Certainly you must all be uneasy that I have not written for so
long—so very long. My mother, I am sure, is angry, and Clara will
believe that I am passing my time in dissipation, entirely forgetful of
the fair angel-image that is so deeply imprinted in my heart and mind.
Such, however, is not the case. Daily and hourly I think of you all,
and in my sweet dreams the kindly form of my lovely Clara passes before
me, and smiles upon me with her bright eyes as she was wont when I
appeared among you. Alas, how could I write to you in the distracted
mood which has hitherto disturbed my every thought! Something horrible
has crossed my path of life. Dark forebodings of a cruel, threatening,
fate spread themselves over me like dark clouds, which no friendly
sunbeam can penetrate. Now will I tell you what has befallen me. I
must do so, that I plainly see—but if I only think of it, it will
laugh out of me like mad. Ah, my dear Lothaire, how shall I begin it?
How shall I make you in any way sensible that that which occurred to me
a few days ago could really have such a fatal effect on my life? If
you were here you could see for yourself, but now you will certainly
take me for a crazy ghost-seer. In a word, the horrible thing which
happened to me, and the painful impression of which I in vain endeavour
to escape, is nothing more than this; that some days ago, namely on the
30th of October, at twelve o’clock at noon, a barometer-dealer came
into my room and offered me his wares. I bought nothing, and
threatened to throw him down stairs, upon which he took himself off of
his own accord.