Here thy Mignon occurs to me—­how she dances blindfolded between eggs.  My love is adroit; you can rely thoroughly on its instinct; it will also dance on blindly, and will make no misstep. * * *

November 29, 1809.

I had written thus far yesterday, when I crept into bed from fear, but I could not succeed yesterday in falling asleep at thy feet, lost in contemplation of thee as I do every evening.  I was ashamed that I had chattered so arrogantly, and perhaps all is not as I mean it.  Maybe it is jealousy that excites me so and impels me to seek a way to draw thee to me again and make thee forget her.[13]

Well, put me to the test, and, be it as it may, do not forget my love.  Forgive me also for sending thee my diary.  I wrote it on the Rhine and have spread out before thee my childhood years and shown thee how our mutual affinity drove me on like a rivulet hastening on over crags and rocks, through thorns and mosses, till thou, mighty stream, didst engulf me.  Yes, I wanted to keep this book until I should at last be with thee again, so that I might tell by looking into thy eyes in the morning what thou hadst read in it the evening before.  But now it torments me to think of thee substituting my diary for Ottilie’s, and loving the living one who remains with thee more than the one who has departed from thee.

Do not burn my letters, do not tear them up, for it might give thee pain—­so firmly, so absolutely, am I joined to thee.  But do not show them to any one; keep them concealed like a secret beauty, for my love is becoming to thee; thou art beautiful because thou feelest thyself loved!

February 29, 1810.

I will confess to thee and honestly acknowledge all my sins—­first, those for which thou art partly responsible and which thou too must expiate with me, then those which weigh most heavily on me, and finally those in which I actually rejoice.

First:  I tell thee too often that I love thee, yet I know nothing else, no matter how, much I turn it one way or the other; that’s all there is.

Secondly:  I am jealous of all thy friends, the playmates of thy youth, the sun that shines into thy room, thy servants, and, above all, thy gardener that lays out the asparagus-beds at thy command.

Thirdly:  I begrudge thee all pleasure because I am not along.  When any one has seen thee and speaks of thy gaiety and charm, it does not please me particularly; but when he says thou wast serious, cool, and reserved, then I am delighted!

Fourthly:  I neglect every one for thy sake; nobody is anything to me, and I don’t care anything about their love; indeed, if any one praises me, he displeased me.  That is jealousy of thee and me, and by no means a proof of a generous heart; it is a sign of a wretched character that withers on one side when it would blossom on the other.

Fifthly:  I have a great inclination to despise everybody, especially those that praise thee, and I cannot bear to hear anything good said of thee.  Only a few simple persons can I allow to speak of thee, and it need not be praise at that.  No, they may even make fun of thee a little, and then, I can tell thee, an unmerciful roguishness comes over me when I can throw off the chains of slavery for a brief spell.