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I had just finished my studies at the University of Göttingen at the age of twenty-two. â The intention of my father, minister of the elector of **, was that I travel through the most remarkable countries of Europe. He then wanted to call me to him, get me into the department whose direction was entrusted to him, and prepare me to replace him one day. I had obtained, by rather obstinate work, in the midst of a very dissipated life, successes which had distinguished me from my fellow students, and which had caused my father to conceive of me hopes that were probably greatly exaggerated.
These hopes had made him very indulgent for many faults I had committed. He had never let me suffer the consequences of these faults. He had always granted, sometimes anticipated, my requests in this respect.
Unfortunately his conduct was rather noble and generous than tender. I was imbued with all his rights to my recognition and my respect. But no trust had ever existed between us. He had in mind something ironic that didnât suit my character. I only asked then to indulge myself in those primitive and fiery impressions which throw the soul out of the common sphere, and inspire in it the contempt of all the objects which surround it. I found in my father, not a censor, but a cold and caustic observer, who at first smiled with pity, and who soon ended the conversation impatiently. I donât remember, during my first eighteen years, ever having had an hourâs interview with him. His letters were affectionate, full of advice, reasonable and sensitive; but no sooner were we in each otherâs presence than there was something constrained in him which I could not explain to myself, and which reacted on me in a painful way. I did not know then what shyness was, that inner suffering which pursues us even into the most advanced age, which drives back to our hearts the deepest impressions, which freezes our words, which distorts our mouths. everything we try to say, and only allows us to express ourselves with vague words or more or less bitter irony, as if we wanted to take revenge on our very feelings for the pain we feel at not being able to make them known . I did not know that, even with his son, my father was shy, and that often, after having long expected from me some tokens of affection which his apparent coldness seemed to forbid me, he left me with tears in his eyes and complained to others that I did not like him.
My compulsion with him had a great influence on my character. As shy as he was, but more restless, because I was younger, I grew accustomed to containing everything I felt within myself, to forming only solitary plans, to counting only on myself for their execution, to consider the advice, interest, assistance and even the mere presence of others as a hindrance and as an obstacle. I contracted the habit of never speaking of what occupied me, of submitting myself to conversation only as an importunate necessity, and then of animating it with a perpetual joke which made it less tiring for me, and which helped hide my true thoughts. Hence a certain lack of abandon that my friends still reproach me for today, and a difficulty in talking seriously that I still have trouble overcoming. There resulted at the same time an ardent desire for independence, a great impatience for the ties with which I was surrounded, an invincible terror of forming new ones. I found myself at ease only on my own, and such is even now the effect of this disposition of soul that, in the least important circumstances, when I have to choose between two sides, the human figure troubles me, and my natural impulse is to flee it in order to deliberate in peace. I did not, however, have the depth of selfishness that such a character seems to announce: while only interested in myself, I was weakly interested in myself. I carried deep in my heart a need for sensitivity which I did not notice, but which, not finding satisfaction, detached me successively from all the objects which in turn attracted my curiosity. This indifference to everything was further fortified by the idea of death, an idea which had struck me at a very young age, and which I never imagined men so easily stunned. At the age of seventeen I had seen an elderly woman die, whose mind, of a remarkable and bizarre turn, had begun to develop mine. This woman, like so many others, had, at the start of her career, launched herself into the world she did not know, with the feeling of great fortitude and truly powerful faculties. Like so many others too, for want of complying with artificial but necessary proprieties, she had seen her hopes dashed, her youth pass without pleasure; and old age had at last overtaken her without subduing her. She lived in a castle near one of our lands, discontented and withdrawn, having only her mind for resource, and analyzing everything with her mind.
For nearly a year, in our inexhaustible conversations, we had considered life under all its aspects, and death always as the end of everything; and after having caused so much death with her, I had seen death strike her in my eyes.
This event had filled me with a feeling of uncertainty about destiny, and a vague reverie which did not abandon me. I preferred to read in the poets what recalled the brevity of human life. I felt that no goal was worth any effort. It is rather singular that this impression has weakened precisely as the years have accumulated on me.
Could it be because there is something doubtful in hope, and that, when it withdraws from the career of man, this career takes on a more severe, but more positive character? Could it be that life seems all the more real the more all illusions disappear, as the tops of rocks stand out better in the horizon when the clouds dissipate?
I went, leaving Göttingen, to the little town of D**. This city was the residence of a prince who, like most of those in Germany, gently governed a country of small size, protected the enlightened men who came to settle there, left freedom to all opinions. perfect, but who, confined by ancient custom to the society of his courtiers, gathered around him only men who were largely insignificant or mediocre. I was welcomed into this courtyard with the curiosity naturally inspired by any stranger who comes to break the circle of monotony and etiquette. For a few months I noticed nothing that could capture my attention. I was grateful for the kindness shown to me; but sometimes my shyness prevented me from enjoying it, sometimes the fatigue of aimless agitation made me prefer solitude to the insipid pleasures that I was invited to share.
I had no hatred against anyone, but few people inspired me with interest; now men are hurt by indifference, they attribute it to malevolence or affectation; they donât want to believe that we get bored with them, of course.
Sometimes I tried to constrain my boredom; I took refuge in a profound taciturnity: this taciturnity was taken for disdain. At other times, tired myself of my silence, I indulged in a few jokes, and my mind, set in motion, carried me beyond measure. I revealed in one day all the ridiculous things I had observed during a month. The confidants of my sudden and involuntary outpourings were not grateful to me for it and were right; for it was the need to speak that seized me, and not confidence.
I had contracted in my conversations with the woman who had first developed my ideas an insurmountable aversion for all common maxims and for all dogmatic formulas. So when I heard mediocrity expound complacently on well-established principles, quite indisputable in matters of morality, propriety or religion, things which it quite willingly puts on the same line, I felt myself impelled to contradict it. not that I had adopted opposing opinions, but because I was impatient with a conviction so firm and heavy. I donât know what instinct warned me, moreover, to mistrust these general axioms so exempt from all restriction, so pure from all nuances. Fools make their morality a compact and indivisible mass, so that it interferes as little as possible with their actions and leaves them free in all details.
I soon gave myself, by this conduct, a great reputation for levity, mockery, and wickedness. My bitter words were considered as proofs of a hateful soul, my jokes as attacks on all that was most respectable. Those whom I had been wrong to make fun of found it convenient to make common cause with the principles they accused me of calling into question: because without wishing it I had made them laugh at each otherâs expense, all united against me. It was as if by pointing out their ridiculousness I was betraying a confidence they had made to me. One would have said that by showing themselves to my eyes as they were, they had obtained from me the promise of silence: I was not conscious of having accepted this too burdensome treaty. They had found pleasure in giving themselves ample scope: I found some in observing and describing them; and what they called perfidy seemed to me quite innocent and very legitimate compensation.
I donât want to justify myself here: I long ago renounced this frivolous and easy use of an inexperienced mind; I simply want to say, and this for others than for me who am now sheltered from the world, that it takes time to get used to the human species, such as interest, affectation, vanity, fear have made it for us. The astonishment of early youth at the sight of such a factitious and labored society bespeaks a natural heart rather than a wicked spirit. This society, moreover, has nothing to fear. It weighs so much on us, its deaf influence is so powerful, that it does not take long to shape us according to the universal mold. We are no longer surprised then except by our old surprise, and we find ourselves well in our new form, as one ends up breathing freely in a crowded spectacle, while on entering it one only breathed there. with effort.
If some escape this general destiny, they contain within themselves their secret disagreement; they perceive in most ridicule the germ of vices: they no longer joke about it, because contempt replaces mockery, and contempt is silent.
In the small audience around me, therefore, there was a vague uneasiness about my character. No blameworthy action could be cited; one could not even deny me some of them which seemed to announce generosity or devotion; but they said that I was an immoral man, an unreliable man: two epithets fortunately invented to insinuate the facts which one does not know, and to let guess what one does not know.
