resources. It is
an imperfect instrument; a kettle-drum, for instance, on which one can
play neither concertos nor fantasias. Or, to put it differently, the
language of Lessing and Goethe is like the beautiful butterfly that has
left the chrysalis to which it can never more return.

Alas! The one terrible thought confronts me at every turn. I have
offended and denied you, ye who represent the spirit of my people and
of humanity. You fostered me, and I have abused the gifts which
education bestowed upon me. I must remain in exile.

*

The fire that still smolders within me must be extinguished.

My heart is so heavy that it seems to drag me down, as if weights were
hanging to me.

*

I am so weary, so exhausted, that I feel as though my limbs must break
under me! I should like to do nothing but sleep; to sleep always.

*

I should like to perform a pilgrimage to some place or person, as an
act of expiation.

I now understand the basis of a religion of symbols--a religion that
speaks to the eye.

I will go hence--to Italy, to Spain, to Paris, to the East, to America.
I will go to Rome and become an artist. I must be one. If I am still to
live on in the wide world, I must enjoy it fully and deny myself
nothing, for I am not of a self-sacrificing temperament. I could hurl
the full cup of life into the abyss, but to see it before my eyes, and
yet languish and mortify myself--that I cannot do. I will, I must go.
Something calls me hence. Naples lies before me. I see a villa on the
shore; merry excursions by water; a crowd of laughing, singing, gayly
attired creatures--I plunge into the current of life. Better there than
in that of death. And yet--I cannot--

*

A gloomy, terrible, twilight hour. Something urges me to turn back, and
tells me that the whole world is mine. What has happened? Are there not
thousands like me, who live honored, oblivious of themselves? What is
it within me that whispers; "You must expiate?" I can go hence. It will
seem as if nothing had occurred. "A piquant adventure," "a
disappearance for a few weeks."--What more can they say? All I need is
to be bold--the carriage rolls along, all salute me. I am beautiful,
and no one will see the writing on my brow, for a diadem sparkles
there.

But the terrible words are written there--it seems as if I coul