ties of  the  soul  are  based  on  a  different 
order  of  truth,  on  essential  truth,  which 
in  our  faltering  course  is  far  beyond  our 
grasp. 

Jonquil,  violet,  tuberose  !  you  bloom 
but  for  a  few  fleeting  moments,  so  that 
you  may  not  overwhelm  our  weakness, 
or  perhaps  so  as  to  leave  us  in  the  doubt 
wherein  our  souls,  now  exalted,  now 
discouraged,  are  tossed  about.  .  .  -.V.M; 

What  is  it  I  desire  ?  To  hope,  and 
then  to  hope  no  more,  is  to  be,  or  not 
to  be  :  such  is  man.  But  how  is  it  that 
after  the  accents  of  a  soul  -  stirring 
voice,  after  the  fragrance  of  the  flow-  , 
ers,  and  the  whispers  of  the  imagina- 
tion, and  the  soarings  of  thought,  we 
must  die  ?  .  .  . 

There  are  two  flowers,  silent  per- 
haps, and  almost  scentless,  but  which, 
by  their  enduring  character,  appeal  to 
me  in  a  way  I  cannot  express.  The 


196      OBERMANN 

memories  they  bring  up  carry  me  for- 
cibly into  the  past  as  though  these  links 
of  time  prophesied  of  happy  days. 
These  simple  flowers  are  the  corn- 
flower of  the  fields  and  the  early  Easter 
daisy  —  the  meadow  marguerite. 

The  corn  flower  is  the  flower  of 
rural  life.  It  ought  to  be  seen  amid 
the  freedom  of  natural  ways,  hidden 
among  the  grain,  surrounded  by  the 
echoes  of  the  farm,  the  crowing  of  the 
cocks,  in  the  footsteps  of  the  aged  hus- 
bandmen ;  and  I  cannot  answer  that 
such  a  sight  would  not  lead  to  tears. 

The  violet  and  the  meadow-daisy 
are  rivals.  They  have  the  same  bloom- 
ing time,  the  same  simplicity.  The  vio- 
let holds  us  captive  at  first  sight ;  the 
daisy  claims  our  love  from  year  to  year. 
They  are  to  each  other  what  a  painted 
portrait  is  to  a  marble  bust.  The  violet 
tells  of  the  purest  sentiment  of  love ; 
this  is  the  language  she  speaks  to  up- 
right hearts.  But  this  very  love,  so 


OBERMANN       197 

sweet,  so  persuasive,  is  only  a  beautiful 
accident  of  life.  It  vanishes,  while  the 
peace  that  is  in  the  fields  is  ours  until 
our  last  hour.  The  daisy  is  the  patri- 
archal symbol  of  this  gentle  rest. 

If  I  attain  to  old  age,  if  one  day 
still  full  of  thoughts,  but  speaking  no 
more  to  men,  I  have  a  friend  beside 
me  to  receive  my  last  farewell  upon 
the  earth,  let  my  chair  be  placed  upon 
the  grass  of  the  fields,  beneath  the  sun, 
under  the  vast  sky,  and  may  the  tran- 
quil daisies  bloom  around  me,  so  that 
as  I  leave  the  life  that  passes,  I  may 
behold  a  vision  of  the  infinite  illusion. 


NOTES 


NOTE  i,  Page  9 

TN  drawing  this  contrast  between  vivid  imagi- 
•*•  nations  and  true  sensibility,  Senancour  makes 
use  of  the  words  romanesque  and  romantique,  which 
seem  to  have  had  at  that  time  a  more  distinctive 
meaning  than  they  have  to-day.  The  adjective 
romantique  as  applied  simply  to  scenery  and  effects 
of  nature  was,  in  fact,  created  by  Jean-Jacques 
Rousseau,  and  was  probably  used  in  that  restricted 
sense  by  his  successors  of  the  romantic  school. 
Although  the  common  use  of  the  words  is  more 
intermingled  at  the  present  day,  their  definitions 
seem  to  imply  a  certain  distinction.  They  read 
as  follows  :  "  Romanesque  :  qui  tient  du  roman, 
qui  est  merveilleux,  incroyable,  passionne.  .  .  . 
Romantique  :  qui  a  dans  sa  nature  .  .  .  quelque 
chose  de  poetique  qui  1'eleve  au-dessus  ou  le  met 
en  dehors  de  la  realite  prosaique." 

NOTE  2,  Page  15 

The  Ranz  des  Vacbes,  the  pastoral  air  or  cattle- 
call  which  has  been  termed  the  cattle-Marseillaise, 
is  played  and  sung  by  the  Swiss  herdsmen  while 


200  NOTES 

leading  the  cows  to  the  high-mountain  pastures. 
The  instrument  used  is,  according  to  some,  a 
bagpipe ;  according  to  others,  an  Alpine  horn ; 
while  still  another  authority  asserts  that  the  herds- 
men play  on  long  reeds  made  of  the  bark  of  the 
alder,  birch,  or  willow.  The  melody  usually  opens 
with  a  sad  and  plaintive  adagio,  followed  by  an 
allegro,  and  closes  with  an  adagio.  When  this 
familiar  rustic  air  was  played  in  the  Swiss  regi- 
ments of  France,  the  first  intense  feeling  of  de- 
light among  the  troops  was  followed  by  a  deep 
melancholy  and  homesickness  as  the  sounds  died 
away  ;  for  this  reason  the  playing  of  it  was  finally 
forbidden  in  the  French  army.  Not  only  does 
each  canton  have  its  own  ranz,  with  its  distinctive 
music  and  words,  but  even  the  many  patois  in 
every  canton  have  their  separate  ranz.  The  most 
celebrated  ranz  are  those  of  Appenzell  and  Siben- 
thal.  That  of  Appenzell  was  transcribed  by 
Meyerbeer  ;  and  Rossini,  in  the  first  act  of  William 
Tell,  has  introduced  the  characteristic  phrase  of  the 
ranz  of  Sibenthal  :  "Sibenthal  !  Sibenthal  !  oui, 
tes  Sommets,  tes  vallons." 

It  is  probable  that  the  ranz  heard  most  fre- 
quently by  Senancour  was  sung  in  the  romance 
patois  of  la  Gruyere  of  the  canton  of  Fribourg. 
The  opening  words  were  :  — 


NOTES  201 

"  Le  z'armailli  dei  Columbette 
De  bon  matin  se  san  leha. 
Ha  ha  !  Ha  ha  ! 
Liauba  !  Liauba  !  por  aria  !  " 

Fenimore  Cooper  has  translated  this  call : 
"  The  cowherds  of  Columbette  arise  at  an  early 
hour.  Ha  ha !  Ha  ha  !  Liauba  !  Liauba  !  in  order 
to  milk  !  Come  all  of  you,  Black  and  white,  Red 
and  mottled,  Young  and  old  ;  Beneath  this  oak  I 
am  about  to  milk  you,  Beneath  this  poplar  I  am 
about  to  press.  Liauba !  Liauba !  in  order  to 
milk !  " 

NOTE  3,  Page  16 

The  following  note  is  translated  from  the 
French  edition  :  — 

"  Kuher  in  German,  Armailli  in  Romance,  is 
the  herdsman  who  leads  the  cows  to  the  moun- 
tains, spends  the  entire  season  in  the  high  pas- 
tures, and  makes  cheese.  Usually  the  Armaillis 
stay  for  four  or  five  months  among  the  high 
Alps,  completely  separated  from  the  women,  and 
often  even  from  other  men." 

NOTE  4,  Page  19 

Tinian  is  one  of  the  Ladrone  islands  in  the 
Pacific,  formerly  celebrated  for  its  wonderful  fer- 
tility. 


202  NOTES 

NOTE  5,  Page  23 

Letter  XLI,  in  which  Senancour  argues  in 
favor  of  suicide,  and  the  following  letters  up  to 
LI,  mark  the  crisis  in  his  inward  struggle.  Later 
we  shall  see  a  gradual  decrease  of  his  discdntent 
and  irresolution,  and  a  stronger  control  over 
himself. 

NOTE  6,  Page  54 

St.  Pacomus,  who  together  with  St.  Anthony 
was  the  founder  of  monastic  life  in  the  Thebaid, 
was  born  in  292  A.  D.,  of  pagan  parents,  and  was 
a  soldier  under  Constantine  during  the  early  years 
of  his  life.  He  then  became  a  monk,  and  prac- 
ticed in  solitude  the  most  austere  and  rigid  disci- 
pline. "  During  fifteen  years  he  never  lay  down, 
and  slept  only  standing,  supported  against  a  wall, 
or  half-seated  upon  a  stone  bench,  after  days  of 
the  hardest  labor,  as  a  carpenter,  a  mason,  or  a 
cleanser  of  pits."  —  Montalembert,  The  Monks  of 
the  West. 

St.  Anthony  had  been  the  founder  of  cenobitic 
life,  or  life  in  common  as  distinguished  from  the 
isolated  life  of  the  anchorites ;  but  he  had  gov- 
erned the  cenobites  merely  by  oral  instruction  and 
example.  St.  Pacomus  was  the  first  to  give  them 
for  their  guidance  a  minute  and  complete  written 
rule.  He  also  established  the  first  monastery, 
or  group  of  eight  monasteries,  on  the  Nile,  at 


NOTES  203 

Tabenne,  where  he  united  five  thousand  monks 
under  his  rule.     He  died  of  the  plague  in  348. 

NOTE  7,  Page  57 

Chessel  was  the  country-seat  of  Senancour*s 
friend  to  whom  these  letters  were  addressed. 

NOTE  8,  Page  60 

The  Schwartz-see  or  lake  of  Omeinez  lies  on 
a  secluded  route  from  Thun  to  Gruyere. 

NOTE  9,  Page  68 

By  Roman  Senancour  doubtless  means  one  of 
the  numerous  Romance  dialects  now  spoken  in 
western  Europe,  in  Italy,  Spain,  France,  Switzer- 
land, and  the  Tyrol.  It  is  possible  that  he  re- 
ferred particularly  to  the  Romance  dialect  used  in 
the  Gruyere  district  known  as  the  "  Gruerien." 

NOTE  10,  Page  69 

Saint-Saphorin  is  situated  on  the  margin  of 
lake  Leman  between  Vevey  and  Cully. 

NOTE  n,  Page  88 

I  have  not  been  able  to  find  Imenstrom  on  any 
of  the  maps  of  Switzerland,  but  from  Senancour's 
description  it  would  seem  to  lie  in  the  canton 
of  Fribourg,  near  the  frontier  line  of  the  Vaud, 
and  not  far  from  the  Dent  de  Jaman.  Senancour 
speaks  of  the  valley  and  gorge  of  Imenstrom  as 


204  NOTES 

a  secluded  spot  hidden  among  the  lower  moun- 
tains, and  within  sight  of  the  eastern  end  of  lake 
Leman,  but  he  makes  no  mention  of  any  village 
by  that  name. 

NOTE  12,  Page  97 

Slisama,  or  Slissama,  was  the  daughter  of  Semo 
and  the  sister  of  the  famous  Cuthullin.  In  several 
places  in  Ossian's  poems  occur  the  words,  "  like 
a  dropping  rock  in  the  desert,"  and,  "  like  cold- 
dropping  rocks ;  "  and  in  The  Songs  of  Selma^ "  the 
son  of  the  rock"  is  mentioned,  meaning,  as  is 
explained  in  a  note,  the  echoing  back  of  the 
human  voice  from  a  rock.  This  entire  descrip- 
tion of  Ossian's  Caledonia  by  Senancour  seems 
to  be  founded  on  Macpherson's  poems  without 
being  an  exact  reproduction  or  containing  any 
literal  quotation.  But  what  is  clear  is  that  Senan- 
cour was  profoundly  impressed  by  the  poems  of 
Ossian,  and  seems  not  to  have  doubted  their 
authenticity. 

NOTE  13,  Page  115 

Hegesias  was  a  noted  philosopher  of  the  Cyre- 
naic  School  at  Alexandria,  under  the  Ptolemies 
(about  260  B.  c.).  He  taught  the  most  complete 
selfishness,  the  impossibility  of  happiness,  and  that 
the  chief  good  consists  in  being  free  from  all  trou- 
ble and  pain.  He  advocated  indifference  to  death, 
and  his  teaching  drove  many  persons  to  suicide ; 


NOTES  205 

he  was  therefore  forbidden  by  Ptolemy  to  teach, 
and  was  surnamed  HfuriOa.va.Tos  (literally,  "  death- 
persuading  "  ). 

NOTE  14,  Page  122 

Senancour  projected  an  extensive  work,  la 
Raison  des  Chases  humaines^  the  complete  plan  of 
which  he  never  carried  out.  The  Reveries  were 
to  have  formed  the  introduction,  and  his  other 
books  were  merely  parts,  so  to  speak,  of  the  whole 
work. 

NOTE  15,  Page  133 

This  quotation  which  ought  to  read,  "  Animalh 
out  em  homo  non  percipit  ea,  qua  sunt  spiritus  Dei" 
is  the  first  half  of  the  Vulgate  version  of  I.  Corin- 
thians^ 2 :  14.  The  rest  of  the  verse  reads,  Stul- 
titia  enim  est  ////',  et  non  potest  intelligere :  quia 
tpiritualiter  examinatur.  "  But  the  sensual  man 
perceiveth  not  these  things  that  are  of  the  Spirit  of 
God :  for  it  is  foolishness  to  him,  and  he  cannot 
understand :  because  it  is  spiritually  examined " 
(Douay  Version). 

NOTE  1 6,  Page  138 

Britannicus  by  Racine,  second  act,  first  scene. 
Nero  speaking  to  his  governor  Burrhus  :  — 

"  N'en  doutez  point,  Burrhus  :  malgre  ses  injustices ; 
C'est  ma  mere,  et  je  veux  ignorer  ses  caprices. 
Mais  je  ne  pretends  plus  ignorer  ni  souffrir 
Le  ministre  insolent  qui  les  ose  nourrir. 


206  NOTES 

Pallas  de  ses  conseils  cmpoisonne  ma  mere  ; 
II  seduit,  chaque  jour,  Britannicus  mon  frere  ; 
Us  1'ecoutent  lui  seul :  et  qui  suivrait  leurs  pas 
Les  trouverait  peut-etre  assembles  chez  Pallas. 
C'en  est  trop.     De  tous  deux  il  faut  que  je  1'ecarte. 
Pour  la  derniere  fois,  qu'il  s'eloigne,  qu'il  parte  : 
Je  le  veux,  je  1'ordonne  ;  et  que  la  fin  du  jour 
Ne  le  retrouve  plus  dans  Rome  ou  dans  ma  cour. 
Allez  :  cet  ordre  importe  au  salut  de  1* empire." 

NOTE  17,  Page  150 

The  work  referred  to  is  probably  that  of 
Saint-Martin,  French  mystic  and  theosophist,  and 
follower  of  Jakob  Boehme,  who  wrote  at  the  close 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  the  beginning  of 
the  nineteenth,  —  De  I 'Esprit  des  Chases,  Coup  eTaeil 
philosophique  sur  la  nature  des  etres  et  sur  Tobjet  de 
leur  existence  .  .  .  par  le  philosopbe  inconnu  (Louis- 
Claude  de  Saint-Martin),  Paris,  1800. 

NOTE  1 8,  Page  156 

The  story  of  Fonsalbe  is  based  upon  Senan- 
cour*s  own  unhappy  marriage,  which  like  that  of 
Fonsalbe  was  entered  into,  not  from  affection,  but 
from  a  feeling  of  obligation  and  a  strong  sense  of 
honor. 

NOTE  19,  Page  175 

Senancour's     first     meeting     with     Madame 

Del was  probably  on  that  day  in  March  to 

which  he  refers  at  the  close  of  Letter  XI. 


NOTES  207 

NOTE  20,  Page  181 

The  letters  in  the  Supplement,  from  XC  to 
the  end,  were  not  included  in  the  first  edition  of 
Obermann.  They  were  collected  later,  in  about 
1833  or  after,  and  were  added  to  the  edition  of 
1865,  for  which  George  Sand  wrote  the  preface. 
The  second  edition  of  1833  na<^  been  brought  out 
with  a  preface  by  Sainte-Beuve. 

NOTE  21,  Page  192 

Not  long  after  this,  and  many  years  before 
writing  the  Meditations,  Senancour  returned  to 
Paris  and  threw  himself  into  an  active  but  obscure 
literary  life.  While  he  remained  unknown  to  the 
general  public  and  lived  in  almost  complete  seclu- 
sion, he  gathered  around  him  a  small  group  of 
friends  among  whom  were  men  well  known  in 
literature.  Since  his  death,  one  of  his  most 
enthusiastic  admirers,  M.  Arthur  Boisseau,  of  the 
Paris  Opera  and  the  Societe  des  Concerts^  has  writ- 
ten a  symphony  on  Obermann. 


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and  published  by  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Company,  of  Boston 
and  New  York. 


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