January 20.  I have but one being here to interest me, my dear Charlotte—­a Miss B——.  She resembles you, if indeed anyone can possibly resemble you.  “Ah,” you will say, “he has learnt to pay fine compliments.”  And this is partly true; I have been very agreeable lately, as it was not in my power to be otherwise.  But I must tell you of Miss B——.  She has abundance of soul, which flashes from her deep blue eyes.  Her rank is a torment to her, and satisfies no single desire of her heart.  She knows you, my dear Charlotte, as I have told her all about you, and renders homage to your merits; but her homage is not exacted, but voluntary—­she loves you, and delights to hear you made the subject of conversation.  Adieu!  Is Albert with you, and what is he to you?  Forgive the question.

February 20.  I thank you, Albert, for having deceived me.  I waited for the news that your wedding-day was fixed, and I meant on that day to remove Charlotte’s picture from the wall, and bury it with some old papers that I wish destroyed.  You are now united, and the picture remains.  Well, let it remain.  Why should it not?

III.—­“I Can Remain No Longer"

June 11.  Say what you will, I can remain here no longer.  Why should I remain?  The prince is as gracious to me as anyone could be, and yet I am not at my ease.  There is, indeed, nothing in common between us; he is a man of understanding, but quite of the ordinary kind.  His conversation gives me no more amusement than I should derive from an ordinary well-written book.  Whither am I going?  I think it would be better for me to visit the mines in——.  But I am only deluding myself thus.  You know that I only want to be near my dear Charlotte once more.  I smile at the suggestion of my heart, but I obey its dictates.

July 29.  Dear Wilhelm, my whole frame feels convulsed when I see Albert put his arms round that slender waist.  Oh, the very thought of folding that dearest of heaven’s creatures in one’s arms.

And—­shall I avow it?  Why should I not?—­she would have been happier with me than with him.  Albert is not the man to satisfy the wishes of such a heart.  He wants a certain sensibility; he wants—­in short, their hearts do not beat in unison.  But, Wilhelm, he loves her with his whole heart, and what does not such a love deserve?

September 5.  Charlotte had written a letter to her husband in the country, where he was detained on business.  It began:  “My dearest love, return as soon as possible.  I await you with a thousand raptures!”

A friend who arrived brought word that he could not return immediately.  Her letter fell into my hands.  I read it, and smiled.  She asked the reason.  “What a heavenly treasure is imagination,” I exclaimed.  “I fancied for a moment that this was written to me.”  She paused, and seemed displeased.  I was silent.

October 10.  Only to gaze into her dark eyes is to me a source of happiness.  And what grieves me is that Albert does not seem so happy as he—­as I—­as he hoped to be—­as I should have been—­if—.  I am no friend to these pauses, but here I cannot express myself otherwise; and probably I am explicit enough.