And to the Countess, fighting rheumatism at the waters of Wildbad in
the Black Forest, he wrote: "The rain has passed, the long fog has
gone. The mountains stand out mighty and dazzling, peak beyond peak,
like the heights of a life. What a sunset! The Eiger seemed wrapped in
a vapor of burning gold. My sufferings are nearly all wiped out. I am
joyous, full of life and love. And I have also finished at last with
that terrible correspondence for the Union. Seventy-six pages of
minute writing have I sent to Berlin yesterday and to-day, and I
breathe again. In my yesterday's letter I broke Helene to you. It is
extraordinarily fortunate that on the verge of forty I should be able
to find a wife so beautiful, so sympathetic, who loves me so much, and
who, as you and I agreed was indispensable, is entirely absorbed in my
personality. In your last letter you throw cold water on my proposed
journey to Hamburg; and perhaps you are right in thinking the coup I
planned not so great and critical as I have been imagining. But how
you misunderstand my motives when you write: 'Cannot you, till your
health is re-established, find contentment for a while in science, in
friendship, in Nature?' You think politics the breath of my nostrils.
Ah, how little you are _au fait_ with me! I desire nothing more
ardently than to be quite rid of all politics, and to devote myself to
science, friendship, and Nature. I am sick and tired of politics.
Truly I would burn as passionately for them as any one, if there were
anything serious to be done, or if I had the power or saw the means, a
means worthy of me; for without supreme power nothing can be done. For
child's play, however, I am too old and too great. That is why I very
reluctantly undertook the Presidentship. I only yielded to you, and
that is why it now weighs upon me terribly. If I were but rid of it,
this were the moment I should choose to go to Naples with you. But how
to get rid of it? For events, I fear, will develop slowly, so slowly,
and my burning soul finds no interest in these children's maladies and
petty progressions. Politics means actual, immediate activity.
Otherwise one can work just as well for humanity by writing. I shall
still try to exercise at Hamburg a pressure upon events. But up to
what point it will be effective I cannot say. Nor do I promise myself
much from it. Ah, could I but get out of it!
"Helene is a wonderful creature, the only personality I could wed. She
looks forward to your friendship. I know it. For I am a good observer
of women without seeming to be. That dear _enfant du diable_, as
everybody calls her at Geneva, has a deep sympathy for you, because
she is, as Goethe puts it, an original nature. Only one fault--but
gigantic. She has no Will. But if we became husband and wife, that
would cease to be a fault. I have enough Will for two, and she would
be the flute in the hands of the artist. But till then--"
The Countess showed herself a kind Cassandra. His haste, she replied,
would ruin his cause. He had to deal with Philistines. The father was
a man of no small self-esteem--he had been the honored tutor of
Maximilian II., and was now in high favor at the Bavarian court, even
controlling university and artistic appointments. A Socialist would be
especially distasteful to him. Twenty years ago Varnhagen von Ense had
heard him lecture on Communism--good-humoredly, wittily, shrugging
shoulders at these poor, fantastic fools who didn't understand that
the world was excellently arranged centuries before they were born.
Helene herself, with her weak will, would be unable to outface her
family. Before approaching the parents, had he not better wait the
final developments of his law-case? If he had to leave Germany
temporarily to escape the imprisonment, would not that be a favorable
opportunity for prosecuting his love-affairs in Switzerland? And what
a pity to throw up his milk-cure! "_Enfin_, I wish you success, _mon
cher enfant_, though I will only put complete trust in my own eyes. In
feminine questions you have neither reason nor judgment."
Lassalle's response was to enclose a pretty letter from Helene,
pleading humbly for the Countess's affection. Together let them nurse
the sick eagle. She herself was but a child, and would lend herself to
any childish follies to drive the clouds from his brow. She would try
to comprehend his magnificent soul, his giant mind, and in happiness
or in sorrow would remain faithful and firm at his side.
The Countess knit her brow. Then Lassalle was already with this Helena
in Berne.