Your CORDELIA Even though Cordelia did not possess the admired range of her Johannes, it is clear that she was not without modulation. Her mood is clearly impressed upon every one of the letters, even though she was somewhat lacking in clarity of exposi- tion. This is especially true of the second letter, where one sus- pects rather than actually understands her meaning, but for me this deficiency makes it very moving.
2A pril 4 Take care, my beautiful stranger! Take care! To step out of a carriage is not such a simple matter; at times it is a decisive step. I could lend you a novel by Tieck™4 in which you would see that in dismounting from a horse a lady became so in- volved in a complicated situation that this step became defini- tive for her entire life. Indeed, carriage steps usually are so ill- contrived that one is almost compelled to abandon all grace 285 I 286 287 314 Either/Or, I and to hazard a desperate leap into the arms of the coachman and servant. Yes, what a good deal a coachman and servants have! I do believe I shall try to find a job as a servant in a house where there are young girls; a servant easily comes to know the secrets of such a little miss. —But for God’s sake don’t leap, I beg of you. It is very dark; I shall not disturb you. Iam simply going to stand under this street light; then you will be unable to see me, and invariably one is embarrassed only to the degree that one is seen, but invariably one is seen only to the degree that one sees. Therefore, out of concern for the servant, who perhaps will not be able to withstand such a leap, out of concern for the silk dress, also out of concern for the lace fringes, out of concern for me, let this charming tiny foot, whose daintiness I have already admired, let it try itself in the world, risk reliance upon it; it will certainly find firm footing, and if you shudder for a moment because it seems as if your foot sought in vain something to rest upon, if you still shudder after it has found it, then quickly put the other foot down be- side it. Who, after all, would be so cruel as to leave you sus- pended in this position, who so ungracious, so slow to re- spond to the revelation of beauty. Or do you still fear some outsider—but certainly not the servant, or me, either, for in- deed I have already seen the tiny foot, and since I am a natural scientist I have learned from Cuvier®> how to draw conclu- sions from it with certainty. So please hurry! How this anxiety does enhance your beauty! But anxiety in and by itself is not beautiful; it is so only when at the same time one sees the en- ergy that overcomes it. There! How firmly this tiny foot is standing now. I have noticed that girls with tiny feet usually stand more firmly than the more pedestrian big-footed ones. Now who would have thought it? It goes against all expe- rience; the danger of a dress catching is not nearly as great when one steps out as when one leaps out. But then it is always precarious for girls to go driving in a carriage; they end up staying in it. The lace and trimmings are lost, and that’s that. No one has seen anything. True, a dark figure appears, enve- loped to the eyes in a cape. It is not possible to see where he is coming from, for the light is shining right in one’s eyes. He The Seducer’s Diary 315 passes by you just as you are entering the front door. At pre- cisely the crucial moment a sidelong glance falls on its object. You blush; your bosom is too full to unburden itself in a single breath. There is indignation in your glance, a proud contempt. There is a plea, a tear in your eye; both are equally beautiful. I accept them both with equal right, for I can just as well be the one as the other.
But I am being mean. What is the number of the house? What do I see? A public display of fancy articles. My beautiful stranger, it may be shocking on my part, but I am following the bright path...She has forgotten what happened— ~ ah, yes, when one is seventeen years old, when one goes shop- ping in this happy age, when every single large or little object picked up gives unspeakable delight, then one readily forgets. As yet she has not seen me; I am standing at the other end of the counter, far off by myself. There is a mirror on the oppo- site wall; she is not contemplating it, but the mirror is contem- plating her. How faithfully it has caught her image, like a humble slave who shows his devotion by his faithfulness, a slave for whom she certainly has significance but who has no significance for her, who indeed dares to capture her but not to hold her. Unhappy mirror, which assuredly can grasp her im- age but not her; unhappy mirror, which cannot secretly hide her image in itself, hide it from the whole world, but can only disclose it to others as it now does to me. What torture ifa hu- man being were fashioned that way. And yet are there not many people who are like that, who possess nothing except at the moment when they are showing it to others, who merely grasp the surface, not the essence, lose everything when this is going to show itself, just as this mirror would lose her image if she were to disclose her heart to it by a single breath. And if a person were unable to possess an image in recollection at the very moment of presence, he must ever wish to be at a distance from beauty, not so close that the mortal eyes cannot see the beauty of that which he holds in his embrace and which the ex- ternal eyes have lost, which he, to be sure, can regain for the external vision by distancing himself from it, but which he can, in fact, have before the eye of his soul when he cannot see 288 289 316 Either/Or, I the object because it is too close to him, when lips are clinging tolips...How beautiful she is! Poor mirror, it must be tormenting—it is good that you do not know jealousy. Her head is perfectly oval; she tilts it a little, thereby accentuating her forehead, which rises pure and proud without any deline- ation of the powers of understanding. Her dark hair rings her forehead softly and gently. Her countenance is like a fruit, every angle fully rounded; her skin is transparent, like velvet to the touch—that I can feel with my eyes. Her eyes—yes, I have not even seen them; they are hidden by lids armed with silken fringes that are bent like barbs, dangerous to anyone who wishes to meet her glance. Her head is a Madonna head, purity and innocence its mark. She is bowed down like a Ma- donna, but she is not lost in contemplation of the One; this causes the expression in her face to vary. What she is contem- plating is multiplicity, the multiplicity over which earthly pomp and glory cast a reflection. She takes off her glove to show to the mirror and me a right hand as white and shapely as that of an ancient statue, without any ornaments, not even a flat gold ring on the fourth finger?”—bravo! She raises her eyes—how changed everything is, and yet the same—the fore- head a little less high, the face a little less uniformly oval but more vital.?8 She is speaking with the store clerk; she is lively, cheerful, talkative. She has already chosen one, two, three ar- ticles; she picks up a fourth. She is holding it in her hand; her eyes look down again; she is asking what it costs. She lays it aside under the glove; it must surely be a secret, intended for— a sweetheart? But she is not engaged. Ah, but there are many who are not engaged and yet have a sweetheart, many who are engaged and yet do not have asweetheart...Should I re- linquish her? Should I leave her undisturbed in her delight? She wants to pay but she has lost her purse—presumably she is giving her address. I do not wish to hear it; I do not wish to deprive myself of the surprise. I certainly shall meet her again sometime; I certainly shall recognize her, and she may recog- nize me—my sidelong glance is not forgotten so easily. Then when J am taken by surprise upon meeting her in surround- ings I did not expect, her turn will come. If she does not know The Seducer’s Diary 317 me, if her glance does not immediately convince me of that, then I certainly shall find occasion to look at her from the side—I promise that she will recall the situation. No impa- tience, no greediness—everything will be relished in slow draughts; she is selected, she will be overtaken.
°The fifth This I do like: alone in the evening on Ostergade. Yes, I do see your servant following along. Now, do not believe that I think so ill of you as to imagine that you would go walking all alone; do not believe that I am so inexperienced that in my sur- vey of the situation I have not immediately observed this por- tentous figure. But why, then, the hurry? You are indeed a lit- tle uneasy; you feel a certain beating of the heart, not because of an impatient longing to go home but because of an impa- tient fear running through your whole body with its sweet dis- quietude, and therefore the quick tempo of the feet. But never- theless it is marvelous, inestimably so, to go walking alone— with the servant in tow...One is sixteen years old; one is well read—that is, in novels; in walking through the broth- ers’ room by chance one has overheard some words in a con- versation between them and their acquaintances, something about Wstergade. Later one scurried through several times to pick up more information, if possible. But in vain. Yet one should—as befits a big, grown-up girl—know a little bit about the world. If one could just go walking without any fuss and with the servant following behind. Yes, that’s all very fine— but Father and Mother would surely look askance at that, and what reason can one give? When one is going to a party, there is no chance for it; it is a bit too early, because I overheard August say around nine or ten o’clock. When it is time to go home, it is too late, and usually there has to be a gentleman es- cort to drag along. Thursday evening when we leave the thea- ter would really be an excellent opportunity, but then I always have to ride in the carriage and have Mrs. Thomsen and her charming cousins packed in with me. IfI could just ride alone, then I could open the window and look around a little. But often the unhoped for happens. Today Mother said to me: I do i 290 291 318 Either/Or, I not think you will be finished with what you are sewing for your father’s birthday. In order to be entirely undisturbed, you may go over to Aunt Jette’s and stay until tea time, and Jens will come and fetch you. It really was not exactly pleasant news, for it is very boring at Aunt Jette’s, but then I shall be walking home alone at nine o’clock with the servant. Then when Jens comes, he will have to wait until a quarter past nine, and then we'll be off. Only I might meet my brother or Au- gust—but that would not be so good, for then I probably would be escorted home. Thanks, but we would rather be free of that—freedom—but if I could catch sight of them without being seen...Well, my little miss, what do you see, then, and what do you think I see? In the first place, the little cap you are wearing is very becoming and harmonizes com- pletely with the haste of your whole demeanor. It is neither a hat nor a bonnet, but a kind of hood. But you could not pos- sibly have had that on when you went out this morning. Could the servant have brought it, or did you borrow it from Aunt Jette? —Perhaps you are incognito. —But the veil should not be allowed to drop all the way down when you are going to look around. Or perhaps it is not a veil but only a wide piece of lace? It is impossible to tell in the dark. Whatever it is, it hides the upper part of your face. Your chin is rather lovely, a bit too pointed. Your mouth is small, open—that is because you are walking too fast. Your teeth, white as snow. So it should be. Teeth are extremely important; they are a body- guard concealed behind the seductive softness of the lips. Your cheeks are glowing with health. —If you tilt your head a little, it might be possible to penetrate up under this veil or this piece of lace. Be careful; such a glance from below is more danger- ous than one that is gerade aus [direct]! It is like fencing; and what weapon is as sharp, as penetrating, as gleaming in its movement and thereby as illusive as the eye? You feint a high quarte, as the fencer says, and then lunge instantaneously; the more swiftly the lunge can follow upon the feint, the better. It is an indescribable moment, the instant of the feint. The op- ponent feels, as it were, the cut; he is struck; and so he is, but in a place quite different from what he thought...Un- daunted, she walks on, fearless and flawless. Watch out! There The Seducer’s Diary 319 comes a man—drop your veil; do not let his profane glance de- file you. You have no notion of it; for a long time it perhaps would be impossible for you to forget the repulsive uneasiness with which it moved you—you do not notice, but I do, that he has surveyed the situation. The servant is marked out as the closest object. —Well, now you see the consequence of walk- ing alone with the servant. The servant has fallen down. Really, it is ludicrous, but what are you going to do now? To turn back and help him up on his feet is out of the question; to walk with a muddy servant is unpleasant; to walk alone is pre- carious. Watch out; the monster is approaching...You do not answer me. *Just look at me—is my external appear- ance anything to be afraid of? I do not make the slightest impression on you; I seem to be a nice man from quite another world. There is nothing in what I say that disturbs you, noth- ing that reminds you of the situation, no movement that even remotely encroaches upon you. You are still a little apprehen- sive; you have not yet forgotten that unheimliche [disquieting] character’s approach toward you. You feel rather kindly dis- posed toward me; my shyness, which prevents me from look- ing at you, gives you the upper hand. It delights you and makes you safe; you could almost be tempted to make sport of mea little. I wager that right now you would have the courage to take my arm if it occurred to you...So you live on Stormgade. You curtsey to me coldly and casually. Do I de- serve this, I who helped you out of all that unpleasantness? You have a change of mind, you turn back, thank me for my kindness, offer me your hand—why are you turning pale? Is not my voice the same as before, my attitude the same, my eyes just as calm and quiet? This handclasp? Can a handclasp mean anything? Indeed, much, very much, my little miss. Within a fortnight, I shall explain it all to you; until then you will remain in the contradiction: | am a nice man who came like a knight to the assistance of a young girl, and I can also press your hand in no less than a gentle manner.*!
April 7 32"Monday, then, one o’clock, at the exhibition.”” Very good, I shall have the honor of turning up at a quarter to one.
292 320 Eitther/Or, I A little rendezvous. On Saturday, I finally cut the matter short and decided to pay a visit to my much-traveled friend Adolph Bruun. With that in mind, about seven o’clock in the evening I started out on Vestergade, where someone told me he was supposed to live. But he was not to be found, not even on the fourth floor, where I arrived all out of breath. As I was about to go down the stairs, my ears picked up a melodious female voice saying in an undertone, ‘“‘Monday, then, one o’clock, at the exhibition; at that time the others are out, but you know that I never dare to see you at home.” The invitation was not meant for me but for a young man who—one, two, three— was out of the door so fast that my eyes, let alone my feet, could not catch up with him. Why do they not have a gaslight in stairways; then I might have been able to see whether it was worth the trouble to be so punctual. But if there had been a light, I perhaps would not have managed to hear anything. The established order is still the rational,*> and Iam and remain an optimist...Now who is it? The exhibition, to use Donna Anna’s expression, swarms with girls.** It is precisely a quarter to one. My beautiful stranger! Would that your in- tended might be as punctual in every way as I am, or do you wish instead that he may never arrive fifteen minutes early? As you wish—I am at your service in every way...“En- chanting troll woman, fairy, or witch, dispel your fog,” show yourself. You are probably here already but invisible to me; make yourself known, for otherwise I certainly do not dare to expect a revelation. Are there perhaps several up here on the same errand as she? Very possibly. Who knows the ways of an individual, even when he is attending an exhibition? —There comes a young girl through the foyer, hurrying faster than a bad conscience after a sinner. She forgets to hand over her ticket; the man in a red uniform stops her. Good heavens, what a rush she is in. It must be she. Why such premature vehe- mence? It is not one o’clock yet. Do remember that you are sup- posed to meet your beloved. Does it make any difference how one looks on such an occasion, or is this an occasion when one must put one’s best foot forward, as they say? When such an innocent young thing is keeping an appointment, she goes at it in a frenzy. She is as nervous as can be. I, however, sit here The Seducer’s Diary 321 most comfortably in my chair and contemplate a lovely rural landscape...She is a very daughter of the devil; she storms through all the rooms. You must still try to hide your eagerness a bit; remember what was said to Miss Elizabeth: Is it seemly for a young girl to be so eager to become involved with someone?*> But your involvement, of course, is one of the innocent ones.
A rendezvous is usually regarded by lovers as the most beautiful moment. I myself still recall as clearly as if it were yesterday the first time I hurried to the appointed place with a heart as full as it was unacquainted with the joy awaiting me. The first time I knocked three times; the first time a window was opened; the first time a little wicker gate was opened by the invisible hand of a girl who concealed herself by opening it; the first time I hid a girl under my cape in the luminous summer night. But in this opinion there is a considerable ad- mixture of illusion. A neutral third party does not always find the lovers to be most beautiful at this moment. I have wit- nessed trysts in which, although the girl was lovely and the man handsome, the total impression was almost revolting and the meeting itself far from beautiful, although it undoubtedly seemed so to the lovers. In a way, one gains in becoming more experienced, for admittedly one loses the sweet disquietude of impatient longing but gains the poise to make the moment really beautiful. It annoys me to see a male become so confused on such an occasion that out of sheer love he has delirium tre- mens. What, indeed, do peasants know about cucumber salad! Instead of having the composure to enjoy her disquietude, to let it inflame her beauty and make it incandescent, he brings about only an ungainly confusion, and yet he goes home happy, imagining that it was something glorious.
—But where the devil is the man? It is now almost two o’clock. Well, they are a splendid tribe, these lovers! What a scoundrel—to let a young miss wait for him! No, but of course I am a much more dependable person! It is probably best to speak to her now as she passes me for the fifth time. “Forgive my boldness, lovely lady; you are presumably looking for your family here. You have hurried by me several times, and as my eyes followed you I noticed that you always stop in the 293 294 322 Either/Or, I next to the last room. Perhaps you do not know that there is still another room beyond that. There you will possibly find the ones you are looking for.’’ She curtseys to me; it is very becoming to her. The opportunity is propitious. Iam glad that the man is not coming—the fishing is always best in troubled waters. When a young miss is agitated, one can successfully risk much that otherwise would miscarry.
I have bowed to her as politely and formally as possible; Iam once again sitting on my chair looking at my landscape and keeping my eye on her. To follow her immediately would be risking too much; it might seem as if I were obtrusive, and then she would be on her guard at once. Now she is of the opinion that I spoke to her out of sympathy, and I am in her good favor. —I know for sure that there is not a soul in the last room. Solitude will have a favorable effect upon her; as long as she sees many people around her, she is uneasy; if she is alone, she no doubt will subside. Quite right—she is staying in there. In a while, I will en passant [casually] come in; I have the right to say one line more—after all, she does owe me as much as a greeting.
She has sat down. Poor girl, she looks so sad; she has been crying, I think, or at least she has had tears in her eyes. It is shocking—to force such a girl to tears. But be calm, you shall be avenged; I will avenge you; he will find out what it is to wait. —How beautiful she is now that the various squalls have calmed down and she is at rest in one mood. Her bearing is a harmonious blend of sadness and pain. She is really attractive. She sits there in her traveling clothes, and yet it was not she who was going to travel; she put them on to go out looking for joy, and now they are a symbol of her pain, for she is like one from whom joy is traveling away. She looks as if she had taken leave of her beloved forever. Let him go! —The situation is propitious; the moment beckons. The thing to do now is to express myself in such a way that it will appear as if I were of the opinion that she was looking for her family or a party of friends up here, and yet so warmly that every word is sugges- tive to her feelings, so I will have the opportunity to insinuate myself into her thoughts.
The Seducer’s Diary 323 Damn the scoundrel—there a fellow comes full speed into the room; no doubt it is he. Oh, no, what a clumsy fool, now when I have just got the situation the way I wanted it. Oh, well, I shall probably be able to turn this to advantage. I must come into casual contact with them, manage to be brought into the situation. When she sees me, she will involuntarily smile at me, who thought she was looking for her family out here, whereas she was looking for something entirely differ- ent. This smile will make me her confidant, which is always something. —A thousand thanks, my child; that smile is worth much more to me than you think; it is the beginning, and the beginning is always the hardest. Now we are acquaint- ances; our acquaintance is established in a piquant situation— for the time being it is enough for me. You no doubt will stay here scarcely more than an hour; in two hours I will know who you are—why else do you think the police keep census rec- ords?
The ninth The ninth Have I become blind? Has the inner eye of the soul lost its power? I have seen her, but it is as if 1 had seen a heavenly rev- elation—so completely has her image vanished again for me. In vain do I summon all the powers of my soul in order to con- jure up this image. IfI ever see her again, I shall be able to rec- ognize her instantly, even though she stands among a hundred others. Now she has fled, and the eye of my soul tries in vain to overtake her with its longing. —I was walking along Lange- linie,*° seemingly nonchalantly and without paying attention to my surroundings, although my reconnoitering glance left nothing unobserved—and then my eyes fell upon her. My eyes fixed unswervingly upon her. They no longer obeyed their master’s will; it was impossible for me to shift my gaze and thus overlook the object I wanted to see—I did not look, I stared. As a fencer freezes in his lunge, so my eyes were fixed, petrified in the direction initially taken. It was impossible to look down, impossible to withdraw my glance, impossible to see, because I saw far too much. The only thing I have retained is that she had on a green cloak, that is all—one could call it 295 296 324 Either/Or, I capturing the cloud instead of Juno;>’ she has escaped me, like Joseph from Potiphar’s wife,** and left only her cloak behind. She was accompanied by an elderly woman, who appeared to be her mother. Her I can describe from top to toe, even though I did not really look at her at all but at most included her en passant. So it goes. The girl made an impression on me, and I forgot her; the other made no impression, and her I can re- member.
The eleventh My soul is still caught in the same contradiction. I know that I have seen her, but I also know that I have forgotten it again, yet in such a way that the remnant of the recollection that is left does not refresh me. With a restlessness and vehemence, my soul, as if my welfare were at stake, demands this image, and yet it does not appear; I could tear out my eyes to punish them for their forgetfulness. Then, when I have chafed in impa- tience and have calmed down, it is as if presentiment and rec- ollection were weaving an image that still cannot take definite shape for me, because I cannot make it stand still in context; it is like a pattern in a fine weaving—the pattern is lighter than the background, and by itself it cannot be seen because it is too light. —This is a strange state to be in, and yet it has its pleas- ure intrinsically and also because it assures me that I am still young. This I also am able to learn from another observa- tion—namely, that I continually seek my prey among young girls, not among young women. A woman is less natural, more coquettish; a relationship with her is not beautiful, not interesting; it is piquant, and the piquant is always the last. — I had not expected to be able to taste once again the first fruits of falling in love. I have gone under in love-rapture; I have been given what swimmers call a ducking. No wonder that I am a little dazed. So much the better, so much the more do I