I wrote to poor Moritz yesterday, and, after reading your description of his sadness, my letter lies like a stone on my conscience, for, like a heartless egotist, I mocked his pain by describing my happiness, and in five pages did not refer to his mourning by even a syllable, speaking of myself again and again, and using him as father-confessor.  He is an awkward comforter who does not himself feel pain sympathetically, or not vividly enough.  My first grief was the passionate, selfish one at the loss I had sustained; for Marie,[11] so far as she is concerned, I do not feel it, because I know that she is well provided for, but that my sympathy with the suffering of my warmest friend, to whom I owe eternal thanks, is not strong enough to produce a word of comfort, of strong consolation from overflowing feeling, that burdens me sorely.  Weep not, my angel; let your sympathy be strong and full of confidence in God; give him real consolation with encouragement, not with tears, and, if you can, doubly, for yourself and for your thankless friend whose heart is just now filled with you and has room for nothing else.  Are you a withered leaf, a faded garment?  I will see whether my love can foster the verdure once more, can brighten up the colors.  You must put forth fresh leaves, and the old ones I shall lay between the pages of the book of my heart so that we may find them when we read there, as tokens of fond recollection.  You have fanned to life again the coal that under ashes and debris still glowed in me; it shall envelop you in life-giving flames.

Le souper est servi, the evening is gone, and I have done nothing but chat with you and smoke:  is that not becoming employment for the dike-captain?  Why not?

A mysterious letter from ——­ lies before me.  He writes in a tone new for him; admits that he perceives that he did many a wrong to his first wife; did not always rightly guide and bear with her weakness; was no prop to the “child,” and believes himself absolved by this severe castigation. Qu’est-ce qu’il me chante?  Has the letter undergone transformation in the Christian climate of Reinfeld, or did it leave the hand of this once shallow buffoon in its present form?  He asserts, moreover, that he lives in a never dreamed of happiness with his present wife, whose acquaintance he made a week before the engagement, and whom he married six weeks after the same event:  a happiness which his first marriage has taught him rightly to prize.  Do you know the story of the French tiler who falls from the roof, and, in passing the second story, cries out, “Ca va bien, pourvu que ca dure?” Think, only, if we had been betrothed on the 12th of October ’44, and, on November 23d, had married:  What anxiety for mamma!