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found Oberlin and his wife, who had returned in the meantime. Lenz
looked confused. But when he found that his reception was kind and
affectionate, his courage revived; his face changed favorably, he thanked
his two escorts politely, even tenderly, and the evening passed quietly.
Oberlin persistently implored him not to take any more baths, to re–
main in his bed and to rest during the night, and, if he could not sleep,
to converse with God. He promised, and did so the following night.
The maids heard him pray almost all night long.
The following morning he went up to Oberlin's room in a cheerful
mood. When they had discussed various matters, he said with extreme
gentleness: "Dearest vicar, the lady of whom I was telling you has died,
yes, died-the angel!"-"How do you know that?"-"Hieroglyphics,
hieroglyphics!" and then he looked heavenwards and said again: "Yes,
died-hieroglyphics!" Then not another word could be got out of him.
He sat down to write some letters and gave them to Oberlin, asking him
to add a few lines to them.
Meanwhile his condition had become increasingly hopeless. All
th(·
peacefulness he had drawn from Oberlin's companionship and the valley's
stillness was gone; the world which he had wished to put to some use
had suffered an immense rift; he felt no hatred, no love, no hope-a
terrible emptiness, and yet a torturing restlessness, an impatient impulse
to fill this void. He possessed nothing. What he did he did consciously
and yet under the compulsion of an inner urge. When he was alone he
felt so horribly lonely that he constantly talked, called out to himself in
a loud voice, and then again he was startled and it seemed as though a
stranger's voice had spoken to him. In conversation he frequently
stuttered, an indescribable fear possessed him, he had lost the conclusion
of his sentence; then he thought he must hold onto the word he had
last spoken, say it again and again, and it was only with greatest exertion
of his will that he suppressed these impulses. The good people were
deeply grieved when sometimes, in his quieter moments, he sat with them
and spoke without difficulty, and then suddenly began to stammer and
an unspeakable fear was expressed in his features, when convulsively
he seized the person nearest to him by the arm, and only gradually re–
covered himself. When he was by himself or reading a book, it was even
worse; all his mental activity was often held up by a single word.
If
he thought about a stranger or if he pictured that person vividly to him–
self, then it was as if he himself became that person; he became utterly
confused, and at the same time he felt an unending urge to do violence
in
his mind to every thing and person; nature, men and women, only
