with their chill, eternal peace.

I, who never could read a poem without secretly mocking the writer, who
never believed in the poets' ecstasies over Nature, now I perceive that
Nature is the one divinity worthy to be worshipped.

* * * * *

I miss Margarethe Ernst; especially her amusing ways. How she glided
about among people, always ready to dart out her sharp tongue, always
prepared to sting. And yet she is not really unkind, in spite of her
little cunning smile. But her every movement makes a singular impression
which is calculated.

We amused each other. We spoke so candidly about other people, and lied
so gracefully to each other about ourselves. Moreover, I think she is
loyal in her friendship, and of all my letters hers are the best
written.

I should have liked to have drawn her out, but she was the one person
who knew how to hold her own. I always felt she wore a suit of chain
armour under her close-fitting dresses which was proof against the
assaults of her most impassioned adorers.

She is one of those women who, without appearing to do so, manages to
efface all her tracks as she goes. I have watched her change her tactics
two or three times in the course of an evening, according to the people
with whom she was talking. She glided up to them, breathed their
atmosphere for an instant, and then established contact with them.