I often wander about the fields in the pouring rain, and feeling like a prisoner. What keeps me here? what lures me hence?

I lead the life of a prisoner, confined by walls and iron gratings formed by my own will.

I endure all the pain of exile!

I live in a state of torpor. Why must I wait for death?

It often seems to me as if I were lying at the edge of a precipice, and yet cannot awake and rise.

Whither should I go?

The thought sometimes flashes across the desert waste that fills my soul, and drags me along, like a powerless rider mounted on some enchanted steed: "You know nothing of the world you have left behind you: those who are about you conceal what knowledge they may possess, and you dare not ask."

How would it be if the queen were dead, and he who once loved you and whom you loved in return--ah, so deeply!--were doubly alone and forsaken, and grieving because of thee? Let him have but the faintest token that you are still alive, and he will come for you, and, mounted on a white palfrey, you shall again enter the palace as queen. All will be expiated, all will be forgiven. You will be a friend to the people.

You know them, for you have lived and suffered with them--This thought often seizes me and envelops me, as it were, in an enchanted net. I cannot rid myself of it, and I seem to hear voices and trumpet tones, calling me hence. I have not yet quieted the wild brood that dwells in my soul.

Mysterious demons slumber within our souls. At the faintest call, they raise their heads and crawl from their hiding-place. They have cunning eyes and can readily change their shapes. They can appear as virtues, and, borrowing priestly robes, can speak the language of sympathy: "Have pity on yourself and others." They make a show of their power and love of action, and say: "You can bestow happiness on one and on many.

You can do great and good service to one and to the mult.i.tude."

I annihilated them. I held the light up to their eyes, and they vanished.

Thou livest, queen! Friend whom I have so deeply injured, thou livest!

I do not ask, nor do I wish to know, whether thou art dead.

Thou livest, and my only wish is that thou mightst know of the life of repentance that I am now leading, and how little compa.s.sion I have for myself.

The Greek drama, "Prometheus Bound," occurs to me. Prometheus was the first anchorite. He was fettered from without; we fetter ourselves by vows or the rules of an order.

I am neither a Prometheus, nor a nun.

There is but one thing, which the outer world might afford me, that I still long for, and that is the music of a large orchestra.

Fortunately, I often hear it in my dreams. How strange! While sleeping, my soul plays on all instruments, and performs great orchestral works which I never entirely succeeded in committing to memory.

We lead a dual life after all.

Freedom and labor are the n.o.blest prerogatives of man. Solitude and industry const.i.tute my all in all.

Walpurga has never referred to the warning she once gave me. With a rude hand, she s.n.a.t.c.hed me from the edge of the precipice and, in return, I scolded and deceived her, while deceiving myself. She represses everything that might remind me of that scene.

To-day, Jochem confided to me the one grief that clouds his life: "They lead old oxen and cows to the slaughter-house," said he; "old horses and old dogs they shoot, and old men they feed to death--that's all the difference."

The dwelling-house on our farm has been neglected and is sadly in need of repair; but Hansei is not inclined to begin building at once.

"We must make shift with the old house," he says, "the work must be done first." And, besides this, he has a certain dread of what people may say. The house had been good enough for those who had been there before him--why shouldn't it be good enough for him?

Even the farmer, on his lonely estate, is not perfectly independent. He who cares for the opinion of others, must allow it to affect his actions.

These are the chains that make slaves of us all.

(March 1st.)--Joy and happiness have entered the house. New light has awakened in me, too, as if my life were something more than mere darkness. Walpurga has a boy. Hansei's happiness is complete, and he never mentions the boy except as "the young freeholder."

The christening is over. I felt sorry that I was unable to accompany them to church, but I could not.

I have laid the peasant's garb aside. It was in place while I was a fugitive, but now I have no further need of it. I wear dresses of simple calico, like those worn by many of the country people who employ themselves with housework. All that I have retained is my green hat, which I find quite useful, as it helps to hide my face.

I have laid aside many outer garments; how many inner ones must I still put off?

Fear and anxiety are gradually leaving me.

I have been at the village, and for the first time. The houses stand apart, on the mountain meadows. Viewed from above, they almost look like a scattered flock of sheep.

The rushing of the waters and the rustling of the forests sound so strangely at night, and yet the rushing and rustling are unceasing. How vain, how small is the child of man!

Oh, how delightful it is to be awakened by the song of the finch, and to find all nature refreshed by the invigorating morning air!

(April 19th.)--A heavy fog all day. The mist forms a veil which hides nature's death and awakening from view.