What would Moritz’s situation be, compared with that?—­for he has a child, a father, a sister, dear and intimate friends in the neighborhood.  I have no one within forty miles with whom I should be tempted to talk more than that which politeness demands; only a sister—­but a happily married one with children is really one no longer, at least for a brother who is single.  For the first time I am looking the possibility straight in the eyes that you might be taken away from me, that I might be condemned to inhabit these empty rooms without a prospect of your sharing them with me, with not a soul in all the surrounding region who would not be as indifferent to me as though I had never seen him.  I should, indeed, not be so devoid to comfort in myself as of old, but I should also have lost something that I used not to know—­a loving and beloved heart, and at the same time be separated from all that which used to make life easy in Pomerania through habit and friendship.  A very egotistical line of thought and way of looking at things this discloses, you will say.  Certainly, but Pain and Fear are egotists, and, in cases like that referred to, I never think the deceased, but only the survivors, are to be pitied.  But who speaks of dying?  All this because you have not written for a week; and then I have the assurance to lecture you for gloomy forebodings, etc.!  If you had only not spoken of the deadly fevers in your last letter.  In the evening I am always excited, in the loneliness, when I am not tired.  Tomorrow, in bright daylight, in the railway carriage, I shall perhaps grasp your possible situation with greater confidence.

Be rejoicing in hope, patient in tribulation, continuing instant in prayer.  All the angels will guard you, my beloved heart, so that we shall soon meet again with joy.  Farewell, and salute your parents.  I wrote your father this morning.  Your faithful BISMARCK.

Berlin, Friday, May 15, ’47.

Dear Heart,—­Your father gave me your letter this morning at the session, and in consequence I hardly know what subject was discussed, or, at least, lacked energy to form a clear, conscious conception of it.  My thoughts were in Reinfeld and my heart full to overflowing of care.  I am submissive in all that may happen, but I cannot say that I should be submissive with gladness.  The chords of my soul become relaxed and toneless when I think of all possibilities.  I am not, indeed, of that self-afflicting sort that carefully and artfully destroys its own hope and constructs fear, and I do not believe that it is God’s will to separate us now—­for every reason I cannot believe it; but I know that you are suffering, and I am not with you, and yet if I were there, I could perhaps contribute something to your tranquillity, to your serenity, were it only that I should ride with you—­for you have no one else for that.  It is so contrary to all my views of gallantry, not to speak of my sentiments