His only newspaper, beside the little local one, is the Kreuzzentung, he is learned in the Army List, and the writing-table at which I am sitting is strewed with volumes of the Almanac de Gotha.  He looks after his subjects—­for I think he calls his workmen his subjects—­in a truly fatherly or feudal manner, but I do not doubt that he would drive the best of them off the estate with dogs, if, even in the depth of winter, they did not stand hat in hand the whole time they were talking to him.  The sole problem of the universe which has any sort of interest for him is the outlook of the weather for the harvest.  The course of human or superhuman events arouses his wonder, his doubts, or his anxiety only in proportion as it affects the price of corn.  He cannot grasp that one should have any other aim in life than to become a successful agriculturist.  He finds full satisfaction in his work, and what between a charming wife and an adored child he would afford an example of what the fables and proverbs tell us does not exist—­a perfectly happy man, if one thing were not lacking, the little word ‘von’ in front of his name.  I trust he may not die without obtaining it, and then the world will have contained one mortal who has known absolutely boundless happiness.

“But in writing to you in this strain my conscience pricks me.  Is it not unkind toward Paul, whose attachment to me is positively touching?  Is it not churlish to exercise such cold crticism upon a friend whose faithful affection has never for one moment wavered?  He surrounds me with endless proofs of his affection, and is always on the lookout for something which may give me pleasure.  He is a passionate sportsman—­his only passion as far as I can see—­and worries me twice a week to join him on his shooting expeditions.  He is a masterly ’skat player, and is most anxious to enrich my existence by the joys which, according to him, this intellectual game affords to its adepts.  When I venture timidly to propose that I should leave him and live by myself, he looks so honestly hurt and grieved that I have not the courage to insist further.  And Frau Haber, kind soul, who is so set upon getting me married and thereby insuring my happiness!  I and marrying!  What have I to offer a woman?  Love?  I am too poor in illusions.  Amusements—­society—­the theater?  All that is a horror to me.  And moreover, I question if I have a right to bring a being into the world, over whose destiny I have no control, and whose existence would most certainly be richer in pain, and misery than in happiness; and I know unquestionably that I have no right to teach a light-hearted girl to think, and force her to exchange the artless gayety of a playful little animal for my own fruitless speculations and never-to-be-satisfied yearnings.