What I have lately said of painting is equally true with respect to
poetry. It is only necessary for us to know what is really excellent,
and venture to give it expression; and that is saying much in few words.
To-day I have had a scene, which, if literally related, would, make the
most beautiful idyl in the world. But why should I talk of poetry and
scenes and idyls? Can we never take pleasure in nature without having
recourse to art?
If you expect anything grand or magnificent from this introduction,
you will be sadly mistaken. It relates merely to a peasant-lad, who
has excited in me the warmest interest. As usual, I shall tell my story
badly; and you, as usual, will think me extravagant. It is Walheim once
more—always Walheim—which produces these wonderful phenomena.
A party had assembled outside the house under the linden-trees, to drink
coffee. The company did not exactly please me; and, under one pretext or
another, I lingered behind.
A peasant came from an adjoining house, and set to work arranging some
part of the same plough which I had lately sketched. His appearance
pleased me; and I spoke to him, inquired about his circumstances, made
his acquaintance, and, as is my wont with persons of that class, was
soon admitted into his confidence. He said he was in the service of
a young widow, who set great store by him. He spoke so much of his
mistress, and praised her so extravagantly, that I could soon see he was
desperately in love with her. "She is no longer young," he said: "and
she was treated so badly by her former husband that she does not mean
to marry again." From his account it was so evident what incomparable
charms she possessed for him, and how ardently he wished she would
select him to extinguish the recollection of her first husband's
misconduct, that I should have to repeat his own words in order to
describe the depth of the poor fellow's attachment, truth, and devotion.
It would, in fact, require the gifts of a great poet to convey the
expression of his features, the harmony of his voice, and the heavenly
fire of his eye. No words can portray the tenderness of his every
movement and of every feature: no effort of mine could do justice to the
scene. His alarm lest I should misconceive his position with regard
to his mistress, or question the propriety of her conduct, touched me
particularly. The charming manner with which he described her form and
person, which, without possessing the graces of youth, won and attached
him to her, is inexpressible, and must be left to the imagination. I
have never in my life witnessed or fancied or conceived the possibility
of such intense devotion, such ardent affections, united with so much
purity. Do not blame me if I say that the recollection of this innocence
and truth is deeply impressed upon my very soul; that this picture of
fidelity and tenderness haunts me everywhere; and that my own heart, as
though enkindled by the flame, glows and burns within me.
I mean now to try and see her as soon as I can: or perhaps, on second
thoughts, I had better not; it is better I should behold her through the
eyes of her lover. To my sight, perhaps, she would not appear as she now
stands before me; and why should I destroy so sweet a picture?