fortifying,
yet relentlessly strict angels that shall lead
me
through
all of life's troubles. If
only
I
were
able
to
give
some
of
this
to
the good
child! And yet, what
a
peculiar
way
this is to
weather the
storms of life
--
in
many a
lucid moment I
appear
to myself
as an
ostrich who buries his head in the desert sand
so
as
not to perceive
the
danger.
One creates
a
small little world for
oneself,
and
as
lamentably
insignificant
as
it
may
be in
comparison
with the
perpetualy
changing
size of real
existence,
one
feels
miraculously
great
and
important,
just
like
a
mole in his
self-dug
hole.
--
But
why
denigrate
oneself, others
take
care
of that when
necessary,
therefore
let's stop.
Your dear little
letter,
the lilies
of the
valley,
the little
poems,
all
of
them
brought
me
great
joy,
like
everything
that
comes
from
your
dear little
house.
I
thank
you
from all
my
heart for it.
There is
very
little
that is of
interest in
my
external life:
in fact,
the latter is
so
philistine
that
people
could
use
it
for setting their
watches
--
except that their
watches
would
be somewhat
late in
the
morning.
As for
my
intellectual
life,
there is
always quite
a
variety.
Saturday evenings
I
play
music at the home of
a
local lady
with
a
few
other
gentlemen, including
Byland; these
are
the most beautiful
hours
of
my
week. Byland read to
me a
few plays by Gerhart Hauptmann,
and
these affected
me
tremendously.
"Hanneles Himmelfahrt" made
me
cry
like
a
child, half in bliss and half
in
pain.
You too should read this
gem;
I
cannot
say
more
about it
--
one
must
keep
silent
when
one
thinks about it.
Thousand
greetings
to
you
and
your
family from
your
Albert
35.
TO
PAULINE WINTELER
Zurich,
Monday
[7
June
1897]
Dear
mommy!
Your
lovely
present
gives
me a
welcome
excuse
to write to
you
again,
the
holiday's silence,
the
cozy
quietude,
to have
a
good
chat
with
you, as
if
we were
sitting
together
in the red
room
while
the
potatoes
are
getting
brown
with
jealousy
and the dear
sun
and
some
other dear
thing
peep
into the
room.
When I
think
of that
room, my
head starts
ringing in
a
delightfully
mad
way,
and
a
thousand
memories,
some
old,
some young,
some
gay
and others
sad,
embrace each
other in
a
child-like fashion,
as
if they
belonged
together.
Many
an
old
philosophical
deduction in
a
long
house robe with unmended holes
paces
there
solemnly
in
the air, and next to it
giggles
many a
charming
and
foolishly
sweet
little
word with little
wings
and
rosy
cheeks
--
and thank God,
they
are
far
more numerous,
and, sweetly
making
fun of
me,
they
still
grab
me
sometimes by the
nose
when
I,
with knitted
brow,
cultivate the
golden scholarship
in
my room.
And
afterwards I feel
so
silly,
and
curiously
vacillating between
laughter
and
tears
--
and
finally
the beloved
piano
resounds like
my
soul calm
or
mad, depending
on
what
just
happens
to be its mood, and if the
latter is the
case,
then I also
think
of the
lovely
hours and the
little red footstool and
whatever
else
goes
together with
it.
The
days
and
nights
of Whitsuntide I
am
spending
in
musical
pleasures that
God is
sending
to
me
by
one
of those angels who do
not
33