That you are getting pale, my heart, distresses me.  Do you feel well otherwise, physically, and of good courage?  Give me a bulletin of your condition, your appetite, your sleep.  I am surprised also that Hedwig Dewitz has written to you—­such a heterogeneous nature, that can have so little in common with you.  She was educated with my sister for several years in Kniephof, although she was four or five years the elder of the two.  Either she loves you—­which I should find quite easy to explain—­or has other prosaic intentions.  I fancy that she, as is quite natural, does not feel at home in her father’s house; she has, therefore, always made her home with others for long periods and with satisfaction.

In your letter which lies before me I come upon “self-control” again.  That is a fine acquisition for one who may profit by it, but surely to be distinguished from compulsion.  It is praiseworthy and amiable to wean one’s self from tasteless or provoking outbursts of feeling, or to give to them a more ingratiating form; but I call it self-constraint—­which makes one sick at heart—­when one stifles his own feelings in himself.  In social intercourse one may practise it, but not we two between ourselves.  If there be tares in the field of our heart, we will mutually exert ourselves so to dispose of them that their seed cannot spring up; but, if it does, we will openly pull it up, but not cover it artificially with straw and hide it—­that harms the wheat and does not injure the tares.  Your thought was, I take it, to pull them up unaided, without paining me by the sight of them; but let us be in this also one heart and one flesh, even if your little thistles sometimes prick my fingers.  Do not turn your back on them nor conceal them from me.  You will not always take pleasure in my big thorns, either—­so big that I cannot hide them; and we must pull at them both together, even though our hands bleed.  Moreover, thorns sometimes bear very lovely flowers, and if yours bear roses we may perhaps let them alone sometimes.  “The best is foe to the good”—­in general, a very true saying; so do not have too many misgivings about all your tares, which I have not yet discovered, and leave at least a sample of them for me.  With this exhortation, so full of unction, I will go to sleep, although it has just struck ten, for last night there was little of it; the unaccustomed physical exercise has used me up a bit, and tomorrow I am to be in the saddle again before daylight.  Very, very tired am I, like a child.

Schoenhausen, March 14, 1847.

Jeanne la Mechante!—­What is the meaning of this?  A whole week has passed since I heard a syllable from you, and today I seized the confused mass of letters with genuine impatience—­seven official communications, a bill, two invitations, one of which is for a theatre and ball at Greifenberg, but not a trace of Zuckers (the Reinfeld post-office) and “Hochwohlgeboren.” [14] I could not