names of all the books you have been reading. "A great many books, none
but good ones," is provokingly vague. On looking back at what _I_ have
read since I left home, it shows exceeding small, owing in great part I
suppose to its being in German. I have just got settled down
again--after a nearly-two-months' debauch on French fiction, during
which time Mrs. Sand, the fresh, the bright, the free; the somewhat
shrill but doughty Balzac, who has risen considerably in my esteem or
rather in my affection; Théophile Gautier the good, the golden-mouthed,
in turn captivated my attention; not to speak of the peerless
Erckmann-Chatrian, who renews one's belief in the succulent harmonies of
creation--and a host of others. I lately read Diderot, "OEuvres
Choisies," 2 vols., which are entertaining to the utmost from their
animal spirits and the comic modes of thinking, speaking and behaving of
the time. Think of meeting continually such delicious sentences as
this,--he is speaking of the educability of beasts,--"Et peut-on savoir
jusqu'où l'usage des mains porterait les singes s'ils avaient le loisir
comme la faculté d'inventer, et si la frayeur continuelle que leur
inspirent les hommes ne les retenait dans l'abrutissement"!!! But I must
pull up, as I have to write to Father still....
Adieu, lots of love from your aff.
WILHELM.
* * * * *
The preceding letter shows James as but recently arrived in Berlin and
as arranging himself there for a winter of physiology at the University.
He was soon joined by his young compatriot Thomas Sergeant Perry, an
intimate friend of earlier Newport days and of the subsequent Boston and
Cambridge years, and the two young Americans set up joint lodgings at
Number 12 in the Mittelstrasse. Although James's main purpose was to
work at the University, he was luckily not without social resources.
George Bancroft, the historian and former Secretary of the Navy and
Minister to England, was at this time representing the United States in
Berlin and was an old family acquaintance. His and another hospitable
family, the Louis Thieses, who had been Cambridge neighbors and whose
house in Quincy Street the James parents had acquired upon Mr. Thies's
return to his native land, were a link with home, and at the same time
rendered hospitable services to James by helping him to a few German
acquaintances. By far the most congenial and interesting of these was
Herman Grimm, the son of the younger of the universally beloved brothers
of the Fairy Tales. Herman Grimm had married Gisela von Arnim, the
daughter of Goethe's Bettina, and was at this time a man of just past
forty years. Professor of the History of Art in the University of
Berlin, essayist, author of "The Life of Michael Angelo" and of Lectures
on Goethe as well as of several works of fiction, Grimm was a versatile
and charming specimen of that "learned" Germany which we now think of as
flourishing most amiably during the generation that preceded the
Franco-Prussian War. The easy and cordial way in which his household
accepted James appears, as in the next letter, to have been richly
appreciated.
_To his Sister._
BERLIN, _Oct. 17, 1867_.
Your excellent long letter of September 5 reached me in due time. If
about that time you felt yourself strongly hugged by some invisible
spiritual agency, you may now know that it was _me_. What would not I
give if you could pay me a visit here! Since I last wrote home the
lingual Rubicon has been passed, and I find to my surprise that I can
speak German--certainly not in an ornamental manner, but there is hardly
anything which I would not dare to attempt to _begin_ to say and be
pretty sure that a kind providence would pull me through, somehow or
other. I made the discovery at my first visit to Grimm a fortnight ago,
and have confirmed it several times since. I can likewise understand
educated people perfectly. I feel my German as old Moses used to feel
his oats, and for ten days past have walked along the street dandling my
head in a fatuous manner that rivets the attention of the public. The
University lectures were to have begun this week, but the lazy
professors have put it off to the last of the month.
[Illustration: Pencil Sketches from a Pocket Note-Book.]
I will describe to you the manner in which I spent yesterday. _Ex uno
disce omnes_--(a German proverb). I awoke at half-past eight at the
manly voice of T. S. Perry caroling his morning hymn from his
neighboring bed--if the instrument of torture the Germans sleep in be
worthy of that name. After some preliminary conversation we arose,
performed our washing, each in a couple of tumblers full of water in a
little basin of this shape [sketch], donned our clothes, and stepped
into our SALON into which the morning sun was streaming and adding its
genial warmth to that of the great porcelain stove, into which the maid
had put the handful of fuel (which, when ignited, makes the stove
radiate heat for twelve hours) the while we slumbered. T. S. P. found on
the table a letter from [Moorfield] Storey, which the same vigilant maid
had placed there, and I the morning paper, full of excitement about the
Italian affairs and the diabolical designs of Napoleon on Germany. After
a breakfast of cocoa, eggs and excellent rolls, I finished the paper,
and took up my regular reading, while T. S. P. worked at his German
lesson. I finished the chapter in a treatise on Galvanism which bears
the neat and concise title of [_not deciphered_].
By 10 o'clock T. S. P. had gone to his German lesson, and it was about
time for me to rig up to go to Grimm's to dine, having received a kind
invitation the day before. As I passed through the pleasant wood called
the "Thiergarten," which was filled with gay civil and military
cavaliers, I looked hard for the imposing equestrian figure of the Hon.
Geo. Bancroft; but he was not to be seen. I got safely to Grimm's, and
in a moment the other guest arrived. Herr Professor----, whose name I
could not catch,[38] a man of a type I have never met before. He is
writing now a life of Schleiermacher of which one volume is published. A
soft fat man with black hair (somewhat the type of the photographs of
Renan), of a totally uncertain age between 25 and 40, with little bits
of green eyes swimming in their fat-filled orbits, and the rest of his
face quite "realizing one's idea" of the infant Bacchus. I, with my
usual want of enterprise, have neglected hitherto to provide myself with
a swallow-tailed coat; but I had a resplendent fresh-biled shirt and
collar, while the Professor, who wore the "obligatory coat," etc., had
an exceedingly grimy shirt and collar and a rusty old rag of a cravat.
Which of us most violated the proprieties I know not, but your feminine
nature will decide. Grimm wore a yellowish, greenish, brownish coat
whose big collar and cuffs and enormous flaps made me strongly suspect
it had been the property of the brothers Grimm, who had worn it on state
occasions, and dying, bequeathed it to Herman. The dinner was very good.
The Prof. was overflowing with information with regard to everything
knowable and unknowable. He is the first man I have ever met of a class,
which must be common here, of men to whom learning has become as natural
as breathing. A learned man at home is in a measure isolated; his study
is carried on in private, at reserved hours. To the public he appears as
a citizen and neighbor, etc., and they know at most _about_ him that he
is addicted to this or that study; his intellectual occupation always
has something of a put-on character, and remains external at least to
some part of his being. Whereas this cuss seemed to me to be nothing if
not a professor ... [_line not deciphered_] as if he were able to stand
towards the rest of society _merely_ in the relation of a man learned in
this or that branch--and never for a moment forget the interests or put
off the instincts of his specialty. If he should meet people or
circumstances that could in no measure be dealt with on that ground, he
would pass on and ignore them, instead of being obliged, like an
American, to sink for the time the specialty. He talked and laughed
incessantly at table, related the whole history of Buddhism to Mrs.
Grimm, and I know not what other points of religious history. After
dinner Mrs. Grimm went, at the suggestion of her husband, to take a nap
... [_line not deciphered_] while G. and the Professor engaged in a hot
controversy about the natural primitive forms of religion, Grimm
inclining to the view that the historically first form must have been
monotheistic. I noticed the Professor's replies grow rather languid,
when suddenly his fat head dropped forward, and G. cried out that he had
better take a good square nap in the arm-chair. He eagerly snatched at
the proposal. Grimm got him a clean handkerchief, which he threw over
his face, and presently he seemed to slumber. Grimm woke him in ten
minutes to take some coffee. He rose, refreshed like a giant, and
proceeded to fight with Grimm about the identity of Homer. Grimm has
just been studying the question and thinks that the poems of Homer
_must_ have been composed in a _written_ language. From there through a
discussion about the madness of Hamlet--G. being convinced that
Shakespeare _meant_ to mystify the reader, and intentionally constructed
a riddle. The sun waned low and I took my leave in company with the
Prof. We parted at the corner, _without_ the Prof. telling me (as an
honest, hospitable American would have done) that he would be happy to
see me at his domicile, so that I know not whether I shall be able to
continue acquainted with a man I would fain know more of.
I got into a droschke and, coming home, found T. S. P. in the room, and
while telling him of the events of the dinner was interrupted by the
entrance of the Rev. H. W. Foote of Stone Chapel.... The excellent
little man had presented himself a few evenings before, bringing me from
Dresden a very characteristic note from Elizabeth Peabody (in which
among other things she says she is "on the wing for Italy"--she is as
_folâtre_ a creature as your friend Mrs. W----), and we have dined
together every day since, and had agreed to go to hear "Fidelio"
together at the Opera that evening. Foote is really a good man and I
shall prosecute his friendship every moment of his stay here; seems to
have his mind open to every interest, and has a sweet modesty that
endears him to the heart. He goes home next month. I advise Harry to
call and see him; I know he will sympathize with him. T. S. P. never
grows weary of repeating a pun of Ware's about him in Italy, who, when
asked what had become of Foote (they traveled for a time together),
replied: "I left him at the Hotel, hand in glove with the Bootts."
"Fidelio" was truly musical. After it, I went to Zennig's restaurant (it
was over by quarter before nine), where I had made a rendez-vous with a
young Doctor to whom Mr. Thies had given me a letter. Having been away
from Berlin, I had seen him for the first time the day before yesterday.
He is a very swell young Jew with a gorgeous cravat, blue-black whiskers
and oily ringlets, not prepossessing; and we had made this appointment.
I waited half an hour and, the faithless Israelite not appearing, came
home, and after reading a few hours went to bed.
_Two hours later._ I have just come in from dinner, a ceremony which I
perform at the aforesaid Zennig's, Unter den Linden. (By the bye, you
must not be led by that name to imagine, as I always used to, an avenue
over-shadowed by patriarchal lime trees, whose branches form a long
arch. The "Linden" are two rows of small, scrubby, abortive
horse-chestnuts, beeches, limes and others, planted like the trees in
Commonwealth Avenue.) Zennig's is a table-d'hôte, so-called
notwithstanding the unities of hour and table are violated. You have
soup, three courses, and dessert or coffee and cheese for 12-1/2
Groschen if you buy 14 tickets, and I shall probably dine there all
winter. We dined with Foote today, who spoke among other things of a new
English novel whose heroine "had the bust and arms of the Venus of
Milo." T. S. P. remarked that her having the arms might account for the
Venus herself being without them.
I enclose you the photograph of an actress here with whom I am in love.
A neat coiffure, is it not? I also send you a couple more of my own
precious portraits. I got them taken to fulfill a promise I had made to
a young Bohemian lady at Teplitz, the niece of the landlady. Sweet Anna
Adamowiz! (pronounce--_vitch_), which means descendant of Adam.--She
belongs consequently to one of the very first families in Bohemia. I
used to drive dull care away by writing her short notes in the Bohemian
tongue such as; "Navzdy budes v me mysli Irohm pamatkou," _i.e._,
forever bloomest thou in my memory;--"dej mne tooji bodo biznu," give me
your photograph; and isolated phrases as "Mlaxik, Dicka, pritel,
pritelkyne," _i.e._, Jüngling, Mädchen, Freund, Freundinn; "mi luja," I
love, etc. These were carried to her by the chambermaid, and the style,
a little more florid than was absolutely _required_ by mere courtesy,
was excused by her on the ground of my limited acquaintance with the
subtleties of the language. Besides, the sentiments were on the whole
good and the error, if any, in the right direction. When she gave me her
photograph (which I regret to say she spelt "fotokraft"!!!!) she made me
promise to send her mine. _Hence_ mine.
I have been this afternoon to get a dress-coat measured, which will
doubtless be a comfort to you to know. I must now stop. G--
* * * * *
I had got as far as the above _G_ when the faithless Israelite of
yesterday evening came in. He gave a satisfactory explanation of his
absence and has been making a very pleasant visit. He is coming back at
nine o'clock to take us (after the German mode of exercising
hospitality) to a tavern to meet some of his boon companions. I reckon
he is a better fellow than he seemed at first sight. I will leave this
letter open till tomorrow to let you know what happens at the tavern,
and whether the boon companions are old-clothes men, or Christian
gentlemen. Good-night, my darling sister! Sei tausend mal von mir
geküsst.[39] Give my best love to Father, Mother, Aunt Kate, the boys
and everyone. Ever yr. loving bro.,
WM. JAMES.
* * * * *
11 P.M. Decidedly the Jew rises in my estimation. He treated us in the
German fashion to a veal cutlet and a glass of beer which we paid for
ourselves. His boon companions were apparently Christians of a
half-baked sort. One who sat next to me was half drunk [and] insisted on
talking the most hideous English. T. S. P., who necessarily took small
part in the conversation, endeavored to explain to Selberg that he was a
"skeleton at the banquet," but could not get through. I came to his
assistance, but forgot, of course, the word "Skelett," and found nothing
better to say than that he was a _vertebral column_ at their banquet,
which classical allusion I do not think was understood by the Jew. The
young men did not behave with the politeness and attention to us which
would have been shown to two Germans by a similar crowd at home.
Selberg himself however improved every minute, and I have no doubt will
turn out a capital fellow. Excuse these scraps of paper,
W. J. Good night.
_To his Sister._
BERLIN, _Nov. 19, 1867_.
SÜSS BALCHEN!--I stump wearily up the three flights of stairs after my
dinner to this lone room where no human company but a ghastly lithograph
of Johannes Müller and a grinning skull are to cheer me. Out in the
street the slaw and fine rain is falling as if it would never stop--the
sky is low and murky, and the streets filled with water and that finely
worked-up paste of mud which never is seen on our continent. For some
time past I have thought with longing of the brightness and freshness of
my home in New England--of the extraordinary, and in ordinary moments
little appreciated, but
sometimes-coming-across-you-and-striking-you-with-an-unexpected-sense-of-rich-privilege
blessings of a mother's love (excuse my somewhat German style)--of the
advantage of having a youthful-hearted though bald-headed father who
looks at the Kosmos as if it had some life in it--of the delicious and
respectable meals in the family circle with the aforesaid father telling
touching horse-car anecdotes,[40] and the serene Harry dealing his snubs
around--with a clean female handmaiden to wait, and an open fire to
toast one's self at afterwards instead of one of these pallid porcelain
monuments here,--with a whole country around you full of friends and
acquaintances in whose company you can refresh your social nature, a
library of books in the house and a still bigger one over the way,--and
all the rest of it. The longer I live, the more inclined am I to value
the domestic affections and to be satisfied with the domestic and
citizenly virtues (probably only for the reason that I am temporarily
debarred from exercising any of them, I blush to think). At any rate I
feel _now_ and _here_ the absence of any object with which to start up
some sympathy, and the feeling is real and unpleasant while it lasts.
I ought not, I confess, to sing in this tune _today_, for before dinner
I made a call on a young lady here (named Frl. Bornemann) whom I had met
at Mrs. Grimm's and whom Mrs. G. had advised me to go and see. She lives
with her brother, an _Advocat_. They are rich orflings, and I had really
a friendly visit there and hope it may ripen into familiarity. I got on
tolerably well with the German--only making one laughable mistake, viz.
in talking of the shower of meteors, _Stern-schnuppen_, the other night
to speak of the "Stern-schnupfen" (_Schnupfen_ = snuffles, catarrh). And
this visit is the occasion of my writing this week to you. Frl. B. is
intimate with Miss Thies, and hearing that we lived in their house, she
was seized with an extremely German desire to have some ivy leaves or
other leaves from the garden to surprise Miss Thies with on Christmas.
Your young female heart will probably beat responsive to the project and
_infallibly_ by return mail send the leaves. She only wants one or two.
You might also send a board from the flooring, some old grass and bits
of hay from the front "lawn," or cut out an eye from the "gal" who is so
much "struck with them babies"[41] in the parlor. They would all awaken
tender memories, I have no doubt. Now do not delay even for one day to
execute this, Alice! but set about it now with this letter in your
hand. You see there is no time to lose, and I am very anxious not to
disappoint the excellent young lady.
The few commissions and questions I have sent home have been so
unnoticed and disregarded that I hardly hope for success this time. It
has always been the way with me, however, from birth upwards, and Heaven
forbid that I should now begin to complain! But lo! I here send another
commission. I definitely appoint by name my father H. James, Senior,
author of Substance & Shadder, etc., to perform it; and solemnly charge
all the rest of you to be as lions in his path, as thorns upon his side,
as lumps in his mashed potatoes, until he do it or write me Nay. 'Tis to
send by post Cousin's lectures on Kant, and that other French
translation of a German introduction to Kant, which he bought last
winter! By return of mail! And if not convenient to send the books, to
write me the name of the author of the last-mentioned one, which I have
forgotten. It behooves me to learn something of the "Philosopher of
Königsberg," and I want these to ease the way. I sincerely hope that
these words may not be utterly thrown away.
I got a letter from Mother the day after I wrote last week to Harry,
without date, but written after the Tweedies' visit. I got this morning
a "Nation" and the "advertisement" to Father's Essay on Swedenborg. In
the latter the old lyre is twanged with a greater freshness and force
than ever, so that even T. S. Perry was made to vibrate in unison with
it. I wrote to Father three weeks ago respecting his former article. I
hope the letter is by this time in his hands. I am very sorry the fat
one went astray. It contained, _inter alia_, an account of my
expenditure up to its time of writing. I would give a good deal to be
able to enjoy as you are all doing the society of Venerable Brother
Robertson. It is a great pity that we should get so estranged by
separation from each other. I wish, now he's at home, he would once
write to me. I have got tolerably well to work, and enjoy my lectures at
the University intensely. Are the "Rainbows for Children" I see noticed
in the "Nation" that old book by Mrs. Tappan? I hope Harry is not the
person therein mentioned as having palmed off on Godkin a translation
from the German as an original article on Thorwaldsen. You have not told
me a word about the Tappans since I quit. I am very glad to hear of Aunt
Kate's leg being so much better and staying so. Tell her I hope it has
not been improving at the expense of her heart, as her long silence
sometimes makes me shudderingly fear.
Adieu. 1000 kisses to all, not forgetting Ellen.[42]
Ever your Bruder, W. J.
_To Thomas W. Ward._
[Fragment of a letter from Berlin,
_circa Nov. 1867?_]
...I have begun going to the physiological lectures at the University.
There are in all seven courses and four lectures. I take five courses
and three lectures. There is a bully physiological laboratory, the sight
of which, inaccessible as it is to me in my present condition, gave me a
sharp pang. I have blocked out some reading in physiology and psychology
which I hope to execute this winter--though reading German is still
disgustingly slow.... It seems to me that perhaps the time has come for
psychology to begin to be a science--some measurements have already been
made in the region lying between the physical changes in the nerves and
the appearance of consciousness-at (in the shape of sense perceptions),
and more may come of it. I am going on to study what is already known,
and perhaps may be able to do some work at it. Helmholtz and a man named
Wundt at Heidelberg are working at it, and I hope I live through this
winter to go to them in the summer. From all this talk you probably
think I am working straight ahead--towards a definite aim. Alas, no! I
finger book-covers as ineffectually as ever. The fact is, this sickness
takes all the spring, physical and mental, out of a man....
_To Thomas W. Ward._
BERLIN, _Nov. 7, 1867_.
...If six years ago I could have felt the same satisfied belief in the
worthiness of a life devoted to simple, patient, monotonous, scientific
labor day after day (without reference to its results) and at the same
time have had some inkling of the importance and nature of _education_
(_i.e._, getting orderly habits of thought, and by intense exercise in a
variety of different subjects, getting the mind supple and delicate and
firm), I might be now on the path to accomplishing something some day,
even if my health had turned out no better than it is. But my habits of
mind have been so bad that I feel as if the greater part of the last ten
years had been worse than wasted, and now have so little surplus of
physical vigor as to shrink from trying to retrieve them. Too late! too
late! If I had been _drilled_ further in mathematics, physics,
chemistry, logic, and the history of metaphysics, and had established,
even if only in my memory, a firm and thoroughly familiar _basis_ of
knowledge in all these sciences (like the basis of human anatomy one
gets in studying medicine), to which I should involuntarily refer all
subsequently acquired facts and thoughts,--instead of having now to
keep going back and picking up loose ends of these elements, and wasting
whole hours in looking to see how the new facts are related to them, or
whether they are related to them at all,--I might be steadily
advancing.--But enough! Excuse the damned whine of this letter; I had no
idea whatever of writing it when I sat down, but I am in a mood of
indigestion and blueness. I would not send you the letter at all, were
it not that I thought it might tempt you soon to write to me. You have
no idea, my dear old Tom, how I long to hear a word about you....
_To Henry P. Bowditch._
BERLIN, _Dec. 12, 1867_.
BESTER HEINRICH,--I have arrived safely on this side of the ocean and
hasten to inform you of the fact.--What a fine pair of young men we are
to write so punctually and constantly to each other!--I will not gall
you by any sarcasms, however (I naturally think you are more to blame
than myself), because (as you naturally are of a similar way of
thinking) you might recriminate at great length in your next and much
other to-me-more-agreeable matter be crowded out of your letter. Suffice
[it] to say that I have thought of you continually, and with
undiminished affection, since that bright April morn when we parted; but
I am of such an invincibly inert nature as regards letter-writing that
it takes a combination of outward and inward circumstances and motives
that hardly ever happens, to start me. I wrote you a letter last summer,
but destroyed it because I was in such doleful dumps while writing it
that it would have given you too unpleasant an impression....