How my heart beats when by accident I touch her finger, or my feet meet
hers under the table! I draw back as if from a furnace; but a secret
force impels me forward again, and my senses become disordered.
Her innocent, unconscious heart never knows what agony these little
familiarities inflict upon me. Sometimes when we are talking she lays
her hand upon mine, and in the eagerness of conversation comes closer to
me, and her balmy breath reaches my lips,—when I feel as if lightning
had struck me, and that I could sink into the earth. And yet, Wilhelm,
with all this heavenly confidence,—if I know myself, and should ever
dare—you understand me. No, no! my heart is not so corrupt, it is weak,
weak enough but is not that a degree of corruption?
She is to me a sacred being. All passion is still in her presence: I
cannot express my sensations when I am near her. I feel as if my soul
beat in every nerve of my body. There is a melody which she plays on the
piano with angelic skill,—so simple is it, and yet so spiritual! It is
her favourite air; and, when she plays the first note, all pain, care,
and sorrow disappear from me in a moment.
I believe every word that is said of the magic of ancient music. How her
simple song enchants me! Sometimes, when I am ready to commit suicide,
she sings that air; and instantly the gloom and madness which hung over
me are dispersed, and I breathe freely again.