know that there exist
a
lot of
more
beautiful and
more
clever
things
one
can
chatter and tell about than
something
so
stupid.
And when
you,
great
dear
philosopher
(but
a
totally
false
one)
draw such wicked and
not
at
all
true
conclusions
(even
the
thoughts
of such
a
clever
darling curlyhead
are
not
always logical,
isn't that
so?)
as
you
have
done in
your
last letter to
your
sweetheart, then I cannot
grasp
it
at
all
and
you
must be
quite
annoyed with
me
if
you can
write
so
rudely.
But wait
you'll
get
some
proper
scolding
when I
come
home,
one
learns
that
up
here,
sweetheart!
I
am
writing
a
lot of rubbish, isn't that
so,
and in the end
you'll
not
even
read it to the finish
(but
I
don't
believe
that).
But
isn't
it
so,
sweetheart,
you
know
well all
that
dwells and lives
in
my
heart for you and
you
alone,
and I could
never
describe,
because there
are no
words
for it,
how blissful I feel
ever
since
the dear soul
of
yours
has
come
to live and
weave
in
my
soul,
all I
can
say
is that I
love
you
for all eternity, sweetheart, and
may
God
preserve
and
protect
you.
With
deepest
love
yours
Mariechen
30.
FROM
MARIE WINTELER
Olsberg,
30 November 1896
My
dear dear sweetheart!
Finally
finally I felt happy happy,
something only
your
dear dear
letters
can
bring
about,
and
your
little note made
me
also
completely
healthy again.
But I had to wait
terribly long
and had also
written to
mama
to
write
to
me
whether
maybe
my
sweetheart is ill. As far
as
I
am
concerned,
you
don't have to
worry,
darling,
I
am
quite healthy
and
merry
once
again,
and I
can
wait out the 12
days (because
there
are no
14
days
left
anymore)
after which....oh how
delightful!
I
do
not think
about
myself,
sweetheart, that's
quite
true, but the
only
reason
for
this is that I do not think at
all,
except when it
comes
to
some
tremendously
stupid
calculation
that
requires,
for
a
change, that I
know
more
than
my
pupils,
who
are proper
little
blockheads. And all
this
comes
from
the
great
bliss in the heart that
makes
one
quite
frivolous,
isn't
it
so,
sweetheart,
are you now
satisfied with
me?
That
you
do
not want
to
give
me an answer,
just
you
wait, Albert,
you'll get
quite
a
wicked
punishment
for it,
I have still 12
days
left
in
which to devise
one
(and all the
same
I
am so
glad
that
you
don't
want to
give
me one
and that
you
think the whole
thing
stupid, isn't
it curious that I like this
even
much better than
an
answer,
but,
then
again,
I would like
one
all the
same,
I don't know
why).
My
dear
sweetheart,
the "matter" of
my
sending
you
the
stupid
little teapot does not have to please
you
at all
as
long
as
you
are
going
to brew
some
good tea in
it,
and
then, sweetheart,
you
will get
only what
my
heart
can
give
to
you,
and nothing
else,
isn't that
so.
Now,
be satisfied and stop making that
angry
face which looked at
me
from all the sides and
corners
of
the
writing
paper.
Don't work too much,
you
dear. How I
sometimes
yearn
to stroke
a
little
your
dear tired brow when I
picture
to
myself
how
you now
certainly
sit in
your
little
room
tired and
pensive,
the
way you
often
did
back home,
you
know. In such moments I
would
like
to
fly
to
my
sweetheart and tell him how much do I love
you,
and banish all the
30