Yesterday, before going to bed, I went on my balcony, as I usually do, to take a last glance at the sea.  But it was the starry sky that fixed my attention.  It seemed to reveal and offer itself to me.  I felt I had never really seen it before, although I sleep with it over my head!

Each star was to me like a dewdrop created to slake my thirst.  I drank in the sky like a plant that is almost dead for want of moisture.  And while I drank it in, I was conscious of a sensation hitherto unknown to me.  For the first time in my life I was aware of the existence of my soul.  I threw back my head to gaze and gaze.  Night enfolded me in all its splendour, and I wept.

What matter that I am growing old?  What matter that I have missed the best in life?  Every night I can look towards the stars and be filled with their chill, eternal peace.

I, who never could read a poem without secretly mocking the writer, who never believed in the poets’ ecstasies over Nature, now I perceive that Nature is the one divinity worthy to be worshipped.

* * * * *

I miss Margarethe Ernst; especially her amusing ways.  How she glided about among people, always ready to dart out her sharp tongue, always prepared to sting.  And yet she is not really unkind, in spite of her little cunning smile.  But her every movement makes a singular impression which is calculated.

We amused each other.  We spoke so candidly about other people, and lied so gracefully to each other about ourselves.  Moreover, I think she is loyal in her friendship, and of all my letters hers are the best written.

I should have liked to have drawn her out, but she was the one person who knew how to hold her own.  I always felt she wore a suit of chain armour under her close-fitting dresses which was proof against the assaults of her most impassioned adorers.

She is one of those women who, without appearing to do so, manages to efface all her tracks as she goes.  I have watched her change her tactics two or three times in the course of an evening, according to the people with whom she was talking.  She glided up to them, breathed their atmosphere for an instant, and then established contact with them.

She is calculating, but not entirely for her own ends; she is like a born mathematician who thoroughly enjoys working out the most difficult problems.

I should like to have her here for a week.

She, too, dreads the transition years.  She tries in vain to cheat old age.  Lately she adopted a “court mourning” style of dress, and wore little, neat, respect-impelling mantillas round her thin, Spanish-looking face.  One of these days, when she is close upon fifty, we shall see her return to all the colours of the rainbow and to ostrich plumes.  She lives in hopes of a new springtide in life.  Shall I invite her here?

She would come, of course, by the first train, scenting the air with wide nostrils, like a stag, and an array of trunks behind her!