You know of old my ways of settling anywhere, of selecting a little
cottage in some cosy spot, and of putting up in it with every
inconvenience. Here, too, I have discovered such a snug, comfortable
place, which possesses peculiar charms for me.
About a league from the town is a place called Walheim. (The reader
need not take the trouble to look for the place thus designated. We have
found it necessary to change the names given in the original.) It is
delightfully situated on the side of a hill; and, by proceeding along
one of the footpaths which lead out of the village, you can have a view
of the whole valley. A good old woman lives there, who keeps a small
inn. She sells wine, beer, and coffee, and is cheerful and pleasant
notwithstanding her age. The chief charm of this spot consists in two
linden-trees, spreading their enormous branches over the little green
before the church, which is entirely surrounded by peasants' cottages,
barns, and homesteads. I have seldom seen a place so retired and
peaceable; and there often have my table and chair brought out from
the little inn, and drink my coffee there, and read my Homer. Accident
brought me to the spot one fine afternoon, and I found it perfectly
deserted. Everybody was in the fields except a little boy about four
years of age, who was sitting on the ground, and held between his knees
a child about six months old: he pressed it to his bosom with both
arms, which thus formed a sort of arm-chair; and, notwithstanding the
liveliness which sparkled in its black eyes, it remained perfectly
still. The sight charmed me. I sat down upon a plough opposite, and
sketched with great delight this little picture of brotherly tenderness.
I added the neighbouring hedge, the barn-door, and some broken
cart-wheels, just as they happened to lie; and I found in about an hour
that I had made a very correct and interesting drawing, without putting
in the slightest thing of my own. This confirmed me in my resolution
of adhering, for the future, entirely to nature. She alone is
inexhaustible, and capable of forming the greatest masters. Much may be
alleged in favour of rules, as much may be likewise advanced in favour
of the laws of society: an artist formed upon them will never produce
anything absolutely bad or disgusting; as a man who observes the laws,
and obeys decorum, can never be an absolutely intolerable neighbour, nor
a decided villain: but yet, say what you will of rules, they destroy the
genuine feeling of nature, as well as its true expression. Do not tell
me "that this is too hard, that they only restrain and prune superfluous
branches, etc." My good friend, I will illustrate this by an analogy.
These things resemble love. A warmhearted youth becomes strongly
attached to a maiden: he spends every hour of the day in her company,
wears out his health, and lavishes his fortune, to afford continual
proof that he is wholly devoted to her. Then comes a man of the world, a
man of place and respectability, and addresses him thus: "My good young
friend, love is natural; but you must love within bounds. Divide your
time: devote a portion to business, and give the hours of recreation to
your mistress. Calculate your fortune; and out of the superfluity you
may make her a present, only not too often,—on her birthday, and such
occasions." Pursuing this advice, he may become a useful member of
society, and I should advise every prince to give him an appointment;
but it is all up with his love, and with his genius if he be an artist.
O my friend! why is it that the torrent of genius so seldom bursts
forth, so seldom rolls in full-flowing stream, overwhelming your
astounded soul? Because, on either side of this stream, cold and
respectable persons have taken up their abodes, and, forsooth, their
summer-houses and tulip-beds would suffer from the torrent; wherefore
they dig trenches, and raise embankments betimes, in order to avert the
impending danger.